“My eggs… are you hitting on me?” He looks utterly confused, and my cheeks flame red.
“No, no, never mind,” I say, retreating a step and pretending to inspect the candy bars next to the register.
“Please hurry,” I whisper into the phone.
“I’m almost there, but for the love of god, avoid asking teenagers about their eggs. That shit could end in a harassment complaint, and I’m off-duty,” he teases.
“You told me to ask him that!” I hiss back into the phone.
“I meant store eggs, not his eggs,” he replies, his voice rippling with laughter. “You’re something else, Karen.”
The store doors swing open, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s just an elderly lady shuffling in. My breathing must sound ragged over the phone because Clay’s voice grows serious. “You okay?”
“Please hurry,” I whisper back, my heart hammering so fast I feel it in my throat, threatening to choke me.
There is rustling and some muffled voices on his end, then another sound of a car door slamming. My gaze is fixed again on the entry. Minutes pass without him saying anything, and my nervousness grows.
“Clay?” I ask.
“I’m here,” he says, hanging up just as the doors open, and he steps inside. He’s wearing an olive-green parka and gray sweatpants. He scans the store and his gaze lands on me.
He strides over and places his hands on my shoulders, stooping down to my level. “You okay?”
I nod, biting my lip, my eyes welling up.
He came for me.
Clay wraps me in a quick hug before nudging me forward, saying to the cashier, “Remember, kid, always keep your eggs fresh.”
Outside, he guides me to a black Ford F-150 and holds open the passenger door for me. It’s quite the step up, so he grips my hips to help me climb in.
Once I’m settled, he shuts the door and jogs around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel and firing up the engine. There’s silence for a beat until I break it.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He glances at me. “Wanna fill me in on what happened?”
“I came home to find my sister and her new boyfriend doing the deed… in our room,” I say.
He chokes out a laugh. “‘Doing the deed?’ Are you fifty? And why didn’t you just hang out in the living room or something until they were done?”
“Our uncle’s home,” I say, leaving it at that.
His expression turns serious again. “Why is that a problem?”
“Because he’s drunk.” I shrug.
His next words are heavy with what seems like suppressed anger. “Does he hurt you, Carolina?”
“He’s unpredictable when he’s drunk, and I didn’t want to risk it,” I say, choosing to omit the part about him being drunk most of the time.
He nods but doesn’t look happy or convinced. “Makes sense. And you have no idea who might have been tailing you?”
“To be honest, I could’ve just imagined it all. It was just a gut feeling… maybe I got paranoid.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
“Always trust your gut,” he says before bursting into laughter again. “God, your sister is a handful!”
“I know.” I cringe. “But it’s partly my fault. I’m hardly ever home.”
