Playing With Fire

Chapter Forty-Eight

Recap

With that in mind, I brace my palms on the armrest and push myself up to my feet. "I'm going to get some coffee from that café down the street." She looks up then, a distracted look in her red-rimmed puffy eyes. "Do you want anything?"

"The truth." She answers fluidly.

I stare at her, warmth spreading from my ears, "What?"

"I want the truth." She sits up and nods, "Why did you really leave Boston?"

"You know why," I look around in confusion, "I left Boston because of my mother."

"You left things unresolved."

"To be honest Laura, I doubt our problems could have ever been resolved." I point out, feeling the need to defend myself.

"I welcomed you into our household because I thought you'd be a wonderful addition to the family!" She argues, her voice begins to grow in volume, "But ever since you've been here, all that I've invited in is trouble."

An exuberantly sharp pain travels through my veins as she stares at me with no remorse over her words. Yet, at the same time, I know she's right. Though her reasoning-my mother-is incorrect, she has the gist of it.

"I can't help but feel that all of this is because of you." As she says that, the waterworks she had been trying so hard to hold back begin to roll down her face.

I look down in haste, trying to shield the evident hurt I know is written all over my features. Meanwhile, she angrily wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her cardigan.

I begin to backtrack, and even as I do so, she doesn't look up-she's too angry to. I take one longing glance at the door where the officer is still standing shamelessly, before turning on my heel.

"I'll get you a coffee." I say quietly, my voice almost breaking.

Chapter Forty Eight

I'll get you a coffee.

Of all the things I could've said, I chose to speak those words. I wouldn't have argued with her, especially because I know she's partially correct. I felt like crying, shouting, stomping my feet like a child, ripping my hair out-and just maybe, maybe amidst my gargantuan tantrum, Laura could've seen my point of view.

But I knew it wouldn't work.

So I left it.

As frustrated as it made me-to civilly walk out without a feeling of satisfaction and victory-I ran out before my tears of anger betrayed me in front of her.

I had run out of the building faster than I did when I first saw Travis deal a gun. I was grueling a race against my fast-pouring tears. If there is anything worse than public humiliation, it is, without a doubt, the beginning stages of an inevitable round of sobs. Subconsciously, I have always known it's true-what Laura said to me-but it still hurts to hear it aloud.

I begin to slow down into a light jog as I approach the café at the end of the rounded street. The wind, heavy with late evening humidity, had whipped against my face so that all traces of tearstains had vanished and had instead been replaced with a layer of sticky discomfort.

I push open the doors, the generally soothing aroma of coffee beans and earthly substances wafting past my nose. It occurs to me, somewhere in my wildly racing and bewildered mind, that I didn't even know what type of coffee Laura would want.