With a deep inhale, I turn my attention back to my own problems and my own life. Or rather my cell phone.

Two messages. Two different numbers. Two very different men.

Marcus: You haven’t told Cody about it. But you also haven’t messaged me.

For a woman with such a curious mind … I expected you would message me.

Cody: Call me when you get there. I need you to keep me updated.

Both men have expectations. Yet I have no idea what I can truly expect from either of them. Cody swears he has a lead on a case that’ll put him only twenty minutes from the hotel I stay at when I visit home. He lies. He lies to me shamelessly and now that I know that, I see him so differently.

Marcus sent a small bouquet of pink roses before I left. I thought of bringing them along to give to my sister or mother, just to get them out of the house. There was no note, no name, just a small bouquet of the palest pink roses. Their stems were cut down to only six inches or so and the half dozen sat in a square glass vase. I left them there, though, on the kitchen island where the last bouquet sat.

Two men. Twice as many expectations.

I leave both messages alone, not texting either of them back.

After less than a minute passes, my phone buzzes with another text. The nervous butterflies in my stomach settle when I glance down and see it’s only my sister, telling me to drive to our mom’s instead of her place and that she’ll be there a bit later. She had an emergency session come up.

It’s easy to respond to her. Although if my life were any semblance of normal, maybe I’d feel the anxiety of my previous visit.

The memories of the bruises flash back, complete with my mother’s smile. The accusations. The uncomfortable moment with my father. Mom said my father won’t be here, though; he’s headed out of town for a convention tonight.

I’ll add that to a list of things to be grateful for. At the very least I don’t have to look into my father’s eyes and wonder if he hits my mother.

With a clunk, the gas pump halts and the wind blows a colder air from the roaming hills and mountains off the highway. Goosebumps travel down my blouse and my gaze instantly moves to the back seat where my luggage rests and my coat remains draped over it. The cream sweater wrapped around my shoulders is made from crocheted yarn and the bitter air easily moves through the holes.

It’s fine, I tell myself, ignoring this nagging feeling in my gut. Everything is fine for now.

It’s only when I’m seated back in my car, with the ding, ding, ding from my keys resting in the ignition driving my irritation higher, that I read the texts again.

I turn on the car if for no other reason than to stop the incessant dinging. Both messages came within two minutes of each other, both as I veered off of the highway and onto these less traveled but somehow more worn paths. It must’ve been an hour after I left. Cody’s first and then Marcus’s.