I just shake my head as I walk past Cash toward the glass door that leads outside, out to freedom. I don’t look back to see if my brother is following me. I need air. I have to get out of here.
I step out into the sunshine and take several deep breaths. Even in the wide open space of the area in front of the prison, with only the parking lot and a long expanse of road in front of me, I feel trapped. By life.
My father’s words resonate in my head. He’s asking us to let it go, asking me to let it go. He’s asking me to forget about the people responsible for destroying my family, for destroying my life and the future I thought I had. And he’s asking it for my dead mother’s sake.
I run my fingers through my hair. I feel the tug of strands being pulled out from under the elastic band that keeps it neat at my nape, but I don’t care. I feel like pulling it all out, like screaming at the world, at the unfairness of it all.
He wants me to let it go!
I keep coming back to that. And to the fact that he’s right; it is what Mom would want. And on top of that, seeing Dad waste away in prison gives me a clear picture of the one thing that could be worse than living with the status quo—living in prison for the rest of my days.
So where does that leave me?
I pace back and forth across the short stretch of sidewalk. Curling my fingers into tight fists and relaxing them over and over, I pay no attention to the people around me, to what they think. I don’t give a shit. I haven’t given a shit about anybody or anything much in seven years, and I can’t imagine starting now.
Just the thought of watching everything I’ve ever planned, everything I’ve ever thought I knew vanish right before my eyes makes me feel impotent and exasperated and enraged and . . . lost. Trapped and lost.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaws ache and it’s all I can do not to turn around swinging when Cash grabs my arm.
“You ready, man, or you gonna stand here and act like a deranged lunatic for the rest of the day?”
I want to plant my fist in the middle of his smug face until I feel bones crunch beneath my knuckles. I want to hurt him, and I’m not really sure why. I just know that I do. I want to lash out at everybody.
But something in me feels deflated, like purpose has been stolen from me. And concern over that overrides my desire to inflict pain. For the moment, anyway.
“We’re not gonna let him stop us from pursuing this.”
It doesn’t really matter to me what Cash does. I’ll go my own way, regardless. I guess I just want him to ignore Dad’s advice, too. Make me feel better about holding on to the rage and vengeful spirit I’ve nurtured all these years.
“Hell no! I think his conscience is bothering him, seeing what your life is like now. I think it would make him feel better to be the martyr. But he’ll get over it. We need to see this through. We need to bring Mom’s killers to justice.”
“Good,” I say, more relieved than I care to admit. “I’m glad you’re not pussin’ out on me.”
“Look, Nash, just because we got off to a rough start and we approach this in two different ways doesn’t mean we both don’t want the same thing. Because we do. I wanna rip some heads off just as much as you. But I won’t. That would only make things worse. I’d feel great for about a second and then I’d spend my life either on the run, in a nonextradition country, or in prison. Or dead. I choose to take my revenge the smart way. The way you would’ve done it once upon a time.”
His chin tips up in challenge and I feel my hackles rise. “Maybe I’m not that guy anymore.”
“Yeah, you are. I can see it. You’ve just gotta dump this chip on your shoulder. Mark my words, it’ll ruin your life if you don’t.”
“My life is already ruined.”
“No, you just got your life back. What you choose to do with it from this point on is up to you. If you ruin it, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”
I clench my teeth again. Mainly because I know he’s right. I can admit that. But only on the inside. Beneath all the anger.
And there’s a lot of that—anger.
TEN
Marissa
“I’m sure he’d do it if you need him to. He doesn’t hate you, Marissa.” She’s trying to persuade me to ask Cash to go with me to the fund-raiser.
I know that the look I send Olivia is full of all the skepticism I feel. “You’re so sweet for saying so, but you and I both know that’s just not true.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she emphasizes.
“Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. Let’s just say he has trouble tolerating me. Does that go down a little easier?”
Olivia cocks her head. “I’m not having trouble swallowing anything. I just really don’t believe he hates you. You two had a . . . rough relationship. You were a different person then. And in a lot of ways, so was he. You just have to find a way to put all that behind you and move forward. As friends. Or at the very least friendly acquaintances.”
I stare into my cousin’s jewel-green eyes. She wants us to get along so badly. But why?
“I know this is probably not something I should bring up, but it bothers me wondering if it bothers you. I don’t want it to.”
“Wondering if what bothers me?”
I hesitate, giving myself one last opportunity to change the subject before I bring up something that could change her feelings toward me. But I need to clear the air. The time for being selfish is over. If I’m going to be this person, I have to take all the bumps and scrapes that go along with moving beyond my past. It’s time to grow up and pay the piper, all that jazz.
“The fact that Cash and I used to . . . date.”
Olivia shrugs. I don’t think she feels as casual about it as the gesture implies, but I don’t see any real distress on her face, either, which is the main thing.
“It’s not something I want to sit around and think about, but it’s not like it eats at me constantly, either. I know Cash loves me. And I know you both had your reasons for carrying on the relationship. Now, if you’d been in love, that would be different. But you weren’t. You each had a purpose for using the other. I can live with that. Because it’s over.”
You each had a purpose for using the other. How nasty that sounds. But, sadly, how true. We did use each other. And that makes me feel like a dirty whore. Which, by most definitions, I was. Technically. I had sex with someone who meant very little to me. He was a means to an end. Just because there was no money changing hands doesn’t alter the fact that I was with him for gain—to please my father. And that’s sick. Sick, sick, sick.