Page 6 of Caring for Cailin

We live eight hundred miles apart, and she should have someone who’s always nearby.

Cailin’s still dealing with her trauma. She needs me to be a supportive friend, and not push for more.

I’m not the kind of man she needs. I’m grouchy and tend to intimidate people and I’m happier being home with my cat than going out to socialize. Cailin should be with a young guy who takes her places and helps her blossom into the woman she was on her way to becoming before that fucker took her.

I tell myself all of those things. Over and over.

But shit. Now that I’m less than a foot away from her, so close I could pull her into my arms, it’s a lot harder to hang onto those reasons.

Instead, I find myself trying to debate them.

Plenty of relationships have age gaps. It doesn’t mean they can’t work.

I can fly to Bakersfield whenever I want. Or, if things go well, I could ask Cailin to move to my home in Oregon, instead.

Maybe I’m assuming what’s best for Cailin, instead of just manning up and asking.

But now—sitting in a booth at Four Seasons Bistro, where Cailin’s worked for the last ten months—is not the best time to bring up any of those things. Instead, I stick with answering her question.

“I’m glad I get to see you, too,” I tell her.

Cailin studies me for a moment. Her hand lifts from the table and twitches towards me before stopping halfway. Her smile fades as a flicker of something unreadable moves across her face.

A second later, her smile is back, only a little tighter than before. “Your hair is longer,” she says. “So is your beard.”

Instinctively, I run my hand through my hair. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is well-overdue for a trim. But a trim means venturing into Salem, the nearest city to me, and I try to keep my trips there to a minimum.

Plus, it’s not exactly like my cat is about to comment on the state of my hair. As long as he has food, water, fresh catnip—yes, I grow catnip for him, it’s much healthier than the packaged crap—and his designated spot on the back of the couch, he’s satisfied.

“Sorry,” Cailin hurries to add. “Not that it looks bad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.” I flash a reassuring smile. “Iamoverdue for a haircut. I should probably get to it before I end upreallylooking like a hermit.”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes widen. “I like it. Longer like that. It makes you look kind of rugged and—” Her mouth snaps shut and her cheeks go pink. “Anyway. I think it’s fine as it is.”

Fine? Or better than that?

Selfishly, I’m tempted to push her on it. But that might make Cailin uncomfortable, so instead, I reply lightly, “Still. I’ll add a reminder to do it when I get back home.”

Cailin’s gaze moves to my hair again. Her expression turns contemplative. “Maybe you should leave it. Just for a while.”

Before I can respond, a buzz sounds from the pager at her hip. “Do you need to go?” I ask.

She frowns. “I suppose I should.” Reaching into her apron, she pulls out a pen and small notebook. “What would you like to order?”

“You choose,” I reply, just as I do every time I visit her here. I’m far more intrigued by what Cailin thinks I’ll like than anything I might choose.

Her forehead creases in thought. “We have a special tonight. It’s meatloaf topped with bacon and cheddar mashed potatoes. I tasted it and it was excellent.”

“Sounds great,” I reply with a smile.

“And club soda with lime?”

It’s such a small thing, her remembering my usual drink, but it sparks a warmth in my chest nonetheless. “You remembered.”

“Of course.” Cailin’s gaze meets mine. “I remember lots of things about you.”

As she opens her mouth to continue, her pager buzzes again. She scowls at it before tucking her notebook back into her apron. “I guess I’d better go. But you’ll stay, right? So we can talk after things slow down?”