She looked taken aback. A glaze of wetness glistened in her eyes. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I understand what you said, I truly do, but lots of people feel responsible. You seem to live, eat, and breathe it every day. Yet when I felt guilty for the woman in Arizona’s death, you couldn’t even let me have that. There’s something wrong with that opposite thinking.” Shaking her head, she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, appearing to search for the right words to say. “You act like you came out of the womb responsible.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Oh, by all that’s holy, Mitch, listen to yourself. Don’t act like a martyr. Nobody’s that responsible.”
He’d told very few his story, but she’d just called him on his life. He didn’t deserve that.
“When I was fourteen, my mother had to quit her job because she was sick. That left bills to pay. Food to buy. So, in addition to his full-time day job, my dad took on a second job at a convenience store in a neighborhood no one wanted to work in. Volunteered for third shift because it paid extra. That’s responsibility.”
Mitch rummaged in his mind for the images, the memories. “I knew he got tired at the job, so some nights I’d tag along to help stock and clean. He and I would share a deli sandwich and a couple sodas…and we’d talk and joke and dream of the future before I’d end up falling asleep behind the counter till time to leave for school.”
Even in the semidarkness, he could see that she paled a little, her brow scrunched. “That must have been hard on you.”
“Hard? Hard was the night a strung-out gun-carrying SOB confronted my dad, demanding all the money in the register. As Dad opened the register, the punk grabbed me and shoved the gun to my head.” Mitch swallowed the anger lodged in his throat. “My dad knocked the gun to the floor to save me, but the punk beat him to the weapon, aimed, and fired point-blank at his chest.”
He clenched his eyes shut for a moment and brushed the wetness from his face. “And then I held my dad as he died. And I made my promises.”
Liz’s face was covered in tears he hadn’t meant to cause her; her chin quivered as she hugged her arms against her chest. Part of him said stop, leave things the way they are. Another part yelled end everything now and don’t run like he had so many times before. Running was easy compared to sharing.
“Want to know who was responsible from then on?” He slammed his finger at his chest. “Me. I worked two jobs after school. Rummaged through trash bins to find stuff to sell. Stood by the back door of restaurants to vie for food being thrown out. I shoplifted. Sold drugs. Filched money from the collection plate at church.”
He’d never said this much to anyone else about his past. No one. For some reason it felt cleansing, and he needed it all out in the open. Out from the walls he’d built around the past. “I did what was needed to keep my family going. Things I’m not proud of when I look back. But everything I did was on me. Nobody else. I put food on the table for my brothers and sisters. Clothes on their back. I bought the medicine for my mother. And when she died, I paid for the funeral.”
Liz’s expression lost the tightness that creased her face moments ago. “I’m sure your siblings appreciate all you did.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea. You see, I was sixteen by then, and a distant relative said they’d take the other four as a family unit, but not me. I’d caused too much trouble keeping us all alive. So I left that night. Never went back.”
She touched his hand. “That took a lot, to be so…so…”
“Responsible. That’s the word you’re looking for, Liz. That’s the word you don’t like. And that’s the word I am.”
Quietly, they stood, staring out into the darkness filled only with the glow of the half-moon. He needed to clear his mind. Too bad he couldn’t go for a long, long swim in that water less than a hundred yards away.
The Gulf waves rolling into shore had a different sound than they’d had when he walked into the Mariner’s Bar and Grill back in Ft. Myers. That was before he’d met her. Before he’d let himself consider a life with someone. Before this assignment meant everything in the world to him. Had it really been only a week ago?
“I’m sorry about your dad. Your mom,” she said. “I know how hard it is to—”
“There’s the problem. You do know what it’s like to lose someone. But you haven’t taken time to realize everyone has a story behind who they are.”
“Still, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your sympathy.” To put distance between the two of them, he moved farther down the deck. “I wanted you to see me for who I am, and have that be enough. It’s not.”
“You don’t know that.” She took a step in his direction.
He turned toward her, then stopped her with a slight raise of his fingers. “We had a nice day today. Had some fun. But this”—he moved his fingers back and forth between them—”isn’t going to work. So, we need to stop before one of us forgets you’re the client and I’m the protector.”
“Mitch?” she whispered, pleading.
“No. We would never work. I do take pride in the fact I face my responsibilities head on. Nobody is ever going to take that from me.” He glanced back out at the Gulf. “On the other hand, you see responsibility as control. That’s the furthest thing from my mind. I never wanted to control you, Liz. I only wanted to…” He sighed. “Never mind. Good night.”
She sniffled, swiping her hands against her cheeks before rubbing her palms against her shorts. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning. We can talk more then.”
He moved to the table, sitting there long enough for her to get upstairs, then he locked everything once again and reset the alarms before heading up the stairs, back to his computer. There was nothing he could do about the way he was wired. Nothing he could do about his past, except keep sending five hundred dollars a month to the food pantry and church in his old neighborhood.
