Cindi Myers - A Man to Rely On

“I’ll be here,” Scott said. “I’ll let you go now. Goodbye.” He hung up before Marcus could think of any more orders to give him. He sat on the side on the bed, heart thudding hard in his chest, the familiar feeling of wanting to escape almost overwhelming. Drugs had provided that kind of escape once, a floating euphoria that made all his problems disappear.

But he was stronger than that now. He could cope. He stood and went into the bathroom, where he chose a bottle from the medicine cabinet and shook out a single, small pill. He hated he’d traded one drug dependence for another, but a methamphetamine habit and the subsequent recovery had left him with a lingering anxiety disorder he kept under control with the help of a prescription and a meditation practice the Buddhist director of the treatment center where he’d spent three months had passed on him.

He finished dressing and made coffee and toast, then walked to the street and collected his copy of the Houston paper from the box at the end of the driveway. Sure enough, there on the lower right quadrant of the front page was a close-up of him and Marisol, his arm around her, their heads together, in the backseat of his father’s car.

It was an intimate shot, her head tilted toward his, almost touching, her hair fallen forward to hide much of her face, only the curve of her cheek and lips and part of one eye showing. Lamar Dixon’s widow wastes no time finding new beau read the caption beneath the photo.

They obviously hadn’t talked to anyone in Cedar Switch about his relationship with Marisol, or they’d have learned pretty quickly he was her real estate agent, not her lover. Then again, he supposed men like those reporters never let truth get in the way of a good story.

He continued to stare at the photograph, at that moment frozen on the page. Marisol looked beautiful and vulnerable and he had never felt more protective. Had she seen this? What did she think? Should he call her and see how she was doing? Not out of any romantic interest, but because he wanted her to know she had at least one friend in this town.

He was still standing on his front porch, staring at the paper when the screech of tires drew his attention. He looked up as a familiar lime-green VW pulled to the curb.

The driver’s side door opened and a lithe blonde dressed in navy trousers and a navy and white blouse stepped out.

“Tiffany? What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked. Tiffany Ballieu taught fourth grade at Cedar Switch Elementary school. Normally at this hour she’d be on her way to playground duty or bus duty or preparing her classroom for the day’s lessons.

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