Page 18 of Caring for Cailin

Then he stops the car in a squeal of tires and races out to meet me. In the moonlight, his features are like stone and his gaze is dark and intense. He closes the distance between us in long, purposeful strides. His arms would come around me, pulling me into his embrace.

“What happened?” he would ask. “Are you hurt?” As he draws back slightly to inspect me, his expression shifts from desperate to grateful. “I was so worried. I just knew you were in trouble. Thank God you’re okay.”

And only once he had me safely in his car, his presence a reassurance that no one could hurt me, would I explain how my night ended up going so horribly wrong.

Like the day I went to the casting call, I would have never imagined it ending up this way. I was scared to make thedeliveries, yes. But I didn’treallythink anything bad would happen.

As I made my way to the first delivery, a ranch not far from my apartment, I reminded myself of what Memphis told me last night. Not the part at the end, when he rushed off like my kiss had burned him. But earlier, the part about how PTSD can make you see danger when there isn’t.

The first uneventful delivery certainly seemed proof of it. When I rang the doorbell, a woman who looked to be around the same age as me greeted me with a friendly smile. “You’re not the usual delivery guy,” she remarked.

“He’s out sick,” I told her. “I’m just filling in for the night.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” she replied. “I’d have gone to pick it up myself, but my husband’s out of town and I finally got the baby down after hours of crying.” She handed me a twenty-dollar-bill as she added, “I know it’s not fun making deliveries, especially as a woman. I hope this makes up for it a little.”

So that was nice.

And as I headed to my second delivery, I felt much more optimistic. It would go just as smoothly as the first and I’d be back at the restaurant in half an hour. I’d pick up a few more tables before the end of my shift, and then I’d head home for a much-needed shower before settling in for some junk TV and maybe even a glass of wine.

It might help me sleep,I told myself. Because I had a feeling I’d be laying awake in bed otherwise, agonizing over the failed kiss and Memphis’s quick departure afterwards.

A creak in the distance jerks me back to the present, and I let out a tiny meep of alarm. My heart rockets to triple speed, rather than the double it’s been since my panicked escape into the dark.

Instinctively, I fling myself to the ground. A sharp stone jabs into my palm. I press myself flat to the sand and hold my breath. Frightened tears leak down my cheeks.

Please,I beg silently.Just keep on going. Please don’t notice me.

I’m not sure how long I lay on the ground before daring to move. Long enough for my muscles to start cramping. Long enough for the perspiration on my body to cool and shivers to take over.

But eventually, I climb to my feet and look around.

Everything is just as it was before.

The road is still empty.

The utility poles scattered across the landscape still cast eerie shadows as the moon catches them.

The sand still shifts with the wind, bringing with it an almost inaudible murmur.

And I’m still the only one out here.

The relief is so overwhelming, I start crying again.

On my second visual sweep of my surroundings, I notice an oil tower not too far away.

I clamp my lips shut to stifle the burst of laughter that nearly escapes.

An oil tower.That’swhat was creaking. Given where I am, I should have guessed that right away.

Well, Isort ofknow where I am, at least. I’m somewhere in the oil fields outside of Bakersfield, although I’m not sure how far I am from the city. Hopefully, I’ll spot the lights of civilization soon, where I can find someone to help me.

I wish I’d paid closer attention when I first started running. But I was just so scared.

When I arrived at the address for the second delivery, the rundown trailer made me uneasy. It was clear it wasn’t taken care of, with overgrown grass all around it and plywood over one of the windows. But the porch light was on, and after checking the address Dillon had given me, I was sure it was the place I was supposed to be.

Don’t judge,I scolded myself as I walked to the door. Not everyone can afford to replace broken windows. The owner might not be able to afford a lawn mower. Or maybe it’s broken.

So I set my shoulders, tried to swallow back my fear, and knocked on the door.