"But you're not?"
I shake my head. "No, Lock, I'm not. I'm afraid, yes. I'm worried--"
"Worried about what?"
It's hard to vocalize everything I've been thinking. I close my eyes and think it through. "The thing with your heart, Ollie's heart. I don't know what to do with that. If that wasn't between us, there'd be no problem at all. I really like you. I enjoy your presence. I feel alive when I'm with you. I feel like...like life is worth living when I'm around you, and before I met you, I didn't exactly feel that way. But...you have his heart, Lock. He died, you lived. How am I supposed to wrap my head around that? I feel it, I think about it--about him--every time I lay my head on your chest. It's fucked up, and I'm messed up about it."
"Then where does that leave us?" He rolls away from me, onto his back, staring up at the sky.
It's a few hours past dawn, but still early, and it's very quiet, especially after the chaos of yesterday. Even Utah is quiet. It's cool, dew beading on the outside of the truck. The sky is gray-blue, and getting lighter every moment to deeper shades of clear, cloudless azure.
"I don't know, Lock."
"Yeah, me neither." He sits up, rubs his eyes. "I have to piss."
And then he's sliding out from under the sleeping bag and hopping down from the truck bed. Utah goes after him, bounds off a few paces, stops, shakes herself, stretches, and then squats to do her business. I watch Lock beeline for the port-a-potties, baffled by his abrupt departure.
Just like that? That's it? Really?
God.
I want to go home. I have to call the office and give them an update. I need to feed Pep. And I need to be away from Lock, especially if he's just going to shut down again, or puss out on me. I thought I wanted this with him, I thought for a moment that maybe I was willing to put myself out there with him, to give it a shot.
But if he's so out of touch with himself, then maybe I'm better off without him.
The thought hurts, though, strangely.
I leave the truck bed, too. I pay a visit to the port-a-potties, and then quickly check in at HQ where, thank god, things are under control. All the people who needed medical care have either been taken care of or they've been airlifted to a hospital.
I head toward the gas station where I left my truck, intending to leave before Lock can leave me hanging again. But when I get to the gas station, there's nothing left of the place. The building is a pile of rubble and boards and shattered glass. Any vehicles parked when the twister hit have been tossed around like LEGOs, and any still standing have had the windows sucked out. And my truck? It is somewhere in the rubble. I can see hints of rustred paint under the heap of twisted metal. The gas station sign was ripped from its framework and has slammed down across what I assume is the cab of my truck.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
That was my ride home.
It was my last connection to Oliver.
It was my means of escape from Lock.
Suddenly, I feel him beside me. "Well, that sucks," he says.
"No shit."
"You were just gonna take off?" His voice is quiet, but sharp.
"Yeah. Taking a page out of your book." I suppress a shuddering sigh. "Or that was the plan, at any rate."
"I'll take you back."
"No." I shake my head and wrap my arms around my middle.
"No?" He sounds baffled.
"I think it's best we part ways, Lock. I can't keep going back and forth with you." I'm barely whispering, because this is hard. It hurts.
He groans, tips his head back. "Niall, c'mon. How are you going to get home?"
"I don't know. I'll figure something out."
"Why is it best if we part ways?"
I spin to face him. "One minute you're all over me, the next you're shutting down. You don't know what you want. Or if you do, you're too scared to admit it, much less act on it. And I'm just starting to find my feet. I feel...fragile. Like a little colt, you know? Wobbly. And you keep jerking me around. I can't take it, Lock."
"Let me take you home. Please. Give me that much time with you."
"YOU left ME, Lock. You ran away. A hint of emotional connection, and you took off like a fuckboy pussy."
"Jesus, Niall, tell me how you really feel. Damn."
I shove at his chest, but the big bastard barely moves. "I'm not going to mince words to spare your feelings. Whatever I feel about you is irrelevant if it's not reciprocated. I'm not interested in casual sex anymore. I don't have the time, and I honestly feel like I'm worth more than that. I had a good time with you. I could have seen more happening. I still do. But you're...even now, you're not giving anything back. You want more time with me? You could have all the time you wanted, you just...you have to work for it."
"I don't even know what to say. I'm trying. This whole thing is new to me. All of this. I don't know what I'm doing. You say I have to work for it, but I don't even know what that means."
I turn away, groaning in frustration. "Have you ever had to work for anything in your life?"
He laughs, a bitter sound. "Nope." But then he steps in front of me. "I'm willing to learn, though. Willing to try. Just...give me a chance."
I stare at him, because I'm at a complete loss for words. His eyes, god, those fucking eyes of his speak to the veracity of his words. They emote, those green-blue orbs of his. They speak of the feelings inside him he doesn't know how to deal with, doesn't know how to express.
Men. Ugh.
It's not that hard, is it? I mean, really? Is it?
"This whole thing is just so confusing, Niall. There are so many layers to it. There's my heart, and how that all came about. There's the fact that I..." He swallows hard. "The fact that I'm feeling things for you, when all I came down here to do was...I don't even know! I still don't know why I did this. I drove from fucking California to find you, and I have no idea why. I needed something. I was looking for something. Closure, maybe? Answers? But I don't even...I don't even know what the questions are. And you--you're...I've never met anyone like you, Niall. And I don't think I ever will. Plus there's the fact that I have no idea what to fucking do with my life, but you make me want there to be...something. I don't know. Make me want to be somebody you could--love." He halts after that last word. As if he can't believe he just said it. "Because right now, I don't feel like I am that man."
I'm about to respond--although I have no idea what I'm going to say--when we're interrupted by a medic from the National Guard.
"Dr. James?" He's young, fresh-faced. Barely needs to shave.
"I'm not a doctor. Just a nurse."
"Sorry, ma'am. I just thought you'd like to know, the little girl that was brought in last night?"
My heart sinks. "Oh god. What happened? Is she okay?"
"Oh, yes ma'am! Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. It's just that her parents showed up. I thought you'd like to know."
"Her parents?"
He nods. "Yes ma'am." A shrug. "Apparently she was with a sitter when the twister hit. They were out of town, I guess, and they just made it back. No sign of the babysitter, though. So either she didn't make it out, or she took off. No way to know just now, I guess."
Lock speaks up. "That house was cleared. I know it was. I was working on the one next door. They checked it. There were no bodies there."
The medic seems troubled by this information. "Which could mean the sitter just left a six-year-old girl alone in the middle of a tornado? Who does that?"
"That's messed up." Lock shakes his head. "Can we see her?"
The medic shrugs. "Don't see why not. She's doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. She'll heal."
Lock takes my hand. "Come on, let's go say hi to Tori."
I go with him, and we find little towheaded Tori sitting up in her cot, her mother and father on either side of her. Everyone is crying, the mom, the dad, Tori, a nurse nearby. I stand back and watch as Lock approaches hesitantly. When T
ori sees him she lights up, sniffles, wipes her nose on her arm.
"It's you!" She reaches down between her knees with her uninjured hand, lifts a tiny calico kitten out of the blankets covering her up to the waist. "Look, Miss Molly! It's Mr. Lock. He saved us."
Utah leans in close to Tori, sniffs delicately at the kitten, who is staring at big old Utah as if she were an alien.
"Utah here is the one who found you. Her and Bill. I just got you out."
Tori scrunches up her nose. "Are you an angel, Mr. Lock?"
Lock stifles a laugh. "No, sweetheart. I'm the farthest thing from an angel you could imagine."
Tori seems enamored with Lock, understandably. Shit, even Tori's mom is having trouble not staring at him.
"Well you're a hero, at least," Tori says.
He shakes his head again. "Nope. You wanna know who the real hero is?" Tori nods, and Lock points at me. "That woman right there. You see all these people in these beds? All the boo-boos they have that are all fixed up? She did that."
Tori looks at me, and then back to Lock. "She's pretty. Are you gonna marry her?"
He's saved from having to answer that knotty little question by Tori's mother. "Mr. Lock, I don't even know how to thank you." She sniffles, tries to smile. "You saved our little girl."
Lock shakes his head, uncomfortable. "You need to thank Niall, and the other medics who worked here yesterday, not me."
"But you went in after her."
"Anyone would have done the same thing."
"But you did it, Mr. Lock."
He tries to shrug it off. "She's a beautiful little girl. I'm just glad she's going to be okay."
"So are we."
After hugging Tori, Lock stands up and turns away. The HQ area we set up yesterday is a bustling hive of activity now, with Guardsmen in camo hustling in a million different directions, unloading cases of water from a semi, tending to the wounded, handing out food, directing traffic. The groan of heavy equipment fills the air as the real work of cleaning away the wreckage begins. There are enough medics and EMS's here now that I feel comfortable leaving, knowing the situation is well in hand.
I turn to Lock. "If the offer to drive me home still stands, I'll take you up on it. I really don't know how I'll get home otherwise. My truck is a goner, I'm afraid."
He nods. "Let's go."
*
The ride back to Ardmore is a quiet one. Lock tells me to play whatever music I want, so I spend most of the two-hour drive scanning stations, listening to a dizzying variety of music. Lock is mostly silent, one hand on the wheel, the other tugging at his beard under his chin, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. Lost in thought, I think.
Let him think. God knows I don't mind the time to reflect, as well.
I feel off. Unsettled. Antsy. I already miss Lock, and he's not even gone yet. I'm already lonely again, yet I'm still sitting in the truck with him.
At long last, sometime past noon, we pull to a crunching stop in my driveway.
Lock jabs his thumb at the volume knob, turning off the radio. "Niall, I--"
I eye him, taking in his drawn, pinched expression and the heaviness in his eyes. "Don't, Lock. I can see it on your face plain as day." I reach back, ruffle Utah's ear. Shove open the door. "Goodbye. And...thank you."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "For what, Niall?"
"You woke me up. I'm alive. I was asleep--no, more than that, I was...half-dead. And now? I feel like maybe I can start over."
"What are you gonna do?"
I shrug and shake my head, trying to smile past a sob caught in my throat. "I have no idea." Wave a hand at the world at large. "Maybe I'll buy a boat and sail the world."
He laughs in disbelief, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "If you do, don't start in the Caribbean. You'll never leave if you start there."
I shoulder my purse; hop down out of the cab. I walk slowly, hoping he'll change his mind. He rolls down the passenger window, as if to say something. My heart lurches in my throat, but he shakes his head again. I hear the shifter jam into reverse, and then he's backing out. Utah's head hangs out the back window, her tongue lolling happily.
And yeah, just like that, he drives away. Not a backward glance, not a word of goodbye.
Bastard.
Fucking bastard.
You make me better than I was before
I drive in a daze. I don't know for how long, or how far. I managed to get my windshield fixed, and somewhere past the Oklahoma state line, I stop for gas, pumping it in a stupor.
I don't dare let myself think.
Because I know I'm an idiot. I'm driving away, again, from the best thing that's ever happened to me.
But I'm doing it on purpose. For her.
And for me.
I need a purpose. I need...to find myself. I fucking hate that cliche, but it's true. Sometimes cliches become a cliche because they're so damn true, you know?
Niall James deserves more than the man I am right now.
Too bad I don't know how to explain that to her. I can barely make sense of it myself.
Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to leave myself a sliver of an opening with her, just in case. She left her purse in my truck while she was tending to the wounded. She had her phone in there, so I programmed my number in it, and then called myself from her phone, so I'd have her number. Maybe someday I'll feel ready to re-connect with her.
Leaving like this feels wrong, but it also feels right. I'm falling for her. Shit, I've already fallen. I know she feels the same way. But I also know that's not necessarily enough.
So I have to find that elusive something. The hell if I know what it might be, but I have to find it.
*
I read a quote somewhere, in some book, or maybe it was from a movie, I don't know, but it said, "Not all who wander are lost." It might possibly be from The Lord of the Rings.
But, regardless, that sentiment may be true for some people, just not for me.
I'm lost as fuck.
I mean, I have GPS, so geographically, I know where I am. I really don't know how I ended up here, or what my subconscious is trying to pull on me, but I just crossed the border from Nevada into California. Apart from stopping for gas and brief layovers at motels along the way, Utah and I have been driving for five days straight. Five days with nothing to think about except what the fuck I can do to find that elusive something I'm searching for.
I've got an inkling of something, but that's about it. It's not even really a full-fledged idea, really, more...the general shape of a possible idea. An idea of an idea. Basically, I know now that I've never felt so alive and appreciated and useful and...fulfilled...as when I was in Oklahoma, helping out after the tornado. I want to do that. I want that feeling again. I don't really know how to describe it--that feeling that comes when you're helping people, when you know you're changing lives for the better. The sharp swelling ache in your gut, in your heart. I want that.
But I'm not a doctor. I'm not a nurse. Hell, I'm not even really a hard laborer, used to running machinery or hauling rubble around.
So how do I get that feeling? What are my skills? What are my resources?
I'm not sure about my skills, other than those I learned at sea, but I know I do have resources, a shitload of resources in the form of millions of dollars at my disposal. A fortune that's been sitting around collecting interest, piling up on itself as Mom continues to expand the family businesses.
Driving down the highway my mind begins to spin, weaving ideas and dreams, pushing me outside my comfort zone and into the realm of what if, into the realm of doing something valuable and useful with your life.
The only true measure of a person is what they do with their lives.
Astrid was right. Damn me, but she was right. And I want to do something with my life. Niall germinated that seed, and I know that if I ever want to feel like I deserve her, like I'm a man worthy of a woman like her, I have to do something worthwhile.
A
lso, I just want to do it, for me. To finally do something real in this life, to be a man others can respect. And maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to use my financial resources to get into disaster relief.
Problem number one? I don't have a single fucking clue about where to start.
Problem number two? You know who does know where to start? Mom.
Which is why, I suppose, after more long hours of thinking and driving, I find myself passing the iconic Beverly Hills sign, and then driving through the security gates at Mom's house.
*
"You want to do what?" Mom is, understandably, incredulous.
"Disaster relief. I want to start a non-profit corporation that supplies funds and resources to international disaster relief organizations like the Red Cross and MSF."
"MSF? What's that?" She idly traces a pattern in the sweat on her glass of rose.
We're outside in the garden again, where Mom prefers to have her serious conversations.
"Doctors Without Borders."
"Oh. And you want to give them money? Why not just make a donation, in that case? We could always use the tax write-off from a hefty charity donation."
"No, Mom, not a single donation. I'm talking about starting a business. A corporation."
She scrutinizes me. "You mean...you want to work?"
I frown at her. "Jesus, Mom, tell me how you really feel."
"I'm sorry, Lachlan, but we're past pulling punches at this point." She examines her jade-green manicured fingernails studiously, pretentiously. "You've never worked. Never even shown a hint of interest in anything but booze and women and chasing the next adrenaline rush."
I nod and stare down at my sweating glass of Pellegrino. "I know. But...I'm starting to want more."
"What's changed?"
I shrug. "You told me not to waste it. Getting a second chance, I mean. I experienced some things out there--" I wave a hand vaguely, indicating the world at large, "--that changed me. For the better, I hope. Made me want to...I don't know. Do something worthwhile."
Mom is quiet for a long time, staring at me, searching my face, thinking. "She must be pretty incredible."