Where It Ends

| 10 | Cast Off

It's a quiet Sunday morning. Taryn and I are on the interstate, a few miles from the exit. She's staring out the passenger side window, seemingly lost in thought. Sort of absent-mindedly, she starts nibbling on the nail of her ring finger. As far as I can tell, the nails are all chewed to the nub. I wonder how she can come up with anything else to sink her teeth into. 

She must feel the weight of my eyes because she glances over.

I don't hide the fact that I was watching her, but it drifts to business naturally. I check my speed, only slightly above, and then my mirrors. No one appears to be following us. I've been more mindful of this than usual, and so far, I can't detect a pattern.

When that's all said and done, I take another look and she's still at it. The nibble has moved to her middle finger. Despite my regard, I don't think she did more than pause.

Our exit is coming up and I put my signal on. "You still bite your nails?" I check my blind spot and switch lanes.

"Appears so." She sprinkles her achievement on the floor. "If it bothers you, don't worry. I'll vacuum for you."

The thought of little nail pieces stuck in my carpet did cross my mind, but I have to say, I'm more intrigued than sore about it. "Says no girl ever," I comment sideways.

She scoffs and then spreads her fingers wide, placing all ten fingers on her thighs. "My mother did everything she could to get me to stop. Take things away. Scare me. You'll-die-alone shit. Compare me to flawless Quinn, which was worse. For a while, it wounded me. But then one day I was like screw her, and I never looked back." She starts chewing on them again.

I coast to a stop at the first traffic light and wait for the GPS to stop talking. "Those are some harsh words..."

The shoulder closest to me twitches out a shrug. Then she shifts into more of a slouch. Instead of biting, she's now cradling her head, her elbow on the window trim, her eyes on the passing scene. We're in modern suburbia now, and of course, it gets nicer and nicer as we close in on our destination. 

I'm convinced I won't get any more out of her when she starts talking: "Why would I say something like that about my own mother? A lot of reasons, but, final straw was during my sophomore year of college. I was literally in line to make my tuition payment when I found out she spent all the money my father had set aside for me. Never even mentioned it until the third time I tried calling. It was like an 'Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.'"

"What'd she need it for?" I ask.

"Relocation," Taryn responds. "She was getting married again. Praise the Lord! She found love and God and got the fresh start she prayed for. She gave up on the ranch and left me with all the debt. And we really haven't spoken since. I just . . . can't, you know? It's too much."

Different story, same theme. Yes, I get it. It'd be quite the can of worms, but there's no sense opening it now. I just nod to show my support. "Did you ever get a chance to talk to her about what's going on now?"

"I'm not an idiot." That sensitive nerve of hers has been flicked again, and that almost goes without saying, whenever I switch to cop mode. "It was the first call I tried making. She's hard to get ahold of, too. When she finally called me back, she was dismissive, like, you know Quinn."

For every question Taryn has answered, it brings to mind about ten more. But it'll have to wait. We pull into her brother-in-law's gated community and get stopped at the guard station.

"We're here to see Quinn Abernathy-Hunt," I lower my window to tell the guard. I pull off my sunglasses for good measure as well.

My truck's been washed, and Taryn and I could go out for a nice dinner in what we're wearing. I expect we'll be buzzed right in, but we get the "I'm sorry" instead. "Mrs. Hunt no longer lives here."