Page 4 of My Addiction
Philly is supposed to fix this. New name. New papers. New start. Ollie is now my son on paper. A job has to be my next step. One more week at the motel. After that, I have nothing and no other plan. I just need time to breathe, regroup, and earn some money. I need more sleep than I’m getting. But it’s hard when the walls are thin, and every sound could be the people after us.
I let go of Ollie’s hand long enough to drop two shirts into the cart and grab a pair of pants off the rack. A couple of new shirts and pants should last him for a while. Though probably not long.He’s growing so fast that in another month, maybe two, I’ll be back here doing this all over again. I turn to take his hand again.
He’s gone.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve missed a step. I spin around, eyes darting over the aisles.
“Ollie?”
Nothing. Fuck. I only let go for a second. One second. But I’d been too deep in my own head to know how long it really was. I shove around the display beside me, looking underneath the racks, around the corners, behind a row of hanging coats. No Ollie. My lungs lock up. My heartbeat crashes against my ribs so hard it hurts. Blood roars in my ears, loud enough to drown everything else out.
No. No, no, no.
They found us. They had to have found us. Panic claws up my throat so fast I can barely swallow around it. I rush toward the woman who helped us when we first came in, almost clipping the corner of a rack.
“Excuse me,” I say in a panic. “I can’t find my son. He’s wearing a blue striped shirt and tan shorts. He’s a year old. I let go of him for just a second. Can you help me, please?” I beg. What if I can’t find him? What if the police have to get involved, and they notify my parents? Fuck. His life is at stake, and I took my attention off of him.
She doesn’t panic or yell at me for being stupid. She hurries over to the counter and hits a button.
“That will lock all the doors. We’ll find him. You take that side, and I will get more people to help.” She pats my arm. I turn and take off, calling out Ollie’s name. It feels like it takes forever to cover this side of the store.
I can’t believe I lost Ollie. All because I let go of his hand for just a second. For a moment, I thought they found us. After everything I discovered, I couldn’t lose Ollie, yet I did — even if only for a few minutes.
I notice a short hallway with three doors close to where we were. The first door is slightly ajar, so I push it open and rush inside. Ollie is there. My knees feel like they’re going to buckle under the weight of the relief I feel. He’s not gone, and I didn’t lose him. I take the first full breath in what feels like forever. Then I take in the scene before me.
Ollie’s asleep on a stranger’s lap. The stranger’s hair is blond and too perfect, like someone spent time making sure every strand stayed where it belonged. A tightness grips my heart. Ollie never goes to strangers. He always pulls away or hides his face when anyone tries to get his attention. And here he is asleep on this man’s lap. The fact that the guy is holding his hands up like he’s being arrested makes me laugh. Then the asshole explains he didn’t want to touch my brother because he’s slimy.
Ollie’s only been held by exactly three people in his life: me, Mother, and Father. If anyone else tries to hold him, it ends with him screaming so loud and hard that the poor kid nearly passes out every time. It’s a big deal that Ollie even noticed the man, much less fell asleep on him, and here he is sitting like he has a bomb in his lap. My relief curdles into irritation. He has the most precious thing in the world to me in his care, and he thinks Ollie is gross.
When he points out that I still haven’t taken Ollie from him, I get my body to move. Ollie doesn’t wake up when I place him on my shoulder. Then, as if this whole situation couldn’t get any stranger, he has the audacity to mention my dimples. What the fuck does he expect? The relief that put the smile there is gone now because of his attitude, and he wants it back. Fuck him. I’msaved when the lady comes in and guides me out. I look over my shoulder and see the man staring at my back. Or is it my ass?
She takes us back to the cart and pushes it to the checkout. The whole time, the man is standing less than three feet away from us. His facial expression gives nothing away as to why he’s still staring at us. When I tell her that I’m looking for work, he starts asking questions. I answer just to be polite because I really do need the food and clothes.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“I’m a freelance computer programmer.”
The asshole follows us out into the donation center. From the way the nice older lady acts, I’m sure this man is important. He looks like he has just stepped off the cover of a magazine. Just the watch he’s wearing probably costs more than I’ll make in the next five years. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a solid build. The difference between us is almost comical. While he’s only a couple of inches taller than my five-foot-eleven, he probably has fifty pounds of muscle on me.
“And you’re looking for a job?”
“Yeah. I’ve got some ads and flyers out for contract work. I specialize in writing and fixing code for apps.”
“I’ll give you a job. My company needs another programmer.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious. His expression hasn’t changed at all. No smile. No sign that he’s joking. Just that same unreadable look. Something about him sets off warning bells in the back of my mind, one after another, loud enough that I should probably listen to them. But I need this. I need a job. A place to land. Ollie depends on me for everything, and I can’t afford to let fear make this decision for me. I look him over again, searching his face for something I can trust. I don’t find it. Still, I already knowI’m going to say yes. And I have the sinking feeling I’m going to regret it.
“I have my résumé in the car.”
“Where is the baby’s mother?” The change in subject is quick, and it takes me a second to answer.
“Dead,” I lie. I even have a forged death certificate to prove it.
“Good,” the man says immediately. Then he pauses. A crease appears between his brows.
“No,” he says. “I mean… sorry for your loss.”
He gives one stiff nod, like he’s pleased with himself for correcting it. I just stare at him. My mouth actually falls open a little. Between the computers in his office and the way he seems to miss every normal social cue by a mile, I’m guessing he’s one of those tech guys who can probably build a server from scratch but can’t hold a normal conversation to save his life. That has to be it. Because otherwise, he just said the single most inappropriate thing possible. If the wife I’d invented had been real, I probably would have slapped him.
