Page 74 of Caleb
Aaron purses his lips and grabs his phone while I light one up. He calls one of the embassy drivers, asking him to meet us later tonight to hold the car outside so we can both go inside the bar with Red and her friends. It’s always best to have someone with the car ready, just in case there’s a reason to leave abruptly. And I know better than to offer to go inside by myself while Aaron waits outside. He wants to come too and oversee things. Babysit me.
Once they order the check, Aaron jumps in the car and starts the engine. Warily, I wait for them to come out. I don’t feel comfortable with this plan. I know she’s old enough to go out, drink, and have fun with her friends. But I can’t kick this weird feeling away of just not wanting her to go. There are men—drunk men—in these places, and plenty of them don’t have the best intentions.
I need to make sure that everything goes well tonight. I can’t afford to have a situation where she has too much to drink, or someone approaches her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. Or both. I know I’m probably exaggerating, but this is new to me. I’m acting like this was never going to happen. But it will. It is. She’s growing up, and naturally, she’ll want to start going out more. I’m sure that will be the case in New York, and the thought of not being there to take care of her gives me major anxiety.
It’s always been so easy to take care of her. And I know she deserves to live her life, but the sense of overprotectiveness is overpowering.
Once we’re all inside the car, I pull out my phone and can’t help but text her. I’m overwhelmed.
Me:I know your father said yes, but there are a bunch of creeps at bars. If you’re planning on drinking, make sure to watch your wineglass. Someone could easily slip something into it. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen anyway.
She reads it almost immediately.
Me:Caleb, I’m turning 20 in a few weeks. I’ll survive. And I wouldn’t mind if you could at least pretend to trust me and give me a bit of breathing space while we’re there.
Damn, sheisall grown up. And I ask myself if this “new” attitude has anything to do with her seeing me kissing Noelle earlier. As much as I hate that she had to see that, another part of me wonders if it made her jealous or not, and I kind of wish it did, as sick as it sounds. Or maybe she doesn’t care. But now that I think about it, I’d probably go insane if I saw her kissing someone. No, not probably.Undoubtedly.
Determined to start an argument with her, I type a reply but delete the message because she’s right. She’s almost twenty. She’ll survive because the opposite simply doesn’t happen on my watch, and I sure as hell don’t need to “pretend” to trust her because I do. Men in bars are who I don’t trust, so we’ll see about the “giving her a bit of breathing space” part. That will be up to Aaron and me to decide, not her. It’s not like I can neglect my job. Andshe’smy job.
Best fucking job I’ve ever had.
And there are only twenty-nine days left before I’m officially unemployed, but who’s counting?
Prends soin, I type on my phone. But again, I delete it becauseItake care of her.
Tonight, she’s safe. And I know she’ll be safe in New York with Aaron, but I just wish I could be the one to make sure of it forever.
Armed to the Teeth
RED AND HER FRIENDSare hanging out at a table where Paul, who I believe is Cecile’s boyfriend, and three of his friends have ordered bottle service, but Red’s drinking red wine. Her third glass of the night. She had one at dinner and two here. Meaning she’s surpassed her self-imposed two-wineglass rule I know she likes to abide by.
Perfect.
Red stands up, looking bored, and sips her wine while looking around the place. She doesn’t seem awkward or uncomfortable, just plain indifferent, unimpressed, like this is not what she had in mind for the night. Cecile’s dancing with Paul, and Sophie’s been chatting with some guy she just met earlier tonight.
I text her.
Me:Bored?
Red:Best night ever.
Yeah, right.
I smile at my screen. She’s stubborn, so there’s no way she’s going to admit to being bored, but her quick reply is enough to confirm it. And it’s not that I’m happy that she is, but let’s say that it gives me peace to see that everything’s under control, that there aren’t any creeps hitting on her or wanting to spike her drink. And that she probably won’t want to visit a bar again in a while because she’s ticked that box, and it wasn’t as exciting as she thought it would be.
Me:Do you want to leave?
She’s typing YES, I’m sure, but her message never goes through because a guy is now standing behind her, grazing her arm, distracting her. She turns around, acknowledges him, and puts her phone away.
He says hi to her; I read his lips. He’s tall, maybe an inch or two shy of me. He’s drinking whiskey, I think. She turns around, and it appears they’re introducing themselves.
If I’d only texted her five minutes earlier, we would’ve been on our way back to the Residence by now, and this wouldn’t be happening.
Annoyed, I elbow Aaron’s arm. A pointless protest.
“I am aware that she’s talking to that young man, Caleb,” he says. “I’m standing right beside you and looking her way too. Let it be.”
I rub my face with a sigh. The night was going so well.
