Page 41 of Just for Her
Paul excused himself while Miriam helped me get dressed. Nothing besides my nose was broken, but I had some deep bruises and was stiff and sore all over.
“I remember when I was the one helping you dress,” I told her.
“You’ve always taken care of me.”
“I’ve tried.”
“I know. I’m sorry I’ve made it so hard.”
“No apologies necessary,” I said, somewhat surprised.
What I had done, I’d done out of love. I’d do it a hundred more times without hesitation.
“I guess I get to take care of you for a change, huh?”
“I guess so.”
Last night, Miriam had decided that I was going to be spending the next couple of days with her—at least until I felt good enough to make the drive back to Boston. We were going to use that time to talk—really talk—and work a few things out. It was long overdue.
Paul drove us back to Miriam’s. I was surprised to see that everything had been cleaned up. No sign of blood anywhere. When I commented on it, Miriam told me that it was all Paul’s doing.
He shrugged and said simply, “I know a guy.”
I just bet he did.
I wasn’t going to lie and say the next couple of days were easy. Even with painkillers, I was hurting—translation: cranky—and I had yet to mentally process what had happened. That was going to take a while.
Nor would I say that Miriam and I had worked out all our issues. We hadn’t. However, we had made significant progress.
For her part, Miriam was going to take more responsibility for her own life. Nick Penn—aka NickCerasino—had introduced her to some paranormal-fantasy author groups and encouraged her to take some creative writing classes at the community college to hone her craft.
And me? Well, I was going to take a step or ten back and assume a quietly supportive role instead of a dominant one.
Before I knew it, a week had gone by. I still looked like I’d met the business end of a Mack truck, but physically, I was feeling much improved, and it was time for me to go home.
The thing was, Boston didn’t really feel like home to me. It never had. I didn’t have family there. No friends to speak of. I had some coworkers that I got along with, but our relationships were based on shared circumstance, nothing more. Case in point: not one of them had called to ask how I was or why I hadn’t returned.
I thought that said a lot.
Thanks to Paul, I still had a job. Since I’d used all my PTO time, this last week spent recuperating were considered unapproved absences and grounds for dismissal. Paul had made some calls and assured me I had something to go back to.
While I appreciated his thoughtfulness, I almost wished he hadn’t. If I’d lost my job in the DA’s office, I wouldn’t have had a reason to return.
The truth was, the more I thought about leaving, the more I didn’t want to go. Miriam and I were finally connecting, and I felt more at home in Cecilton after two weeks than I had in Boston after a year. The place had really grown on me. I liked the relaxed pace and the perfect balance between small-town charm and big-city living.
Mostly, I liked the people. One sexy Italian counselor in particular.
Paul had been great. I mean,reallygreat. He called to check on me every day. He brought over takeout from Mama C’s, so I didn’t have to leave the apartment, looking like the Bride of Frankenstein. He’d even slipped me busywork to keep me from pulling my hair out in boredom.
Don’t hold that against him. He was only doing what I’d asked. Beggingmighthave been involved.
But I had to go back, right?
I had a job and a lease, and as much asIwanted to stay, Miriam’s words continued to play on a loop in the back of my head.“No one asked you to.”
