Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mark's car still smelled faintly of Amanda. He breathed deeply, then rolled down the windows, letting in the chilly November air. He had to get the thought of her out of his head. She represented everything he didn't want for his life.

He'd been honest with her, after all. He'd never planned to get married or commit himself to any woman.

His emotions had gotten the better of him, and he'd let himself believe he could have something out of his reach.

But a happy marriage wasn't in the cards for Mark. His father swore Mom had been sweet and lovely back when they'd first married, but she'd turned on him years before.

Dad was ten times the man Mark would ever be, and he was miserable. If Dad couldn't make marriage work, there was no way Mark could.

He loved his mother because she'd given birth to him—apparently after forty hours of hard labor, though the number changed depending on how angry she was. Thanks to that terrible labor, she hadn't been able to have other children, though Mark suspected she hadn't wanted any more.

He loved her in that you're-my-mother-and-I-have-to way. But if he had half a brain, he'd quit calling her and just communicate with his dad.

But that was Mark's problem. He was loyal too. He knew, deep down, that if he were married to a woman like Mom, he'd stay with her and live a miserable life. Rather than divorce, he'd just beg for a premature death.

Why would any man agree to that?

Why would he sign up to watch Amanda turn from the sweet, innocent beauty she was today into a hateful, bitter shrew?

He'd rather be alone, thank you very much.

Now that he was away from her and those big, blue eyes, he felt sane again.

The hollow feeling in his gut would go away. He'd forget about Amanda. He had to.

He parked on the street near Justin's condo. At the door, he knocked, then let himself in.

Justin was sitting at the kitchen table dressed in gray sweatpants and a Black Dog T-shirt, a cup of coffee in his hand. He peered over his newspaper, eyebrows waggling. "Quite a lunch date."

Mark plopped on the couch. "It wasn't like that."

"Really?"

"She's not that kind of girl."

Justin laughed, full and hearty, as if he hadn't heard anything so funny in months. "Where'd you take her, the fifties?"

A chop to his throat would shut him up. A punch to the solar plexus, maybe. Instead, Mark went into the kitchen and grabbed a coffee mug.

Justin followed and stopped at the edge of the small kitchen. "Just a joke, man. What's your problem?"

Mark poured some coffee, took a sip, and set it down. "I slept in a chair."

Justin chuckled, but at Mark's glare, the sound died. "Did something happen?"

Mark skimmed over the events of the day but told him all about the attack the night before. When he finished, he fell onto the couch.

Justin followed and plopped in his chair. "Wow. He's a serial killer?"

"Yup."

"So, was it that server with all the metal on her face?"

"The other one. The blonde. Amanda."

"She's…" Justin paused.

Mark met his eyes, waiting for him to churn out one of his typical Justin compliments. The degrading kind. Justin swallowed and said, "Pretty."

They sat in silence.

Mark still needed to call his mom and tell her he wouldn't be home. He wasn't looking forward to that conversation. He needed to call the detective. Hopefully, he'd be able to set up the interview for early the following day. The sooner he got out of Providence, the better.

Other than those two calls, he had nothing to do but wait for the day to be over.

He hadn't even asked Amanda about her bruises. Did she feel okay? Was she hurting? Was she nervous, all by herself?

Was she thinking of him?

He stood, looked around.

"Where you going?" Justin asked.

He sat again. "I don't know."

His friend stared at him, eyes narrowed. "I don't understand something."

"What?"

"Why are you here? I mean, after everything you did for this woman, all the time you spent with her, you obviously have feelings for her."

"We just met."

"So what? Everybody meets their somebody at some point. Maybe you just met, but that doesn't mean?—"

"Let it go." Mark was too tired, his emotions too close to the surface, to have this conversation again. "I'm deploying."

"Not to be repetitive, but so what?"

"I'm not getting married."

"Grow up, man." Justin pushed to his feet. "We're not children anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means." His friend returned to the kitchen table, grabbed his coffee cup, and dumped the remains in the sink.

Mark did know.

They'd been eleven years old, and Mark's parents had just had another one of their episodes. Not fights. They never fought in front of him. Instead, his mother would make some cutting remark, his father would give her his signature look and walk away. That look said so many things. Mostly it said, Will I ever be good enough for you? A question Mark had asked himself a million times.

This time, Justin had seen everything. They'd decided marriage wasn't worth the hassle.

Justin washed his cup, then grabbed the coffee carafe. "Do you know why I asked Marie to marry me?"

"She wore you down?"

"I broke our pact because I met the right woman."

"I'm happy for you."

"But you'll never do it."

"I won't."

Justin dumped the coffee grinds into the trash, then leaned on the counter toward Mark, his hands clasped together. "Not every woman is like your mother."

"I'd watch my mouth, if I were you." It was one thing for Mark to talk about her, but…

"I know, I know." He pushed himself up. "You can probably kill me without getting off the couch."

Mark didn't bother to respond.

"But as your oldest friend, I have to say this." Justin returned to the living room and sat in the chair opposite him. "Your mother…"

Mark lifted one eyebrow.

"She isn't what I would call a warm woman."

Mark resisted the urge to smile. His mother was warm like Hitler.

Justin's Adam's apple bobbed. "She's…"

"What?" Never satisfied? Never happy? Never forgotten a mistake? Never noticed an accomplishment?

"Not every woman is your mother."

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. "I heard once that men tend to marry women like their mothers. I'd rather be alone than be saddled with…" He wasn't going to finish that. "Why am I talking to you about this? I should pummel you."

"You're talking to me because I know how she treated you. I know how she treats your father. Maybe if she were my mother, I wouldn't want to get married, either."

"Not everybody had Donna Reed for a mother."

"You had Mommy Dearest."

Mark stood. "Seriously. Shut up."

"There are a lot of good women out there."

Mark was leaving. And her father didn't want him making her promises. And…and he'd made a stupid pact when he was eleven.

No. He wasn't changing his mind. He'd be better off without her. And she'd be better off without him. End of story. "It doesn't matter."

"I'm guessing it matters to her."

"She's barely old enough to drink. How can she understand what it would be like to be stuck with a Marine? With a veteran, assuming I make it home."

"So you dumped her for her own good."

"You can't dump someone you're not with. We just met."

"And you don't have any feelings for her?"

Mark didn't answer that. He didn't want to lie.

"Of course you don't." Justin reclined in the chair. "She's just some brainless bimbo."

The words weren't out of his mouth before Mark grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet.

His friend smiled. "Yeah, it's really obvious you don't care about her."

"Shut up." He pushed him back into the chair and walked out.