Page 84 of Come Take Me Now

To let her know, I send her a text.

Hey, I need your Escalade tonight.

Mom: At this rate, you need to buy your own.

She’s not wrong.

My phone pings.

Mom: That’s fine. Have it back by morning.

She adopted me, of course, but I’ve always wondered if I was her favorite. I’m not perfect, but it seemed like my brothers became a bigger handful for her with each one, especially Paulie. I only bother her when I need to borrow her new luxury SUV.

I drop off the truck and grab the keys to her car. Judging by Dad’s missing truck, they’re out for dinner or something, which makes this easier. No small talk. No questions. As I start the SUV, I notice how its engine is virtually silent, especially as a new model. It doesn’t rumble to life like the diesel engine I’m used to.

It’s a short drive to the hideout I found earlier this summer. A hill just above Tilly’s dad’s house, with a partial view of her room. The one time I stepped inside her dad’s house, I despised the design, but for nighttime espionage, the modern exterior with the massive windows is handy.

I pull up to my spot just off the road, cut the LED headlights, and turn the music low. Through the branches, I see her bedroom light is on, and the curtains are open. Anyone driving by at fifty-five would only notice the warm-toned lighting and not have time to see inside. After a few minutes of idling, it hits me that I haven’t seen her yet.

Ever since I got the text from Tilly that she was feeling unwell, a lot of scenarios have run through my head. A normal person might have asked, but my brain chemistry wasn’t one hundred percent balanced yet. I still spiraled through scenarios. Some likely, some unlikely, some wishful.

Scenario one—she has a headache or allergies, and hopefully not a head cold.

Scenario two—her dad hurt her, and she’s hiding it from me, so I don’t become homicidal.

Please don’t be it.

Tilly would be back to square one and need more professional help than she already does, but if she could stand by me when I was at my worst, I could do that for her.

Scenario three—she’s having symptoms of something related to all the unprotected sex.

Would that be too soon?

Heat creeps up my neck because I know it was wrong to force a potential pregnancy on her, but she asked for me to finish inside, too. I pull up the calendar on my phone to see if the dates align. The last time I used was the same day her period started.

God, it’s been nearly a month since then. Those four weeks fucking flew by. It seemed like we had so much time at the beginning of the summer, but it was winding down too fast. She’s been fun—a distraction—and I hadn’t noticed how the days escape me between work and getting lost in her at night.

I scratch the stubble on my cheeks as my mind goes back to the possibility that she missed her period.

Has she complained about any new symptoms recently?

She was extremely hungry when I saw her yesterday, but she said she hadn’t eaten well during the day. I’m not sure if I want her to be pregnant. I do in a legacy kind of way, but she’d just resent me if it kept her from grad school. I close my eyes and press my head against the headrest.

That brings me to the last scenario…

Scenario four—she got her period and was scared of me snapping at her again.

That one is nauseating to consider. She needs to trust me and never be scared to talk to me. Maybe that’s why I’m dwelling so hard on whatever is keeping her from me tonight. If long-distance is our future for the next two years, we’ll never make it if our mutual trust doesn’t improve.

Movement catches the corner of my eye, and I snap my head up, peering through the windshield. She appears in her room in a sports bra and shorts. I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white under my tattooed skin, but I remind myself anyone driving by wouldn’t catch a glimpse. She’s just putting laundry away and decluttering her room. Not in bed, as I expected. Thank God, she’s not upset either. Scenarios one and two are off the board, but given the timing, it makes the period scenario even more likely.

My shoulders slump against the driver’s seat.

The surrounding blackness is suddenly filled with bright red and blue lights. I squint in the rearview mirror.

Five-fucking-oh.

I relax my grip on the steering wheel and loosen my shoulders. A cop knocks on the driver’s side window, and I roll it down.