Page 5 of Caring for Cailin

A year ago, I told myself I was simply doing the right thing by helping her. As I scoured the thrift shops, searching for the jewelry Cailin’s roommates had sold, or pre-screening apartments all over L.A. to find the safest one for her, I held fast to the belief that I was only doing what anyone else would.

I promised her, after all. How could I not?

So I stayed in L.A. for nearly a month, in the hotel room adjacent to hers. I put my business on pause. I paid the hotel an exorbitant amount of money so they’d look the other way when I brought my cat with me. I tolerated a city I can’t stand so I’d be around to support her.

And whenever one of my friends or colleagues would ask why I was putting my life on hold for a woman I barely knew, I’d tell them the same thing.“Cailin reminds me of my little sister. If something happened to Marian and I wasn’t around, I’d want to know someone was taking good care of her.”

It was mostly true, at least.

My sister and Cailin are close to the same age. I feel protective of both of them. And during my years in the Army, I made my buddies swear to look out for Marian if anything happened to me.

The difference is, my feelings towards Cailin are far from brotherly.

“Good evening, sir.” As I approach the hostess stand, the blonde standing beside it perks up. Her smile brightens. “Are you meeting someone?”

“No,” I tell her. “Table for one.”

“Oh. Okay.” She glances at the table chart in front of her. “I have a lovely table near the bar?—”

“I’d prefer to sit in Cailin’s section,” I interrupt. Casting a glance around the crowded restaurant, I add, “I can wait if all her tables are full.”

The hostess frowns slightly as she studies the chart. “It looks like she has one open table.” Grabbing a menu and silverware rollup from the stand, she turns and gestures for me to follow her. “If you’ll just come this way.”

She leads me to a booth in the corner of the dining room, which I’m happy about. Even though I’ve been out of the Army for five years now, the habits I made during my service still hold strong, like trying to sit with my back to the wall and having a clear view of the entrance.

As the hostess sets the menu and silverware on the table, she turns back to me and asks, “So, are you here on business? Or pleasure?”

“Business,” I reply quickly. With a thin smile, I slide into my seat. “Thank you. Enjoy your night.”

Fortunately, she takes it as a goodbye, as I meant her to. Not that I have anything against the hostess, but I’m not here to make small talk with strangers.

While I wait for Cailin to come over, I take out my phone to check my email. I have two new responses from the contact form on my website, both inquiring about arranging a helo tour sometime next month. Neither of them---a bachelor's weekend and an influencer looking for footage---sound particularly appealing. Technically, I don't need to take either job, if I don’t want to. Thanks to the inheritance I got from my parents and my retirement from the Army, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.

But I like to work. I enjoy staying busy. And Iloveto fly. The only reason I’m not a Night Stalker anymore is because I wanted to leave on my own terms before they tried to push me out because of my age.

“Memphis!” At the sound of Cailin’s voice, my gaze lifts to meet hers. As she smiles, it hits me square in the gut. “How are you?”

Before answering, I quickly scan her face, and some of the tension I’ve been carrying over the last few weeks eases.

It’s the same every time. I come for my monthly visit—under the auspice of business, when in reality, I’m really here to check on her—and once I’ve established that she’s doing okay, I’m briefly reassured. Then a week goes by, and the same stubborn worries reemerge—is she eating enough? Sleeping enough? Is the apartment I arranged for still as safe as it was the last time I checked?

After two weeks, I’m counting the days until I can visit again. And by four, I’m losing sleep, convinced that Cailin’s in trouble and I’m not there to protect her.

So, yeah. I’m invested.

Forcing the unpleasant thoughts away, I return her smile with one of my own. “I’m good. Just got into town a couple of hours ago.”

Cailin rests her hand on the table, bringing her sweet floral scent closer. The overhead lights pick up the hints of red in her dark hair, making it look like its lit with bits of fire. Her eyes are more honey than amber, softening as she looks at me. “It’s selfish, but I’m glad you have so many jobs in Bakersfield. Because it means I get to see you more often.”

I don’t have any jobs in Bakersfield. That’s just another white lie I tell.

Ishouldfeel guilty about lying. But if it’s between lying or not seeing Cailin at all, I’ll pick the lie every time.

Or I suppose I could tell her the truth, which is that there’s just this visceral need to see her. And that, quite honestly, once a month doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

But whenever I toy with the idea of telling her, logic intervenes, reminding me of all the reasons why it’s better to keep things as they are.

With twenty years between us, I’m far too old for her.