Page 76 of Tru Blue
Chapter Twenty-Two
WHEN TRUMAN ARRIVED at his apartment, he was surprised to see Gemma’s car in the parking lot. She’d sent him a text earlier saying she’d had a crappy day and was going out with Crystal. He breathed a little easier knowing she would soon be in his arms. He felt like he’d been dragged through quicksand, and as he stepped from his truck, he was still knee deep in it. He’d spoken with the counselor before leaving the rehab center to fess up to the stressful confrontation with his brother so they would be prepared for any backlash. And more importantly, in case his brother tried to check himself out, they’d know why and try to reason with him. He wished there were someone he could talk to about Quincy’s guilt. He’d tried, in a roundabout way, to discuss it with the counselor, and she said part of recovery was acceptance and making amends to all the people their drug use had affected and that was part of the therapeutic process. But Truman knew Quincy could never make amends for what he’d done. They were both locked into their lies forever. Locked into my lie. It was his genius idea to take the fall for his brother. Now his brother was mired down in guilt and he was stuck lying to Gemma for the rest of his life. And to top it all off, he was worried sick that Quincy wouldn’t be able to deal with the guilt and he’d give up on getting clean. If that happened, Truman would never forgive himself.
The counselor, though concerned, wasn’t surprised that their visit had blown up. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Nature of the beast. Truman absently rubbed his chest, wishing he could slay that fucking beast once and for all.
Needing a moment to get his head on straight before seeing Gemma and the kids, he went into the shop. He was working on a ’69 Mustang, one of his favorite cars. He ran his hand along the sleek hood, remembering the first day he’d brought the kids into the garage with him. He’d had no idea what he was doing, just like when he’d taken responsibility for the stabbing. He’d thought he was doing the right thing and trusted that he’d figure out how to handle it as he went along.
He crossed the room to the playroom they’d renovated for the kids and flicked on the light. The bright yellow walls brought a smile. How could they not? They reminded him of the reason he’d been able to figure out how to handle the kids. Gemma. His pushy, sexy ray of sunshine.
Quincy’s words slammed into him. You were my stronghold. My straight arrow to follow. You made sure I relied on you, man, and you did such a good fucking job that when you left, I was fucking lost. I would have followed Satan straight to hell.
He leaned against the doorframe, his chin dropping to his chest. Quincy blamed him for everything—the killing, the drugs, my own prison sentence. His mind turned to the kids. Was he going to fuck up the kids by trying to make things good for them? Was he doing instead of teaching? Was it wrong to buffer Kennedy from the dark parts of fairy tales? Would they be as lost without him as Quincy had been? Had it been wrong to do whatever it took to keep Quincy safe?
Footsteps on the floor above pulled him from his mental interrogation. He gazed up at the ceiling and his answers became clear. He hadn’t done the wrong thing. He just hadn’t thought he’d go to prison. Maybe he should have turned his mother in to the authorities, or disappeared with Quincy, but he’d run on survival mode for so long, by the time Quincy was born, hiding from the authorities was already ingrained. His mother had convinced him that foster care would be worse than anything she could ever do.
As he ascended the stairs toward his apartment, he accepted that there was only one way he knew how to be. He opened the door, and Gemma looked up from the floor where she was busy packing something into a bag. Beside her Lincoln’s arms bobbed up and down excitedly, his grin healing the fissures the events of the day had created.
“Tooman!” Kennedy ran over with her arms up in the air. “We going out!”
He lifted her into his arms and rubbed noses with his happy little girl, feeling guilty for the joy pushing past his heartache.
“Where are we going?” He knelt beside Lincoln, letting Kennedy toddle off to play with her dolls. He scooped the baby into his arms and kissed him before leaning in and kissing Gemma.
