Damage Done (16 page)

But she didn't even know her, and Dylan made it all so much
more complicated, it would have been weird and awkward and arrogant for her to
reach out to Michael's mother. She wanted to let her know that although she'd
never been through such a thing, she'd felt helplessness. It was terrifying,
she wanted to let her know she wasn't alone.

***

The kids were asleep, she was tired and ready to take a
sleeping pill, but her feet were screaming for a hot bath. And she needed to
check her phone for emails one last time.

Kenneth was in the den watching college football
highlights. They'd brushed one another in the hall while she was getting the
kids ready for bed, and she swore he’d recoiled. A few years before she'd have
obsessed and wondered what she'd done wrong, why he didn't want to be close to
her.

Now she just felt grateful to have the space.

She slid into the hot water, immersed herself in rose
bathsoap, then reached over to dry her hands on the towel she'd thrown next to
the tub, and picked up her smartphone to scroll through the emails.

A message from Dylan.

From: Dylan Easton

To: Rachel Daniels

Subject: Coffee

Are you ready to schedule that coffee?

I need to see you.

It had been a week since he'd shown up at her office, and
the offense she'd felt at the way he'd talked to her grew with every fleeting
thought of him, with every moment she'd recalled his lips against hers, or how
he'd once told her he'd never leave her.

Thank God for the sleeping pills. It was bad enough she had
to constantly push the mute button on the memories while she was awake,
throwing herself into work or immersing herself in Hunter and Lauren, or taking
another Valium. His arrogance and the way he'd spoken to her still left her
furious.

Without thinking her fingers began swiping across the
screen on her phone to etch out a response.

From: Rachel Daniels

To: Dylan Easton

Subject: Re: Coffee

What the hell do you want to talk about, Dylan?

Do you have some more insults for me?

Or vague accusations?

I don't have time for this shit, I'm busy.

So just spit it out and quit with all the mystery.

Fifteen seconds letter a text message shot up on her phone
from a number she didn't recognize, obviously Dylan. Her heart fluttered
unnaturally and she held her breath as she opened the message.

     Why so hostile?

I'm not hostile, I told you I was busy.

     Are you busy right now?

Yes.

     But not too busy to answer my
texts?

How did you get my number?

     It's in the signature line in
your email.

What do you want?

     I want to see you.

Why?

     Because I need closure.

You need closure?

     Yes.

Sixteen years later?

     I'd have asked for it sixteen
years ago if I'd been able to talk to you.

Fuck you. Stop texting me.

     Agree to meet with me and I
will.

I'm busy. I will let you know.

     That's not good enough. I need
to see you.

You don't get to just show up all these years later and
demand my time after what you did to me. Fuck off.

     After what I did to you?

Yes. After getting me pregnant and then disappearing from
the face of the earth? Fuck you. Stop texting me.

Her rage grew, both at her inability to stand up for
herself when she wasn't behind her computer or her cell phone, and at his
daring to come back into her life and start this shit all these years later.
She had a hard enough time holding it together without the Dylan Easton
influence.

When he didn't respond she threw the phone on the towel and
slid down under the water, holding her breath until she couldn't stand it
anymore and pushed up, gasping for air. Resentment, frustration and heartache
were drowning her, she let the water drain from the tub and turned the
showerhead back on, desperate to cry as loud and long as she could without
being overheard.

***

When she sent that last text, his heart sunk into his stomach
like a boulder.

Rachel might not have loved him the way he loved her, but
she was never a master of manipulation. If any other woman would have tried to
spin it so she were the victim, he'd have seen through it instantly. But she'd
always lacked that skill, in fact, she'd always excused other people's behavior
and internalized it as if she'd been the one to perpetrate some great
injustice. She could never have been that crafty.

He'd had time to think about it, he knew now why he'd
kissed her that day, why he'd gone to her office.

He'd been burdened with the grief of Michael, and hadn't
been able to stop seeing her face, the way she'd looked at him in the pharmacy
that morning, that night on the football field, and all of the other times in
his life when she'd looked at him with lust and love and trust. She'd left him
without saying goodbye, burning a hole through him that only worsened when he
came back and his mother was no longer lucid.

If losing Rachel had killed him, losing his mom had buried
him. And then Michael brought him back to life, he'd shown him how to love
again, and now he was gone, too.

And she still had everything.

He needed to hurt her the way she'd hurt him. He hadn't
realized it then, but he'd seen her living her happy little life with her
firefighter husband in her father's dream home with her healthy kids and her
admirable career, and in some warped way he'd wanted to fuck with her life the
way she'd fucked with his.

But something was off, she'd been crying and then she'd
kissed him back, as hungry for him as he'd been for her. If she were happy in
her marriage and comfortable with her decision not to have stayed with him,
what the fuck was that about?

If she was just as calculating as her mother had always
seemed, like he'd pictured her to be after he'd finally decided to let go and
move on with his life, then why was she crying? Remorse? Why had she said he
left her?

 Dylan's chest ached at the thought, had seeing her that
way been a mistake? Had he villainized her as a defense so he could live with
the pain of losing her and the baby, never understanding what he'd done wrong?
He should have gone to her when he saw her that day in San Antonio. But his
pride had stopped him, like a knife in the belly, he'd seen her with him and believed
everything Savannah had said.

But he'd never be able to walk away again without knowing
with a certainty exactly what went through her mind then, and what was going
through her mind now. She’d been hurt, too. The way she'd looked at him, he'd
felt it, the way her eyes spoke to him even as she stuttered and stammered and
tried to deflect, she'd wanted to be close to him, too. And when he'd kissed
her, her body told him everything her tongue had refused.

He'd have to see her face to know if she was being sincere,
so he could weigh her reactions. Then could he walk away without reservation,
no hesitations in moving on and letting her go. He picked up the phone and sent
her another plea to meet with him.

     Rachel, are you happy?

About what?

     Your life?

Why would you ask me that???

     Can we please just meet? I
have to see your face to do this.

I'll think about it.

     We’re meeting. Your terms or
mine. I'll be waiting to hear from you.

It was Rachel's senior year of school, Christmas time, when
Savannah finally had enough and kicked her father out of the house. The
drinking had gotten out of control and there were rumors he was cheating, it
had made it to the gossip column in the paper. He stopped by once a week on
Wednesdays and left an envelope with cash while they were out, but one day
Rachel stayed home to try and catch him. Her mother had been off playing
tennis, she'd be gone until late in the afternoon.

Rachel told Savannah the night before that she'd needed a
dress for prom, sure her mother would see it as another opportunity to dress
her up and impress the neighbors. But Savannah surprised her when she'd said
she couldn't afford it, that Rachel had to ask her father for the money. She
could have called him, but hadn't wanted to risk having to talk to his
secretary, the woman he'd been having an affair with.

So she'd skipped school instead.

She was waiting in the kitchen with a book when he pushed
through the back door, surprised to see her. He looked horrible, his age had caught
up with him. He'd already been in his late sixties then, he drank too much and
didn't eat enough.

"Well, hello pumpkin," he'd said, "Why
aren't you in school?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Is everything okay, is your mother okay?"

"Yes. She's playing tennis."

"Does she know you're not in school? Are you
sick?" he'd asked, taking a seat next to her, he set his gray Stetson
fedora on the table. 

"I'm not sick, I didn't tell her I was staying home.
She wouldn't understand."

"Well, what is it?"

"Prom is in two weeks, and Mother told me I should ask
you for the money to buy a dress."

"Rachel, you could have just called me," he
frowned, "You didn't need to miss school to ask me about money for a
dress."

"I'm sorry," she'd said, her eyes lowering to the
table. She started to pick her fingernails, "I just didn't know how to ask
you."

"Well, that's certainly not a problem your mother
has," he shot back, but then caught himself before he went on about
Savannah, "I'll leave an envelope for you on Friday, I'll swing by early
in the morning."

He placed his hand over hers, a rare act of physical
affection. It didn’t come naturally for him, and she knew he’d had to dig deep
to do it. She'd looked down at the thin skin on his hands, blue veins visible
underneath the sunspots. He shook a little.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Of course, pumpkin."

"Daddy, I want to ask you something else."

She'd waited months to confront him, never knowing just how
to ask or what to say, terrified that he would be angry or tell her it was none
of her business.

"Sure."

"Did you think of us before you did it? Before you
cheated on Mother?"

His head tilted slightly, contemplating her inquiry,
"I'm sorry, Rachel. Adults don't always consider how things might affect
their children, and I admit, I didn't think about you. I should have thought
about you. I'm sorry."

She'd felt tears coming and choked them down, stood to
regain her composure, and walked to the fridge for a diet soda.

"Do you love that woman?" she'd asked before
turning to face him again.

"No, Rachel, I only love you and your mother."

He'd stood to leave then, placing the fedora carefully on
his head, and walked nearer to the door, "This isn't your fault, Rachel.
We'll work through it, okay? Your mother and I will work it out."

Her father hadn't known about Jameson, that her mother
started seeing somebody else and they were going to be married as soon as the
divorce was final, but Rachel couldn't bring herself to tell him.

"I'll bring that envelope by for you on Friday. You
call me anytime, you hear?"

"Okay Daddy."

And he was gone. But then Friday had come and the envelope
never appeared. Another broken promise that she cried too many tears over.

The following afternoon, like every other Saturday for four
years, Dylan came over after closing up Ginny's nursery. He'd pulled his blue
pickup truck onto the circle drive, and smiled brightly as she waited for him
on the front porch. She'd told herself to pull it together, not to let herself
cry.

It's just a stupid dance.

"Hey puss," he said, his long, lean legs taking
quick strides through her yard and up the stairs until he stood over her.

"What? No kiss?" he asked teasingly as he'd sat
next to her, rocking the old wooden bench swing.

The words just wouldn't come.

"Rach- what's wrong?"

Tears had started falling uncontrollably by then, her chest
heaving with every sob. Dylan put his arm behind her, and in one quick motion,
he'd grabbed her leg and pulled her closer.

"It can't be that bad, puss, what's the matter? Don't
cry," he'd said softly, "Rachel, it'll be okay."

"I'm so upset," she began, "My dad said he'd
leave me some money to go buy a dress for prom, but he didn't." She laid
her head on his shoulder, "Mother said she can't afford it, that I won't
be able to go. I'm sorry, Dylan."

He'd started laughing at her then.

"Don't laugh. I understand if you want to go with
somebody else."

"Stop, I'm not going with anybody else," he said,
"We've talked about this all year, you haven't stopped talking about it.
We're going."

He held her close to him and reached down to wipe the tears
from her face.,"You scared me, I thought something was seriously wrong.
You're my girl, Rachel, I would never go to prom with anyone else. We'll figure
it out, stop crying."

They sat there, her head against his shoulder, and Dylan
rocked the swing with his long legs, teasing her for thinking he'd settle for
another prom date while she sat home alone without him.

"You know, puss, I'm going to marry you. I don't think
our kids would understand if their dad took some random girl to the prom
because their mom didn't have a dress to wear."

"Don't tease me, Dylan, it's not funny. I was really
upset."