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the middle of the bustling bus station. Jack had no idea what
to say, so he didn't say anything.
She gave him a little wave and began walking toward the
bus.
Jack felt as though Freddy Krueger of A Nightmare On Elm
Street fame had just paid him a visit and dragged his knives
right down the middle of Jack's chest. He couldn't seem to
draw a breath. His legs felt like they might collapse out
from underneath him at any moment. And his heart beat so hard
against his rib cage it sounded like knocking.
Mallory climbed up the two stairs, an older man following
after her.
Then she disappeared inside the depths of the bus to take
her seat and wait for departure. She was gone.
Jack couldn't seem to move. Couldn't seem to do anything
more than stare at the empty air where she'd stood a few
moments before.
"Come on," Lay la said quietly, taking his arm.
Jack fought the urge to shake her off. He'd leave when he
was damn well ready to leave and not a minute...
Mallory appeared in the doorway of the bus again, nearly
knocking over a fortyish woman who was just about to board.
She rushed toward Jack then hurled herself into his arms,
knocking him a few steps back as he struggled to hold her and
keep his balance.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she murmured, kissing his neck,
the dampness of her tears wetting his skin. "I'm going to
miss you so so much."
Jack thought he said, "Me, too," but he wasn't sure. He
couldn't seem to concentrate on much of anything except the
sense of completeness he felt when Mallory was in his arms.
He clamped his eyes closed and held her so tightly he was
afraid she couldn't breathe. "I love you, Mall," he whispered
into her ear then kissed her hair, pressing his lips tightly
against her head. "Stay. Please, stay. They've caught Coco.
You have a story you can run with here. You'll have money men
lining up around the corner to finance your documentary
now."
She pulled away from him slightly and smiled up at him,
though there was no joy in the action, only sadness. "You
know I can't do that," she whispered.
And in some strange, twisted way, he knew she'd refuse to
stay. Knew that once she'd made her decision to leave it was
a done deal. But he'd had to try one more time.
"I love you," he murmured again, kissing her ear.
"I know." She nodded, then broke away.
Jack looked up over her shoulder to find Layla wiping her
cheeks and Reilly blinking rapidly.
Mallory backed away from him, her eyes big and glossy, her
teeth fastened on her bottom lip. Then she smiled sadly and
turned toward the bus, then disappeared for good.
15
FOR ALL INTENTS AND purposes, Mallory's life was
progressing better than she would have ever imagined in
Kansas City, Kansas. Within a week, she'd not only proven
herself a capable producer/director of local television ads,
she'd just been offered the opportunity to make a documentary
on the history of the area. It would be fully funded and
she'd have complete creative control.
What was strange was that none of this outer success was
making her feel any better inwardly.
Oh, sure, she'd heard the saying you could never go home
again. What she was rinding, however, was that L.A. and Layla
and Reilly and Jack had been more home to her than her
hometown. No matter how many of her favorite meals her mother
fixed her, no matter how many of her old friends stopped by
to play catch up, her arms were raw from how often she
scratched herself. She seemed to itch all over. And no matter
how much lotion-calamine or otherwise-she applied, she
couldn't seem to get rid of that itch.
Psoriasis, her mother told her.
You, Mallory wanted to say.
Christmas fever had hit the Midwest with a vengeance.
Everywhere she looked there were blinking lights and boughs
of holly, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
And what was with all this white stuff? How was it that
she'd forgotten about how cold it could get in Kansas City in
December?
She grimaced into the mirror of her white vanity. The same
white vanity she had spent many a teenage morning in front of
wondering who she was and where she was going.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
She eyed the froufrou white four-poster twin bed done up
in white eyelet lace, the academic awards her mother had
framed and put up on the pink and white striped walls, and
the stuffed animals that filled almost every corner of the
room. No matter which house her mother lived in, or with
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