He nods, still not looking back at me. “It is true that a lot of times people go. People walk out, die, disappear.” He looks up, locking eyes with me. “And there’re lots of reasons why they do that—some of them good, some of them not so good. But sometimes there are people who stick, too. They stay, even when things get really difficult.”
I shrug. “Not in my experience.”
“I’ve had the same group of friends since I was in the single digits,” he says, taking a couple swinging steps toward me. “And no matter how difficult things got for any one of us, we always remained friends, and we always stuck by each other.”
“That’s great . . . for you and your friends. I’m not sure how it applies to me, though.”
“I’m just saying . . . I’m the kind of guy who sticks around.” He stares at me, but I can’t tell what’s going on behind those eyes of his. It sounds like he’s making me a promise of some sort, but there’s no way he could be. I’m not asking for one from him, and besides . . . sticking around as a policy is not always the best idea.
“I hope you don’t stick around all the time,” I say. “Not when it’s the wrong thing to do.”
“Well, sure. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that I haven’t been close with a woman and then left. Sometimes you start to spend time with somebody and you think you’re compatible, and then after some more time goes by, and you get to know them better, you realize you’re not. In cases like that, I don’t stick around, no. It’s not like I just take off and disappear, but I’m also not the type of guy to lead a woman on and let her think there’s something between us when there isn’t.”
I try to smile at him. “Spoken like a true player.”
He looks annoyed. “If you say so.”
Thibault walks over to a tree and rests his hand on the bark. I join him, feeling bad that I insulted him. When I get close, I see initials carved in the tree: TCD.
I trace the letters with my finger. “What’s the C stand for?”
“Charles.”
I sigh. Apologies aren’t easy for me. “I was just messing with you earlier. I don’t think you’re a player.”
“I don’t think I am, either, but there might be some women out there who would disagree.”
“How many?” I feel bad for those women. I’m starting to get an inkling of what they missed out on.
“There are a couple who come to mind who weren’t happy with me when I broke things off. But it was better that way. We weren’t good together for the long run.”
“For some women, it’s easy to get really attached, and then when the guy doesn’t get attached too, it feels like he was playing her, even though he was just going along to see if it could work out, if she was the right one for him.”
“Have you ever been played?” he asks.
I laugh bitterly, thinking of Sonia, the foolish girl who thought she was in love with Pavel . . . a man who could never not play a woman. “I don’t know a woman over the age of twenty-five who hasn’t been, at least once in her life.”
Thibault is nothing like Pavel; I know that much. Even though I’m sure he has his secrets, I don’t think for a second they involve purposely hurting women. I look up at him and wait for him to make eye contact. I want him to know that I believe he’s a good person, so even when this situation plays out and he goes his way and I go mine, he’ll feel good about what he did for me.
“I’ll bet there’re probably more than a few girls out there who thought they were going to marry you and have all your babies and live happily ever after.”
He half-laughs. “Why would you say that?”
“Because . . .” I shrug. “You’re a good man. You’re the kind of guy that most girls are looking for.”
It’s so still and warm out. The wind has stopped moving the leaves, and the dust motes around us have all settled. It’s just him, Tee, and me, all of us surrounded by the magic of the woods. I want to kiss him more than anything in the world, but I can’t do that when my life is about leaving now.
“Come on, we gotta go back.” He pushes off the tree and maneuvers around me, moving faster than he was before.
I hate that I opened my big mouth and tried to say something nice, tried to connect. He probably thinks I’m making a move, trying to add myself to that list of women he left because they weren’t his type, so he took off to keep me from making a bigger fool of myself. Ugh, how embarrassing. As he puts even more distance between us, the idea of snakes coming after me suddenly appears in my mind. I swear I see things moving in the leaves nearby.
I trip trying to keep up with him, holding the baby tight so he won’t fall. “Why the rush?” I ask, righting myself with the aid of a nearby tree.
“No rush. My leg is sore. I need to go take a painkiller.”
“Yeah, okay.” My heart hurts, but I’ll get over it. I always do.
We get back to the front porch, and he stops at the door before opening it. “I’d really like you to tell me what you have for Holloway.” He looks up at me, waiting for my reply.
“Yeah, I know you would.” I adjust the baby’s blanket, refusing to make eye contact. He couldn’t be clearer with me right now: this isn’t about a relationship or compatibility; it’s about a man who has a need to help people, who happens to be helping me. “Maybe later.”
“There’s paper and pen on the counter over there.” He points toward the kitchen. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, think about writing it down. I could go out later and find a cell signal and send it off in a text to my team. That way, at least, they could get a conversation started with Holloway and see what he’d be willing to do to help you, see what resources would be available to you based on what you can give them.”
“Thanks,” I say, passing by him and going into the cabin. I take the baby straight into the bedroom and disappear behind the closed door before I let the tears come.
The pressure is killing me. I need to make a decision about whether I can trust him with everything I have, or whether I just need to put my foot down and end this thing—this . . . whatever it is—and ask him to take me to Lafayette and say goodbye for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I leave Thibault passed out on the couch and Baby Tee in the bedroom and go into the kitchen. After hunting around, I find enough ingredients to make my specialty: pasta Alexei.
I smile with the memory of making this dish for Alexei. He always grinned like a little kid when he was eating it. I miss his uncomplicated presence. I push away the feelings of guilt that rise up when I think about how I’m leaving him behind. If it weren’t for Tee, I would have considered taking him with me, but with a newborn baby it would be too much. Pavel would never give up searching if I took his son and his cousin away. I still have to find Alexei, though, and make sure he’s okay. I won’t let him down entirely. I’ll make sure he’s safe before I give away the keys to the kingdom.
The sun is setting by the time Thibault wakes up. He sits up and looks around, a little disoriented if the confusion on his face is any clue. I turn away to get some juice out of the fridge and pour him a glass. I think mixing beers and painkillers is probably a bad idea.
“Mika?”
“In the kitchen. Putting together some dinner.”
I look over to see him scrub his face and then his hair. “What time is it?” He looks at his watch. “Nine o’clock? Damn, I slept too long.”
“That’s okay. It gave me time to go through all your stuff.”
“What?” He looks toward his duffel bag at the door.
He thinks I meant that I went through his personal things. I try not to be hurt by the mistrust. “You bought a lot of things at that store. I think we can stay here for two months and not run out of anything. Do you really think we needed eight bags of flour?”
“Well, we’re pretty far from the nearest convenience store, so I figured I’d use the bread machine and make some fresh bread for us.”
“I don’t
think I’ve ever had fresh bread before.”
“Really?” He takes his crutches from the floor next to the couch and stands, slowly making his way toward the kitchen. “I’m a bread machine expert. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“I thought bread machines did all the work.” I smile. “I must’ve misunderstood how they operate.”
He walks up behind me and leans over the pot on the stove that’s filled with red sauce. “Someone’s got to put all the stuff in the machine, right?” He inhales deeply, closing his eyes. “Mmm, smells good.” He backs away and sits down at the small table in the kitchen. “No wonder you were so sad about my sandwiches. You can cook.”
“Just a few things. Spaghetti is easy.”
“Mmm, my favorite.”
“Well, it’s not the same as your recipe. Hopefully you’ll still like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” He stands. “Can I get you something to drink? Some juice or water maybe?”
“I poured you some juice there, but if you want to get me some water, that would be good. I’m really thirsty lately.”
“That’s the breastfeeding.” He helps himself to a sip of the juice and gets me a glass of water. He pauses at the notepad where I’ve written down the information I decided to trust him with. There’s no point in messing around anymore; he’s either going to help me or not. And the longer we hang around together, the more I’m probably going to want to be near him in a way I shouldn’t, so it’s time. Shit or get off the pot, as my grandma used to say.
He doesn’t say a word. He just sits back down at the table.
I work to keep it casual. “You know so much about breastfeeding because of your sister?”
“Yep. I am all up in her business.” He sounds happy. I think he’s glad I trusted him enough to write those things down—the list of general information I can provide to Holloway.
I laugh. “Not as much as you were up in my business, I hope.”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly, his eyes wide. “No, never have I been that far up in somebody’s childbirth moment, and hopefully I never will be again.”
“Don’t you want to have kids of your own?”
He gets up and limps over to the stove, picking up a spoon to stir my sauce. “I definitely want to have kids. I’m just not going to be the one standing there playing catcher. I’m going to stay up at the top end instead of the bottom end.”
“I get it. I don’t blame you. It was probably really nasty down there.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “No, it was a miracle.” He shakes me gently before letting me go. “But I won’t lie . . . it was scary as hell and not something I want to repeat.”
I stop buttering the sandwich bread with a garlic spread I found in the fridge and turn to look at him. “I didn’t think you were scared. You seemed pretty brave to me. You handled everything like a pro. You were completely cool.”
“On the outside, I was cool. On the inside, I was a mess.”
“And now? How are you doing now?”
“Right now . . . I feel . . . satisfied.” He nods, like he just figured it out and is confirming its truth.
I tilt my head, not sure I understand. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah. I had a walk, I had a nap, I’ve got painkillers coursing through my veins, and no one’s trying to shoot me.”
“And that’s a regular thing for you?” I lift a brow in disbelief. I think he’s either making a joke or trying to sound manly. “Someone taking a shot at you?”
He shrugs. “Not a regular thing, but it’s happened a time or two.” He lifts his T-shirt and shows me his left side, just below his ribs. “Almost got me once.”
I drop the knife on the cutting board and bend down to take a look, squinting at the scar there that definitely looks like it came from a real bullet wound. Pavel and his friends have a few that they like to show off, so they’re not unfamiliar to me. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. A bullet got a little too close, but God was watching out for me that night and sent it wide.”
“That’s the real deal.” The skin is puckered and raised a bit. “I wasn’t sure I believed you about all your Bourbon Street Boys work with the cops. Up until now, I guess.”
“All it takes is a scar to get you to believe me?” He turns and lifts his T-shirt over his back. “Check this one out.”
I run my finger along this scar, a few inches above his waist and about three inches long. His skin is warm. My hand lingers. He glances at me, his expression unreadable but suddenly intense.
“That looks like you got stabbed,” I say, pulling my hand back, hoping to distract him from the fact that I was just basically stroking his skin.
“I did.”
“Who did it? A gangster?”
“Kind of. It was my sister.”
“Get out.” I stand up and push on his arm. “Stop messing with me. I know she’s mean, but she can’t be that mean.”
He holds up his hand like a Boy Scout. “I’m dead serious. Swear to God. My sister is mean as hell sometimes.”
“Oh, I know your sister’s mean.” I pick up the knife and finish my buttering job. “She doesn’t pull any punches.”
“What did she say to you?” He leans against the counter and takes another sip of his juice as he stares at me.
“Oh, you know. She warned me not to mess around. Not to take advantage of you, basically.”
He laughs. “As if you could.”
I look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First of all, you’re not the type.”
“How could you possibly know that about me? I could be taking advantage of you right now.”
“You can’t take advantage of a person who’s offering to help. And my sister knows that I don’t offer my help to just anybody who walks across my path.”
“Yeah, I know. Just damsels in distress.”
He stops me from going back over to my pot of sauce with a hand on my arm. “No, not even them sometimes.”
“Oh, right,” I say, pulling myself easily from his grasp and picking up the wooden spoon. “Like you’d walk away from a woman in need. I don’t think so.”
He moves toward me, close enough that I feel his breath on my neck as I stir the pot. “I let things go plenty, believe me.”
I stop stirring to look at him. His face is very close. “Oh, yeah? Tell me one time.”
“My sister.” He shrugs and steps back. “I let her fight her own battles. After the Charlie thing, I had to.”
“Why? You told me you regretted not helping her. You said you should have.”
“Yes. If I could do it all again, I would have intervened at the beginning to keep it from getting as bad as it eventually did. But after it all went down, she was in a really bad place. She needed to believe in herself again. Whenever I helped her too much, it made that impossible. She took it to mean I didn’t think she could, and it made her doubt herself.”
“So . . . helping her hurt her?”
He shrugs, his expression going dark. “I guess I never thought about it like that, but yeah . . . Sometimes you have to not help to be a help.”
I tap the spoon on the side of the pot to knock the extra sauce off. “So what about me? Are you going to stop trying to help me too?”
He shrugs. “I’m going to do whatever you want me to do. I’m done trying to boss you around.”
I smile. “Did you give up on me already?”
“No, not at all.” He moves in closer, resting his hand lightly on my shoulder. “I know I don’t know you really well, but I have learned a thing or two about you.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“You’re a survivor and you’re smart. So, knowing that, I’m going to keep making you aware that I’m here and that help is available, and you’re going to do the right thing by you and Tee and take me up on whatever offer makes sense for you, for whatever help you need. Or none at all. You’ll reject whatever you don’t want or need,
and I’ll just have to live with that.”
“That sounds very mature and self-aware, Thibault.”
He laughs, letting me go and backing off. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a Vicodin cocktail; talk to me in the morning when I’m completely off my meds.”
I laugh. I love that he can be so honest about himself. “The noodles are almost ready. You feel like setting the table?”
“No problem.” He does the job and then sits in one of the four chairs.
I dish out two bowls of pasta, mine much smaller than his, and set them down on the table. “I don’t have any sprinkle-cheese to put on top.” I take a seat and sip my water.
“Not a problem.” He digs in immediately, scooping up and swirling a big pile of noodles onto his fork before shoving them into his mouth. He chews fast at first, but then slows. He pauses and looks confused.
“Do you like it?” I ask, watching him closely.
He chews a little more. “Mmm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Does that mean you like it, or there’s something interesting going on in there?”
He chews a few more times and swallows both the food and then the rest of his juice. “What did you make that sauce out of?”
I stab my spaghetti noodles and swirl them around haphazardly. “Ketchup.”
He slowly prepares another bite on his fork as he nods. “Interesting choice.” He puts his fork down and limps over to the fridge, pulling out a beer.
“That’s how a friend of mine likes it. With the ketchup.”
“A friend, huh?”
I shrug, feeling silly now. I should have known pasta done Alexei-style wouldn’t go over very well. “I guess I never bothered to make it different, since it was his favorite thing.”
He takes several more bites in quick succession, gesturing with his fork at his almost empty plate. “I like it. This is perfect.” He grins. “What’s for dessert?” he asks enthusiastically. “If this was dinner, I can’t wait to see what’s next.”
I try not to smile at his obvious lie. “Popsicles.”
“Mmm, popsicles. My favorite. Perfect.”