It Matters To Me (The Wandering Hearts Book 2) (12 page)

“H
OW DO YOU SPELL HIS
last name?” I hear my mother’s voice over my shoulder. Spinning around, I see her sitting sideways on the bench under my bedroom window, slumped over her laptop.

Slanting my head to one side I moan, “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going to go all stalker-ville on this guy.”

“My only child tells me she’s about to hop on a plane with some complete stranger and fly halfway around the world, you’re lucky all I’m doing is Googling the guy,” she warns me.

I laugh. My mom has always been overprotective of me. In fact, she’s so terrified of someone ruining my life she often tries to live my life for me.

“I wouldn’t call him a complete stranger,” I torture her. “We did have a meal together.”

“Name!” she barks.

“You’re too much,” I laugh.

“Are you going to tell me his last name or do I need to search through your phone for his number and call him myself,” she says glaring at me.

“You would too, wouldn’t you?” I turn, flipping through my shirts for what feels like the hundredth time. “What is someone even supposed to wear in Africa?”

“I can tell you right now you can leave your club minis here.”

“Thanks, Mom. I think I already knew I wouldn’t need club wear while performing my job as a photography assistant. Now just because I leave them here, don’t you go borrowing them.”

“Please, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it?” She clears her throat. “I’m waiting on that name Kenzie Lee.”

“Calloway,” I relent at last.

“C-A-L-L-O-W-A-Y,” Mom recites as she pecks at the keyboard with a single finger. “So what’s a PA a photographer do anyway?”

Slipping a couple of Henley shirts off their hangers, I casually respond, “the best I can tell it means you become their personal slave.”

I see Mom’s eyes widen. Her smile fades, twisting into a worried frown.

“I’m kidding,” I inform her quickly, for fear she may literally melt into a blob before my eyes.

“I knew that,” she quips, her eyes quickly darting back to her search results. I pull out every comfortable pair of jeans I own, which apparently is only two and a pair of cargo pants I never knew I owned. Checking the size, I toss them into the pack pile.

“Who knew it could be so hard to keep it to one bag?” I note.

“No way!” Mom exclaims, not looking up from her screen.

“Fine, you try it,” I suggest to her.

“Not that,” she shakes her head. “Aiden Calloway, right?”

“Yes, why?” I inquire, my curiosity now piqued.

“As in the son of William Calloway?”

“Why is that name so familiar?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he owns Wayward Industries, you know, the same company that owns a piece of just about everything in Chicago.”

I clear my throat. “That can’t be the same Calloway. His studio is—well, it’s kind of in a scary part of town.”

“And this is supposed to make me want to give you my blessing to work for this guy?”

“I don’t remember asking for it,” I glare at her. The disapproving oxygen between us thickens.

I walk to her side, glancing at the screen. I hesitate, staring at the image on the glowing square, unsure if my eyes are playing tricks on me.

“Well?” She asks, waiting for my response. I don’t give her one. “It is him, isn’t it?” Her smile returns, triumphant.

My eyes drop to hers. She sees the truth before a word can escape my lips. I shrug, returning to my packing, unsure why this revelation would change anything. “I don’t know, maybe he and his dad don’t have a good relationship. What does it matter who his dad is anyway?”

“Well, it helps put a mother’s mind at ease that he’s not a serial killer.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that article that said men from wealthy families can’t be serial killers. Thank goodness,” I taunt her.

“I’m just saying he comes from good …” her voice trails off. Unzipping the old green duffle bag, my favorite thing Dad gave me when I left for college, I shove in the carefully selected items of clothing. A lingering silence from behind the computer screen alerts me.

“If you say he’s from good stock I may never be able to take you seriously again.”

“Kenz,” She looks worried again. “Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“What now?” I huff. “Let me guess, you found out in the great infiniteness of the wise inter-webs that Aiden Calloway isn’t a fan of baked goods. How ever could the daughter of a bakery owner work for such a monster?”

I laugh at my own joke, but apparently my mother doesn’t see the same humor in poking fun at the family business.

She cringes. “You know, if you ever wanted to come back to the bakery to work, we’d love to have you.” Her sincerity makes me feel guilty.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I collapse onto the pillow next to her. I reach over and turn the laptop toward me. “All right, I’ll bite, let me see what has you acting so weird.”

She scrolls up to the top of the page. The article is three years old. I read out loud.

“A Southern Illinois couple is in the news again today as the husband is released after serving a twenty-year sentence in relation to the kidnapping of prominent businessman, William Calloway’s son in 1990.

The couple was arrested after a two-year search for the child, thanks to the efforts of a team of private investigators hired by William Calloway. The child was found unharmed. Dale Anderson took full responsibility for the abduction, claiming he found the boy near the hotel room his mother had apparently committed suicide in only hours before. According to court testimony records, he told his wife, Janet Anderson, he had found the boy abandoned, and suggested they raise the child as their own.

Janet Anderson was convicted on a lesser charge and released after serving three years.

Aiden Calloway, now twenty-four, was unable to be reached for comment. William Calloway released a statement that he’s confident there’s more to the story of his son’s abduction and the death of his wife. He also added that he does not feel the price that has been paid for his family’s suffering has been sufficient and plans to seek justice against the Southern Illinois couple in civil court.” I finish reading the article aloud, the words on the bright screen entrancing me.

“I remember this.” Mom says with a heavy sigh, staring at the image of Aiden as a toddler on the screen. “I was pregnant with you when he was taken. God, I was so terrified someone would take you after I gave birth. I remember wanting to keep you inside of me, where I knew I could always keep you safe.”

My mother’s smothering felt well intended for the first time that I can remember. “That’s terrible. I can’t believe that happened to him.”

“He didn’t say anything?” she asks.

“Yeah, he was like, hey, thanks for filling in on such short notice, and oh yeah, by the way, did you know when I was two years old my mom offed herself, and I was kidnapped?”

“There’s no need to be snarky,” Mom warns.

“No, he didn’t mention it,” I reaffirm.

“Well, that settles it, you’re not going,” she adds, closing the lid to the device.

“What? Why would something that happened more than twenty years ago affect my decision to take this job?” I ask, standing and crossing the room, over to the drawer where my bras and underwear are hidden.

“Because he obviously is going to have some pretty major issues,” she answers as if it should be obvious to me as well. “He’s damaged, Kenzie.”

“Honestly, I don’t think you have ever sounded more insane than you do right now.”

She stares at me with intense scrutiny. “You’re my only—”

“Child, I know. I get it. You love me. You want me to be safe.” Tossing my selection of undergarments next to my bag, I swipe my laptop from my mother’s hands and toss it onto the bed. Taking her hands into mine, I slowly coax her to stand. “Mom, I love you, I do. But I need you to trust that you have raised a smart and capable woman. I’ll be fine.”

She bites her lip apprehensively. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” I smile, letting go and making the motion on my chest with a single finger.

The doorbell rings. I nearly leap over my bed to exit the uncomfortable conversation. “I got it.” Anything has to be better than going in the same circles I’ve gone in with my mother for years. Walking out of the room, I can’t seem to shake Aiden’s story.

Turning the knob, I pull open the heavy wooden front door. My mouth drops open, and I’m suddenly faced with an even more uncomfortable conversation than the one I just had with my mother.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin pale except for the blue circles under his eyes.

“Really? You end our last conversation with Africa, and you ask what I’m doing here?” Ben throws at me, shoving his hands in frustration into his pockets.

I hear my mother clearing her throat behind me. Pushing a hand into his large chest I move him back from the doorway, allowing me clearance so I can step outside onto the porch with him. I pull the door closed, concealing us from both my mother’s prying eyes and ears.

Taking the lead, I walk over to the white porch swing and sit down. I can’t count how many evenings we spent in this exact place, watching our friends as they passed up and down the street of our busy urban neighborhood. This time, though, Ben’s arm will not be wrapped around me for warmth. His lips will not be pressed against my forehead in comfort.

“I shouldn’t have picked up last night,” I say pointedly.

He shakes his head in disbelief as he sits down next to me. “Wow, are you being for real?”

“Would you be here right now if I hadn’t picked up?”

“Would you have gone to Africa without even telling me?” He’s obviously not impressed with how the conversation is going.

“I think I’ve made myself very clear.” I feel like I owe him an explanation, but I don’t have one. I’m tired. I’m too young to be this tired of life. He’ll never understand what that means.

“You’re messing this up,” he mumbles.

“Excuse me?” My sympathy shifts to annoyance.

“You once told me not to let you mess this up. Well— you’re messing it up.” He’s got balls; I’ll give him that.

I bark out a laugh because I fear any words I may speak at this moment may simply be a string of incoherent profanities.

“Just tell me, is it someone else?” The part of me that just wants this endless Ben drama to be over debates on telling him yes. Of making up an imaginary lover that is everything he could never be so that his pain will turn to anger and end this misery. But I can’t. I owe him more than a lie.

I shake my head minutely, trying to make sure he can see in my eyes that I am telling him the truth. I notice his leg is bouncing anxiously up and down. He has always done this when he’s nervous, and I can’t help but smile.

I push the expression from my face as quickly as it crept in. “I wish it were as simple as falling in love with someone else,” I say, fighting back the growing lump in my throat.

“Great, you wish you were cheating on me. Damn it Kenzie, do you even realize the way you make me feel when you say crap like that?”

I lift my hands, confounded in how I always manage to say the absolutely worst thing possible. For a split second, I remember how good his lips feel on my forehead. It’s probably the most comforting touch from another human being I’ve ever felt in my life. I muster all my strength to push that thought from my mind. I don’t want comfort. I want to get uncomfortable in life. I want to push myself. I want to see what the world has in store for me, and I can’t do that waiting for Ben to catch up with me.

He doesn’t need to know the details. “I’m taking an assistant job that will require me to travel to Africa. I’m going.”

“Just like that?”

I nod and stand.

“Who are you an assistant for?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I enlighten him.

“Ah, so it is a guy,” his voice says he thinks he has just discovered the ultimate secret I must have been trying to conceal.

I can barely feel my fingertips as rage surges through my veins from his smug tone. My shoulders drop, and my chin lifts in frustration. “Again, you and I broke up because we’re broken. Not because of someone else.”

“What does that even mean? You don’t love me anymore?” His voice cracks when he asks the question.

“I can’t be in this relationship anymore! That’s what it means.” Anger I didn’t know existed bubbles up from inside of me.

His eyes widen. “I’m not just walking away from us. Our history is deeper than any of these scars.”

“You’re not listening. I feel trapped. Jesus Ben, I can’t even breathe sometimes.”

“So what, are you saying I’m smothering you?”

“I’m saying my life is smothering me. My mom, my boyfriend, this damn city.”

“You don’t know what you want.” He spits his words out like they are venom.

“Maybe not, but I know I don’t want you.” My words are sharp, and he winces at the depth in which they cut.

He stands, I follow suit. “I’m not going to wait around for you,” he warns me.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“You can’t just keep kicking me whenever you want. I can only handle so much shit from you.”