Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MAYA

I watch from the front window, feeling useless as they surround him and move in on the car. Already, lights have started switching on in the other houses. Mom would’ve hated this. Would have, like she’s passed already. I don’t know what to do, what to think. My mouth is still sore in the best way from our kisses.

Everything else is sore, too, in the best way possible, but I don’t have any time to linger on that. The police look tiny as they escort Tristan from his car toward a cop car. He’s so big, towering over them all. Other police are searching his vehicle. One of them holds something up, and a bunch of them cheer. It’s a big white bag of what must be cocaine.

Was Tristan running drugs?

When Mom’s alarm goes off, I spring to my feet, like I’m suddenly returning to the world inside the house. Luna and Loki are barking like crazy from upstairs.

I find Mom half-sprawled out of bed, looking so thin I want to cry. Quickly rushing to her, I help her back into her usual position.

“Mom, what’re you doing?”

“I heard …”

I swallow guiltily. At least the sirens have stopped now. “Everything is fine.”

“Promise?” Mom whispers.

Well, no, I can’t. I shouldn’t do that. Tristan might be a drug runner—the man I can’t stop thinking about. Whatever happens, Mom’s healthcare fund is in jeopardy, but it’s worse than that. What if Tristan isn’t the man he’s pretended to be and who I believe him to be?

I can still taste him. I still want him.

“I promise, Mom,” I whisper.

“Ah, good.”

I hold one of her hands in both of mine, trying not to shift awkwardly in the chair. I’m all sticky down there. Why couldn’t the cops have come just a little later? Listen to me. Is this how I’m thinking already? Hating the cops, automatically trusting Tristan, like he’s my man or something?

“I guess the date’s off,” I whisper under my breath once Mom has fallen asleep. I go upstairs and check on Loki and Luna, then return to Mom when she calls out for me.

Instead of sitting here feeling down about everything, I decide next time I get the chance, I’ll grab my cell and text Tristan. Maybe he’ll get to check his phone, and there’s something I can do to help.

I almost tell Mom, “I’ve been thinking about homes …”

But right now, with my bank balance dwindling, we’ll be lucky to make rent.

Oh, Tristan. Please get free. Please don’t be an evil man. Even to myself, in my own head, I sound pathetic, but I can’t stop. Tristan, please make all this okay.

I push those pleas down. I can’t be weak. I can’t be dependent, but after spending so long trying to keep it together, I almost want to let go.