Page 2 of Don't Leave Me
Evan wrote personal checks to his cleaning lady?
I didn’t think anything more about it and focused on getting ready for the evening.
No, that wasn’t exactly true. I forced myself not to think any more about it.
Until I couldn’t.
* * *
Four weeks after the wedding
Ashleigh
I was feeling like shit. I’d been sick for days and didn’t see any end in sight to this stomach bug. However, I knew George would worry if I didn’t make our lunch date. I’d driven closer to his place near Fort Dix. We liked to meet at a small café that served the best sandwiches, although I was thinking, with my stomach, I might be better off with clear soup.
Pulling over to a street-side parking spot, I took a deep breath before getting out of the car. I wasn’t going to humiliate myself by throwing up all over the curb.
George was already waiting for me inside. Seeing me, his face lit up, I was glad I hadn’t canceled. Although when he got a closer look at me, his expression turned grim.
“You look awful.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” I smiled weakly, then sat across from him. “It’s just a stomach bug. I’ve had it off and on for weeks it feels like. But I think it’s finally getting better.”
I’d felt better last night anyway. I’d been famished and had devoured an entire pizza. But again this morning, the nausea was back. Maybe pizza hadn’t been the best choice, which is why I was thinking soup today.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Peanut. I hope with everything going on you’re at least taking care of yourself.”
I nodded. “I can come and go when I want. I only have to perform when commanded, which isn’t as frequent as I thought it might be.”
There had been another dinner party, a smaller event this time, with friends and business acquaintances, that I’d had to attend last weekend. However, this weekend I was free.
“Marc will give you grief if you’re looking as pale as you are when you go see him tomorrow.”
“I’ll be sure to add some blush,” I said, knowing he was right. “How was he last week?”
“Mad as hell,” George admitted. “I told him he’s got to let that go. If he stays as mad as he is, it’s only going to make his stint feel even longer.”
It was strange, but George’s use of the wordstintsounded familiar.
The waitress popped over to our table to take our order. Young, fresh faced, no makeup. I tried to guess her age, but then, suddenly, wanted to know the actual answer. “Can I ask you how old you are?”
“Sure. Seventeen. Why?”
“I met someone recently and I was just curious. You look to be about the same age. What’s the soup of the day?”
“Chicken noodle,” she answered, and I nodded.
“I’ll have a bowl of that.”
“And I’ll have the Reuben,” George ordered.
When she left, he looked at me funny. “Why did you want to know her age?”
“Why did you use the wordstintlike that?” I countered instead. “And how do you know how being angry in prison can make the time go slower?”
He sighed, and, for the first time, I wasn’t looking at George my father figure, my friend, my confidant. I was seeing George the man. Who had a story long before I was even born.
“I served time,” he admitted. “Back in my youth. Auto theft.”
