"Wait here," Tom says, pulling into a spot near the office. "I'll get you checked in."
"I told you, I'm paying—"
"I know. I'm just going to talk to Betty, make sure she gives you a fair rate. She likes to overcharge out-of-towners."
Before I can argue, he's out of the truck and walking toward the office. I watch him go, trying to figure out his angle.
There's always an angle. Derek taught me that. People don't help you out of kindness. They help you because they want something. Because they're building up credit they'll cash in later. Because they're positioning themselves for some advantage you can't see yet.
But Tom Harris doesn't seem like Derek. Doesn't move like him, doesn't talk like him, doesn't look at me the way Derek used to look at me, like I was something to be acquired and owned.
Tom looks at me like I'm a person. Like I matter.
It's been so long since anyone looked at me that way.
"Mommy?" Jackson's voice is sleepy, muffled against my shoulder. "Is this our new house?"
"No, baby. This is just where we're staying tonight. Like a hotel."
"I like hotels." He yawns hugely. "They have ice machines."
I smile despite everything. "They do. Maybe we can get some ice later."
"For Rex?"
"Sure. For Rex."
He settles against me again, satisfied with this answer. I stroke his hair. He’s the only good thing to come out of five years with Derek Voss.
Derek didn't want kids. He made that clear early on, back when I was still stupid enough to think I could change his mind. But then the condom broke, I got pregnant, and suddenly everything changed.
Not in the way I'd hoped.
He was furious at first. Accused me of doing it on purpose, of trying to trap him. I cried, I apologized, I offered to end it. The words tasted like poison in my mouth, but I was so desperate to make him happy again. To get back the charming man I'd fallen in love with.
He calmed down eventually. Started talking about legacy, about having a son to carry on his name. That's when the fights about Jackson's last name began. Derek wanted Voss. Only Voss. I held firm on Donovan, one of the only times I ever stood my ground.
He never forgave me for it.
The door opens, and Tom slides back into the driver's seat. "Room 7. Betty's giving you the weekly rate, even though you're only staying one night. Comes out to thirty-two dollars."
Thirty-two dollars. I can manage that. Barely.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.
He drives us around to the end of the building and parks in front of a door with a brass number 7 hanging slightly crooked. The room beyond is nothing special. I can see that even before we go inside. Faded curtains, a bed that's probably seen betterdecades, carpet that was last replaced when Reagan was in office.
But it's clean. And it's safe. And it's mine, at least for tonight.
Tom helps me carry the bags inside, and there's something about the way he handles the weight, the way he moves through space, that suggests capability. Control. A man who's used to heavy lifting, to getting things done, to taking charge of chaotic situations.
Jackson has woken up enough to explore, his small feet padding across the carpet as he investigates every corner of the room. "There's a TV! Mommy, there's a TV!"
"I see it, baby."
"Can we watch dinosaurs?"
"Maybe later. Right now, we need to get settled in."
