Except every time I think about leaving, about going back to my office and my reports and my regular routine, I look at Jackson's face and can't make myself move.
Murphy's burger is as good as always. Perfectly seasoned beef, melted cheese, fresh vegetables, all on a toasted bun that's somehow both crispy and soft. I've eaten here hundreds of times over the past four years, but today it tastes different. Better, somehow.
Because I'm not eating alone.
That's the truth I don't want to examine too closely. I'm forty-three years old, and I'm sitting here with a woman and her son, pretending for an hour that this is my life. That I'm the kind of man who comes home to someone. Who helps with homework and wipes ketchup off small faces and listens to excited chatter about dinosaurs.
It's pathetic, really. Creating a fantasy out of a single meal.
"This is really good," Claire says, and I realize she's barely eaten half her burger. She keeps pausing, watching Jackson, scanning the restaurant like she's waiting for something bad to happen. "Thank you again. For all of this."
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I do, though." She sets down her burger and looks at me directly. There's something in her eyes. "I still don't understand why you're doing this."
"Because I can help, and you need help. It's that simple."
"Nothing's that simple."
She's right, of course. Nothing is that simple. But I can't exactly tell her the truth: that I'm a lonely middle-aged man who's spent too many nights alone in an empty house, and that spending a few hours with her and her son makes me feel like something more than just the sheriff. Like I could be someone's... what? What am I imagining here?
Not a father. Jackson has a father, even if he's not here. Even if he apparently tells his son that dinosaurs aren't real.
Not a boyfriend. Claire's clearly running from something, someone, and the last thing she needs is another man trying to insert himself into her life.
Just a friend, maybe. Someone who helps. Someone who cares. Except it doesn't feel like friendship. It feels like something else. Something dangerous.
Jackson finishes his burger and yawns hugely, nearly dropping Rex in the process. "I'm sleepy."
Claire glances at her watch, a cheap plastic thing that's probably from a drugstore. "It's past your nap time, baby."
"I'm too big for naps," Jackson protests, but his eyes are already drooping.
"How about a rest then?" Claire suggests. "We'll go back to the room, and you can rest while I read to you."
Back to the room. Back to that motel with its thin walls and questionable plumbing and the faint smell of mildew that probably never fully goes away. Back to the place where Claire will lie awake worrying about money and safety and whatever she's running from, while Jackson sleeps on a bed that's seen better decades.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"You could stay at my place instead."
Claire freezes, her hand halfway to her water glass. "What?"
What am I doing? This is insane. I don't invite people to my house. I barely let my friends come over. My home is my sanctuary, the place where I can finally drop the sheriff persona and just be Tom.
But I'm already talking, the words tumbling out. "I have a guest room. Two, actually. Better beds than the motel, and the house is quiet. Good for sleeping. You could stay there while I'm at work, get some proper rest. Both of you."
She's staring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
"You're inviting us to stay at your house," she says slowly, like she's testing the words. "Your house."
"Yes."
"A house I've never seen, in a town I just arrived in, with a man I met yesterday."
When she puts it like that, it sounds insane. It is insane.
"I know how it sounds," I say. "But think about it practically. You need to save money, and hotel rates add up fast. Even Betty's discount rates. You have a job starting tomorrow, which is great, but you won't see a paycheck for at least a week, maybe two. In the meantime, you're burning through your cash in a motel room that's not even comfortable."
