wasn’t waiting for help.
She was watching for him.
I’m going to be honest about something, because I told you I would be. There’s an old, ugly part of me that wanted Rourke to show up. Wanted to see his headlights crest that hill so I could stand in the road and wait for him and explain, with my hands, exactly what I think about a grown man who folds a four-year-old into a trunk.
But that’s my anger talking, and my anger has never once helped a child. What these two kids needed wasn’t me getting my satisfaction. What they needed was to be gone, and to be safe, and to have somebody think two steps ahead instead of one.
So I made myself cold and I made myself smart.
“Get him out of there,” I told Tasha. “Careful with his wrists. Get him up in the front seat
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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