“I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, Jolie.”
Chapter 19
Jolie–present day
Woodrow pulled me through the busy street. His walk, rigid and uptight, the opposite to my loose and tottery movements as I tried to keep up with his long legs. His grip around my fingers tightened, as I twisted on my heel, my ankle bending. Gravity, the traitor that it was, pulled me to the floor.
But I didn't hit.
“In your face,” I drunkenly mumbled to the concrete ground, which was all too eager to tear through my dress and scratch my legs.
“Careful.” Woodrow's words were soft and gentle, a caress to the heart he once owned.
And in my intoxicated state, I was ready to give it back to him.
I stared up at him when we stopped at a curb. He didn't look at me as I steadied myself, my thumb brushing over his skin, over one of many tattoos I hadn't allowed myself to give attention to until now.
I peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, wanting to see more. . .
But I never got to. He pulled me forward, and again, told me to be careful as we stepped down the curb. The light to cross turned green, and he guided me safely across the street.
“Can I see your tattoo?” I asked, reaching the other side and still trying to read the story his body would tell. A memory popped up, remembering, he also had piercings. . . and I almost asked to see those, too.
“Maybe later.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, hating the dismissal. The coldness of him shutting me out. . . that wasn't Woodrow. Even yesterday, when I said so many hurtful words, he still reached out to me.
“You're mad?”
“I'm never mad at you.” His thumb rubbed my hand, and for the first time in years, I found a little comfort through someone's touch.
“I'm mad,” I whispered, my true feelings bulldozing through the alcohol pollution in my blood. My eyes streamlined ahead as we made our way through the flurry of people, his darting to me. “I'm mad at you. Not Hell. Not Woody. You.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
He didn't answer, and his silence told me nothing.
“I'm sorry.” He pulled off his mask and stuffed it into a pocket, allowing me to see the authenticity in his expressions. “I'm so sorry. I couldn't save you.”
“You should have come with me! You told me we’d leave together!” I snapped, stopping in the middle of the street as my voice broke under the pressure of so many mixed emotions, causing passerby tourists to glance our way before the life and soul of Vegas, once again, hypnotized them with its glory.
“I couldn’t just leave.”
“Couldn’t just leave? You were willing to all those weeks before.”
“Yes, before. Before my father locked you in that basement and did fuck know’s what!”
“So, why not after? You should have followed me. Hell steps down when you really want him to. You proved that today. But you became your father’s puppet, training his gun on me as I struggled to get away, thinking only of you. Of us. Forcing happy memories into my head to override the fear.” I could have onlyimagined what those around us were thinking, but I didn’t care. “I thought of you each day I was caged like a misbehaving animal. An animal who was abused by both of your parents and almost starved to death. I went through a pregnancy where I was constantly stressed, wondering if you were alive. You were always on my mind. Always! And you didn’t even care enough to leave with me!”
“I wanted to be with you. To run with you.”
“Then you should have.” The sun dried the tearstains on the exposed side of my face, and my half-face mask hid the others as more sadness rolled over my cheeks.
“He couldn’t get away with it. He convinced Hell to kill you. . . I felt it. For the first time ever, I felt Hell’s stress, Woody’s fear. My father wanted you gone, and he couldn’t get away with any of it. If I left with you, we’d have both been caught. I needed you to get away. Nessie was in the house; I wanted her to get away, too. I couldn’t leave her there with them. It’s not true that I didn’t want to leave with you. I’d have given up my life for you. I stayed so you could get away.”
“I didn’t want that. I wanted us to leave together. I lost our baby, Woodrow, in the most awful way. I couldn’t lose you, too.”
