“What about the baby?”
“Now that the medical debt is settled, and I won big in Vegas, that’s no longer an issue.”
“Have you talked to?—”
“Don’t!” I warn.
He licks his lips, his eyes trained on the syrup-splattered table. “Tox?—”
“Back the fuck off!” I snap as I feel heat rising in my chest.
“Understood.”
Changing the subject, I ask, “So, how much is a tour bus?”
“They start at five hundred thousand dollars, but there’s a school bus that has the same capacity that’s only a third the price.”
My brows lift. “A school bus?”
“I figured I could paint it to match my ancestor’s original colors.”
“Well, I wish you all the luck and hope it takes off.”
“Thanks, man. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
We settle the bill and head back to the venue to prepare for the show.
As soon as I step aboard the bus, Kilo shouts, “Congrats for placing second!”
“It was a real nail-biter,” Natasha chimes in. “The guys were almost late going on because they were glued to the screen.”
Now that’s something I’d never expect to hear because of how militant Carl is about time.
With a few hours left before the show, I politely excuse myself to sit and collect my thoughts. And, like always, linger on my regrets.
Every night, I’m haunted by my words. I was so angry, I couldn’t think clearly. Everything I said seemed right but felt so wrong. Even now, I don’t know what Samantha’s truth is.
Immediately after leaving the police precinct, I knew I’d made a mistake. I’d made assumptions without knowing all the details, and I brought up my concerns at the worst possible time.
I gave us both a day to settle, but as I was typing up an apology, my sister sent me a text telling me that any communication with Samantha was to go through her.
It was a gut punch I wasn’t ready for, and I only had myself to blame for it.
Now, I live in constant torment.
I’d hoped that eventually Samantha would call or text to clear the air, but that never happened, and true to her word, it was Maria who messaged with information regarding her doctor’s appointment, which went well.
It eats me up inside that I’m not there with her, watching little droid on the ultrasound screen, but this is what I deserve.
I go back to the text messages I’d exchanged with Samantha when she was pretending to be Trista Kinney.
I have each one memorized, yet I read them in order, smiling sadly at her quips.
“Hey, do you mind helping with the lights?”
I look up to see Vanessa buried in coils of cable. She nods her barely visible head to the followspots.
Grabbing them, I follow her into the venue, careful not to step on a dragging cord as we walk.
