“Thursday,” he said.
“That’s it? It feels longer than that.”
The kettle clicked off, and she turned back to it.
Well, he was a dumbass. “Do you need anything? Food? Meds?”
She shook her head as she opened the cabinet.
He looked at the opposite counter and saw a few papers. But what caught his eye was the picture. His booking photo. There was no mistaking that it was him.
He picked up the papers. It was his arrest record.
“Where did you get this?”
Abby glanced over her shoulder and froze, the cabinet door half open. She slowly closed it. “It was sent to me.”
“By who?” And how the fuck had that person gotten a copy. His record was expunged.
“If I had to guess from the note that came with it, Olivia’s aunt.” She wouldn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the mug and tea bag she was dunking.
Tinker shuffled through the sheets, seeing the short note on the last page. “Is this why you weren’t answering my calls?”
She frowned. “I just told you the kids have been sick for the last two days.”
“So this has nothing to do with it?” He gestured with the pages.
She grabbed the edges of the blanket and crossed her arms. “Honestly? I haven’t had time to think about it.”
He tossed the papers on the counter, crossed his arms, and leaned against the opposite counter. “What’s there to think about? Whether I’m a threat? Whether you want to keep seeing me?”
She wiped her forehead with the blanket. “How to approach you about it, for one, Tinker. What was I supposed to do? Call you and say, ‘hey, tell me about that time you went to jail for aggravated assault’?”
Abby gestured with the blanket. “And again, when was I supposed to do that in the last two days? Sorry, I’ve been so busy getting thrown up on. And let’s be honest here—this is something you should have told me way before now.”
She was judging him without knowing the full story, just like he knew she would. Like everyone before her had. He shouldn’t blame her, but he did. She should know him. Know this one thing wasn’t who he was.
Maybe she had a point, he should have told her before now, but it was hard to see it through the hurt. Anger. He needed—wanted—to be angry at her, because being angry was easier than being whatever the hell this was.
He shrugged, going for nonchalant. “Well, now you know. What else is there?”
“Why?” she asked softly.
That gave him pause. “What?”
“Why did you do it?”
He opened his mouth and closed it again. There was no short answer to that question. It’d be better if she just told him to fuck off. Easier.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“Yes, it does.” She wiped her forehead with the blanket again.
“Why?”
“Why does it matter?” she asked.
“Yeah, why does it matter why I did it? I put a guy in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. What does it matter why?”
