Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

by Mila Ferrera

  I grab my keys and stalk out of the apartment. Daniel’s warning rings in my head—I so don’t want to be that loser guy who can’t take a hint. But I can’t drive my fear for her out of my head. I’ve seen her look worried. I’ve seen her angry. Today, though—she looked broken. I have a sense of what that feels like, and where that road leads.

  I drive out of town, heading for the north lakeshore neighborhood where she lives. When I turn onto her road, though, a familiar form takes shape in my headlights.

  Holy shit, it’s Tom. Shuffling right up the center line of the road in his fucking pajamas. Thin pants and a T-shirt, and it’s barely thirty degrees outside. I slam on my brakes and flick on my hazards. Tom puts up his arms to shield his eyes from my high beams. “Hey, Tom,” I say as I approach, worry spiraling. “What’s up?”

  He squints at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Nate, sir,” I say. “I’m a friend of your daughter’s. And it’s cold out here. How about you let me take you home?”

  “Kicked me out,” he says, pausing after every word. “Can’t go back.”

  I have to swallow all the questions trying to force their way out of my mouth; I know he can’t answer them anyway. Instead, I say, “How about you come and get warm in my car, and we’ll figure something out?”

  He seems cool with that, and I stick close to him as we slowly walk back to the vehicle. I wave a few cars around us and carefully guide Tom into my passenger seat, feeling only relief when I get him buckled in—he could easily have fallen and broken a hip out here. He’s over half a mile from the house, and that tells me he’s been out here for a while, given his shuffling snail’s pace.

  I slide into the driver’s seat, crank up the heat, and pull over to the shoulder. “You okay?” I ask, watching him rub his arms. “Getting warm?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I’m going to drive a little,” I say. I know what he said about not being able to go back home, and I’m not going to argue about why he has to. For all I know, he’ll forget by the time we arrive.

  It takes only a few minutes to reach the driveway, and I slowly pull in. The front door is open, sending a stab of fear through me. “I’m going to come in with you,” I tell him. “We’ll get everything sorted out.” Please let her be okay, my thoughts whisper.

  I hop out, go around to the passenger side, and help Tom out of the car. He’s unsteady and bleary-eyed, maybe because he’s upset, maybe because of the meds he takes. Fear for Sasha makes me want to run to the front door, but I stay by Tom’s side, my arm around his back, ready to catch him if he trips. No fucking way am I letting him fall. It takes us a whole minute to get to the door, and then I help him up the two steps and over the threshold. I grit my teeth until I get him to the sofa and guide him onto it.

  “Sasha?” I call out, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. “You here?” Her Subaru’s in the driveway, but she might have gone out running. That seems like the best possibility right now, even though it’s obviously not safe for her dad. He’s okay tonight, though, so we can deal with the rest. “Sasha?”

  I glance toward the table next to the door. My blood runs cold when I see her keys and earbuds in the little basket where she keeps them. She usually takes them when she goes running. Shit. “Sasha,” I call, a little louder.

  From upstairs, I hear a thump that sets my heart racing. I jog for the base of the stairs just as she pulls her bedroom door open. “Nate?”

  “Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice measured and staying where I am, even though all I want to do is race up the stairs and take her in my arms. She’s alive. She’s breathing. “Could you come down here for a second?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, clutching the door. “How did you get into the house?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about,” I say, wishing we didn’t have to do this. I know it’ll only make her feel worse, but it would be more devastating to her if something happened to her dad.

  “We have to leave,” says Tom from behind me. “Can’t stay.”

  At the sound of her father’s voice, Sasha flinches. “He’s up?”

  Our eyes meet. “He was out,” I say quietly. “I found him on the road. Front door was wide open.”

  “Oh, God,” she says, her voice cracking as she nearly falls down the stairs trying to get to her father. As she whips by me, I see the tear stains on her cheeks and fresh ones brimming in her eyes. “Dad.” She drops to her knees in front of him and takes his hand. “Oh my God, you’re freezing. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “They want us out by morning,” he says. “Landlord won’t reconsider.”

  “No,” she says, wiping her tears on her sleeve. “I paid the back rent. We’re fine. I promise.” She kisses his hand and pushes herself to her feet. “I’m going to make you some hot tea and turn up the heat, okay?”

  It hits me so fucking hard, my love for her in this moment. She’s obviously wrecked. She’s been through so much today. And she still has the wherewithal to go along with her father’s delusion, to say what he needs to hear to calm him down.

  I close the front door and walk to the thermostat, where I turn up the heat a few degrees. Sasha’s already in the kitchen with the kettle.

  Tom looks at me. “You here for the eviction?”

  “No, sir,” I say. “I work for the landlord, and he told me that you guys are all set for the year.”

  He relaxes a little. “Oh. Okay.”

  I edge toward the kitchen, where Sasha’s adding sugar to his tea. She gives me a sidelong glance. “How far did he get?” she asks softly.

  “A ways.” I can’t tell her what I should—that he was freezing, that he was in the middle of the road, that this could so easily have ended with a late-night knock from the sheriff’s deputy, here to deliver devastating news.

  But she seems to know all of that already. “If you hadn’t been there …” She sniffles and knocks away a few tears with the back of her hand. “I need to get him settled.” Without making eye contact, she picks up the tea and takes it out to him. I stay out of her way as she cajoles the tea down his throat one sip at a time and wipes the dribbles on his chin away with a cloth. I listen to the gentle lilt of her voice as she tells him everything is okay now, and his bed is waiting for him, and all the windows are locked, and the police are patrolling the street to make sure everything’s safe. I note the strain in her body as she helps him to his feet and slowly walks him down the hallway back to his room.

  All I can think is that I am in love, and I will do anything to make this right. Out of habit, I head up the stairs, ready to wait for her like I have so many nights this past month. It’s only when I get to the top of the stairs that I realize I have no right to this anymore, and that maybe I’m not wanted at all. Nothing has changed.

  I start to turn toward the steps, but one glimpse inside her room hooks my brain with a force that wrenches me back around.

  She kept it for me when I was too broken to be safe. Locked it away, out of sight, out of mind.

  Except it wasn’t, apparently.

  My SIG Sauer P320 is sitting right there, on her bed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sasha

  I sit by my father’s side for a long time after he falls asleep. The guilt is wrapped tightly around my chest, a python contracting its coils every time I let out a breath. I can barely pull air into my lungs. I’m so sorry. Those words creep up over and over, but I’m silent, not wanting to impose them on my dad, who so badly needs to rest after what has been a completely traumatic night for him.

  I can’t believe I didn’t hear him leave. I wasn’t asleep. I know he’s capable of wandering—Cathy warned me about it just last night. And I should have worried that he would tonight, after my horrible behavior during his dinner and our struggle over his nighttime meds. I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering his words. He thought he’d been evicted. He thought he had to leave. He didn’t feel like he
was allowed to stay in his own house.

  Because of me.

  If Nate hadn’t found him in time, he might be dead on the side of the road. Or freezing in a ditch.

  Because of me.

  He’s not okay. And no matter what I say, I can’t make it okay. I can’t fix it, or him. Or myself. I can’t keep him safe.

  I can barely keep myself safe.

  I hold my father’s hand, and I listen to the buzz of his breathing. I watch his mouth and muscles go slack. I stroke his graying hair back from his face, letting my palm linger over his skull, wondering which memories are still nestled safe inside. “Remember when you took me ice skating on the pond?” I whisper.

  I was six, and I was scared, not only of falling, but of the blades. To me, it seemed like I was strapping knives to my feet that would cut right through the ice and send me plunging into the frigid water below. Other kids twirled and swooped along, but I shied away from the scrape of metal on ice. My tears froze and stung on my cheeks.

  My dad seemed so big then. So powerful. He knelt in front of me and took me by the shoulders, his smile so gentle, his hands enveloping my skinny arms. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” he said. “Nothing bad can happen to you.”

  I believed him. It was so easy, then. I took his hand and let him lead me onto the frozen pond, squeezing his fingers, my little heart pounding. But my trust in my father carried me along until I forgot about my silly fears and started to notice the snow sparkling and swirling in the beams of the park’s lights, and the tails of scarves sailing through the air after their owners, like signal flags. As my heart went from thunder in my ears to a quiet, happy rhythm, I noticed the laughter, the joyful squeals around me, and I began to make some of those sounds myself, joining my voice with those of everyone around me, all of us connected in the simple ecstasy of that moment, a cold night on the ice, the powerful magic of something completely ordinary.

  Because of him.

  “I wish I could make you feel that safe,” I murmur. “I wish you knew how badly I wanted to.” I hope, somewhere in his mind, the knowledge is there, untouched and lasting—how much I love him. How grateful I am and always will be.

  I stroke his hand and let it go for the night. The best thing I can do is let him rest and not pollute his dreams with more fears. “I love you,” I whisper. “I will never leave you.”

  I stand up slowly, careful not to jostle him. I wipe my tears and push my hair away from my face. I am such a fool. Such a selfish fool.

  Struggling to shoulder the weight of all the mistakes I made tonight, I trudge up the hall and out into the living room, not prepared to face Nate but knowing I have to. I have to come up with some casual explanation for why my dad was able to get out of the house and wander so far up the road. I have to tell him I’m okay and that he needs to stop worrying and move on. I need to—

  He’s not in the living room. For one stupid moment, a keen disappointment slices through me. I wanted one more chance to look at his face and hear his voice before forcing us apart again. But who could blame him for leaving? Sagging and weary, I turn out the lights in the living room and go to the door. I lock it and throw the deadbolt, then pull the side table in front of it. If my dad wants to get out, he’s going to have his work cut out for him, and I’ll hear the commotion. It’ll last until tomorrow morning. And then I’m going to need to get a lock for the inside of the door, just like Nate suggested.

  I peer out through the curtains, and my breath catches. Nate’s car is still in my driveway, parked behind mine. Alarm bells clang in my head as I turn to look toward the stairs. Light streams down from my bedroom.

  Slowly, I ascend the stairs, my dread rising with each step. Our eyes lock as I climb the last few. He’s sitting on the end of my bed, slumped with his elbows on his knees.

  The gun is in his hand. “What the fuck, Sasha.”

  “I was going to give it back to—”

  “It’s loaded.” Without dropping eye contact, his finger along the barrel, he thumbs the release and allows the cartridge to drop into his other palm. “You told me you threw the bullets away.”

  “Nate—”

  His jaw clenched, he pulls the slide, an abrupt and brutal jerk that sends the chambered bullet twirling into the air before it hits my floor and spins away. He stands up. “Do you have any idea,” he says, his voice deadly quiet, “what it would have done to me if you’d used this on yourself? Do you have any idea what it’s doing to me right now?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. That’s bullshit.” He blows out a long breath. “I want to be nice. I want to say the right things. But I’m so fucking angry at you right now that it’s taking all I have not to shout.”

  “My dad—”

  “Yes,” he hisses. “He’s the reason I’m not going to shout.” He glares at me. “The only reason.”

  “I wasn’t going to do anything.”

  “Uh-huh.” He checks the chamber, then shoves the weapon in the waist of his pants. “I’m out of here.”

  “Oh.” I wrap my arms around my middle, where it feels like he’s punched me. I know I deserve it, though.

  He watches me for a moment, then grimaces, half-turned toward the stairs. “You know what kills me here? All I can think about right now?”

  “What?”

  He jabs a finger at the open gun case on my bed. “That you’d rather blow your brains out than talk to me.”

  If it felt like he’d punched me before, now it feels like he’s reached inside me and grabbed my heart. “Nate. That’s not—that’s not—”

  “No? You weren’t up here loading this fucking handgun instead of calling me back? I fucking begged you to call me back, Sasha. All I wanted to know is if you were okay.” His voice breaks over the last few words. “And instead, you were gonna do this and let the rest of us wade through the wreckage you left behind. Fucking hypocrite.”

  “I—”

  “No.” He takes a few steps toward me. “Do you remember anything you said to me the morning after you saved my fucking life?” His fists clench, and it’s obvious he’s trying so hard not to yell.

  I put my hands up. “I wasn’t going to kill myself!”

  “I don’t believe you,” he says. “You take one look in the mirror, you’ll see why.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  His lip curls. “You think you can lie to me. You think I’ll just nod my head like a good boy and fuck the hell off.”

  “I will be fine,” I say, my voice hardening. “I’m dealing with this.”

  “Like hell you are. You’re pushing away people who love you and letting the one person you love the most down in the process.”

  The sting is so sharp that my breath whooshes out of me. “I made one mistake,” I say. “After six fucking years of taking care of him every single day. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”

  “It’s not that you’re not perfect, Sasha. It’s that you feel like you have to be! Where’s Cathy? Does she know what happened to you today?”

  “She was there,” I mumble. “Sitting right next to me.”

  “Then where the fuck is she? Why isn’t she here? Why didn’t she fucking refuse to leave your side?”

  “Because I—”

  “Told her you were fine, right? You’re always fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Except you’re not. You’re so busy making up reasons why you have to be alone that you—“

  “Excuse me? Making up reasons?”

  His eyes widen. “Uh, yeah. Let me count the ways. We can start with Ryan.”

  “You have no right to talk about him.”

  “Don’t I? What he did was a tragedy, Sasha. But you know what’s worse? What makes a whole fucking mockery of his death and all his pain? The fact that you used it as an excuse to avoid living your life. Imagine how he’d feel about that.”

  Fury boils in my veins. “You have no right—”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started,” he s
ays, towering over me as he backs me up. “What about your dad? How do you think he would feel if he could comprehend that his beautiful, accomplished daughter is using his illness as an excuse?”

  “That’s not fair,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t care. “You’re not some powerful woman who gets off on seducing a man once a year. Nah. You’re scared shitless, so that’s all you can manage, and that’s why meeting me threw you for a loop. Maybe you were scared of this news you got today and what it means. Maybe it was being hurt again. Maybe you were terrified of being asked for too much when you didn’t feel like you had enough to give. Maybe it was being vulnerable and having to rely on someone else for once. Or maybe you’re just terrified of being left, like your mom left your dad, right when he needed her most.”

  “Stop it,” I shriek before clapping my hand over my mouth.

  “Then stop making excuses,” he says in a low voice. “You’re braver than that. I know you are.”

  “Get out,” I whisper. “You don’t know me.”

  “You know I do,” he says, his voice shaky with anger and the strain of keeping quiet. “You might have tried to shut me out, but you couldn’t stop me from seeing you. And I did. I do. Not everything, not even a fraction of how much I want to, but I know you, Sasha Miller.” His hard expression cracks, revealing a fragile dawn of hurt and hope. “I see it all. And I love you.”

  My head hangs back, tears streaking from my eyes. “You have to go, Nate. I can’t do this.”

  “Don’t push me away.”

  “I have to.”

  “Bullshit. I’m right here. And you need me. Especially now.”

  “I can’t need you, Nate. And you sure as hell can’t need me. What I need is for you to leave.” When I look at him again, he’s so close, his arms out like he wants to enfold me. The sight is a knife in me. I picture letting him. And then I picture all his solicitous pity, all the glances I’ll catch when he doesn’t know I’m looking, the worry and the obligation, breeding and giving birth to annoyance and contempt. I picture dragging him down. I picture his resentment. The images draw me back, putting steel into my spine. “Thanks for helping my dad. I’m so glad you found him.”