He looked across his shoulder at her. “You’re comparing talking about personal things to going through withdrawal?”
“Yes, because both are ultimately good for you.”
Long pause.
“Why did you move to America?” she repeated.
“I moved because I lost someone I loved.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“I’d rather not say.” The muscles at the hinge of his jaw tensed. “I ... I needed a change. So I moved to the States. To Atlanta.”
“Did you work in another restaurant?”
“I did. I continued to save money for a place of my own. Then moved here.”
She contemplated Sam and his globe-trotting past. Misty River had been her home base since birth. It sounded like for Sam, belonging had been harder to find.
She watched his throat work as he drained the last of his tea. He disappeared inside and returned without the mug, then stood on the grass facing her. “No need to keep texting me. Think you’re strong enough to get your own groceries?”
She didn’t want their communication or his deliveries to end.But of course, he’d already done more than enough for her. “Yes. I’ll be fine now on my own. Thank you.”
Tomorrow, she and Natasha were planning to meet at their parents’ house so that they could begin hunting for secrets in their mom and dad’s past. She’d texted her sister a photo of the mysterious letter the day it had arrived, then briefed her on the breakfast discussion she’d had with their parents about it.
On top of that, she was committed to telling Natasha about the Oxy.
Unfortunately, the thought of the threatening letter—and of having to confess her addiction—had ignited a flickering flame of apprehension within her.
Sam’s presence, his air of competence, his firm, endearing face—were calming. While he’d been here, he’d blocked depressing thoughts from devouring her mind. It was tempting to think that so long as he was close, she’d be all right.
Which was ridiculous!
Sam wasn’t the remedy for her problems. He was simply her caravan. Atemporaryrescue.
“’Night, Gen.”
“You know,” she pointed out, “no one calls me Gen except for my sister.” Usually when people tried to shorten her name, she politely asked them to call her Genevieve. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that to him, though, because Gen sounded adorable when he said it.
“Well, now it’s your sister and me who call you Gen.”
“I realize Genevieve is hard to spell, but it’s only three syllables.” She smiled, playing devil’s advocate.
“Which is two syllables too long. Can I call you Gen?”
“You may.”
“’Night, Gen.”
“Good night, Sam.”
Tears tightened her throat as she watched him walk toward his truck.
Don’t go.
But he did go, plunging her back into solitude.
If she was going to be okay, truly okay again, then that outcome could not depend on anyone except herself and God.
