The Collision on Hardwood Drive (19 page)

He frowned, his lips twisting downward. “I’m not a liar, Steph. When I say I wasn’t
pretending
, I wasn’t fucking
pretending
.”

“And why the hell should I believe you?” I asked, yanking my arm back and stepping away from him. “The first thing you said to me was a lie. Am I supposed to believe you have feelings for me just because you say you do? How stupid do you think I
am
? If you’re worried I’m going to rat you out to the cops now that your big secret is out, don’t worry—you’re not worth the trouble. I want nothing to do with you.”

“God
damn
it, Steph!” Rob shouted. “Just listen to me, just fucking
listen
to me. I lied about the accident,
fine
, but everything else—”

“Shut up, Rob!” I screamed, not wanting to hear any more lies. “Just—just shut up. Just shut up, and leave me the hell alone.”

“This is
real
, Steph,” he said, his voice rough and raw in a way that almost made his words sound genuine. I had to admit I was impressed by his performance, but I wasn’t about to be taken in by the same lie twice.

“I’ll tell you what’s real,” I said. “The end. The end of this is real. This! This farce, this game, this—this stupid fucking play! It’s
over
. That’s what’s real.”

“Stephanie—”

“Your two minutes are up. I’m sick of your bullshit. Never call me again.”

I spun on my heel and dashed away, hailing the first cab I saw. As I collapsed in the back, sobs shaking me to my core overtook my body. Behind me, Rob—well, I guess I couldn’t care
what
Rob was doing. I cried, barely able to give the driver my address, and I held myself—no one else would hold me, after all.

My heart was shattering. I spent hours in bed, alternating between crying and trying
not
to cry. At night, I dreamed of Rob and the things I didn’t even allow myself to think during the day—his warm body pressed against mine, his sweet lips melding into mine, his firmness between my legs as it entered my wet need. I woke craving his touch, my panties soaked in desire. I hated this feeling of missing him, of wanting him. He was the only person who could comfort me now, but
he
was the person who hurt me. The irony was not lost on me.

Occasionally, I saw Rob’s name light up the screen of my phone. I hated when he called, but—even though I knew it was irrational—I hated it
more
when someone
else
called.

The number of calls dwindled each day. Eighteen became ten, and then ten became four. Yesterday, he only called once. An inexplicable sadness replaced my anger. Just when I thought the memory of him was gone, a new flash of pain ripped through me. Every time I closed my eyes, I was right back on that corner with the scent of bourbon tickling my nose.

I wanted my mother. I thought about calling my sister, or maybe my dad, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same. I missed my mother’s soft hands. When I cried, she ran her fingers through my hair as she braided it, singing softly as she worked—usually Paul Simon, sometimes Fleetwood Mac. As soon as I stopped, she went into the kitchen and heated a glass of warm milk for me. When I got older, we switched to coffee with a dash of cinnamon—then, eventually, some Bailey’s that got us both tipsy enough to make fun of whoever broke my heart. With her, I’d heal.

For some reason, when I lost Rob, I felt as if I’d lost my mother all over again. Her absence was compounded by his absence, and I was utterly alone. Instantly, the desperate want to cry swelled in me. My eyes filled with tears of rejection, of embarrassment. I was mortified that I even asked, and his refusal only served to amplify the anger already lurking in my heart.

The other day, I stumbled into Joe on the street, and he crossed to the other side, all the while pretending he hadn’t noticed me. Of course. The coffee shop brawl. My love life was turning into such a fucking paradox. Rob didn’t want to risk his career. Joe didn’t want to risk
anything
. Someone like Joe could never hurt me—he wasn’t enough of a man to do any such thing. Rob, on the other hand, could and
did
hurt me to my core. I wanted a man who could hurt me like Rob, but who would
choose
not to—was that so terrible a thing to want?

On the brink of tears with nowhere else to turn, I called Claire. She listened without interruption when I told her about my call to Joe, my breath hitching occasionally with barely repressed sobs.

“I’m such a bitch, Claire,” I said, half-wanting her to reassure me that I’m not and half-knowing that even if she tried, I wouldn’t believe her. “I’m making such a mess of things, Claire. I hurt Joe. I’ve ignored my family, I’ve ignored
you
, and I—I just can’t stop thinking about Rob. Why can’t I stop thinking about Rob?”

“Whoa, hold up there, honey. First, you have to forgive yourself for keeping to yourself for a few days—I get it. I don’t blame you for even a second,” she said quickly before she sighed. “And I don’t know about Rob, Steph. What if—what if we jumped to conclusions about him?”

I felt instantly reassured when she told me I shouldn’t be sorry for not returning any of her calls, but that feeling quickly shifted to confusion at her last words. “What are you talking about? You told me there was no other explanation for the crash and the lie. I know he was drinking. I could see it in his eyes—hell, he practically confessed it, Claire.”

“No, I know, but—not about the accident.” She hesitated, as though she wasn’t quite sure how to continue. I never knew Claire to hesitate, so whatever she wanted to say must have been
huge
. “What if the rest was true, Steph? I mean, it’s obviously not OK that he hit you and lied about it, but—what if that was the only thing he lied about?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. “I’ve asked myself that a thousand times, but it’s pointless. I can’t keep hoping for that. I’ll only be disappointed.”

“I guess…,” she said, trailing off reluctantly. Her voice was a bit stronger when she continued. “I just don’t get why he would lie to you about everything else. He’s a selfish bastard for lying to you about the accident, but at least he had a reason for that. But there’s no reason for him to lie to you about his feelings, right?”

We were both quiet for a moment, she probably trying to gauge how I was feeling and I trying not to feel anything.

“Maybe you should hear him,” she said, quietly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook any lingering bits of hope out of my head before they could grow into something substantial. “I don’t think so, Claire. I think I just need to accept that I have shitty taste in men and move on.”

She sighed. We’d had this conversation in the past, but I never meant it as much as I did now. She seemed to realize that, too, because all she said was, “Whatever you think, love.”

Almost immediately, after we hung up, my phone rang again. It was my dad. I hadn’t talked to him since the night of my performance, but he had tried calling twice before. I wanted to let it go to voicemail again, but I knew he must already be worried. I didn’t want to tell him about Rob—he would want to
murder
him—and add to the stress he must already be feeling over the house.

“Hey, Daddy,” I said, quietly, when I answered. My voice broke despite my best efforts to sound cheerful, so as not to worry him. “How are you?”

I held my breath, waiting for him to jump down my throat for not returning his calls earlier. “Well, screw me sideways! You’re not gonna believe what happened but the house is ours!”

I gasped, not even sure
what
to think—I expected anger and got elation. I expected—well, I don’t even know
what
I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. “
What
? Dad—what do you mean by
ours
?”

“The mortgage has been paid.
The bank isn’t foreclosing. What did I tell you about faith?” My dad sounded giddy, almost, or as close to it as he’d ever been.

“What—I—” I stopped, shocked to the point of speechlessness. “How is that possible?”

“I just got off the phone with the bank,” he continued, as though he hadn’t even heard my question. “They said that they received payment in full last night but they disclose who it is. I don’t know anyone with that much money so it has to be someone on your end.”

I sat down heavily on my bed, trying to let the good news sink in. But it wouldn’t—not quite. There was only one person with the financial capability to pay off my dad’s mortgage—Rob Huntley. I knew that much, but what I
didn’t
know is why he would do something like that.
Why
?

“You really don’t have any idea who did this?” I asked, trying not to jump to any conclusions.

“I don’t but I think it was Rob,” he said. “You better find out because if it
is
him, I am paying him back.”

He hung up before I could ask him anything else, but I don’t think I could have come up with any questions, anyway. Instead of worrying myself to death, I called Claire back.

“Whoa, honey, slow down,” Claire said when I started to shriek into the phone, speaking too quickly for her to understand.

I tried to take a deep breath before repeat
ing myself. “The house! I think—I think Rob paid the mortgage. They aren’t foreclosing!” I could barely get the words out coherently, and Claire mumbled to herself under her breath for a moment, trying to figure out what I was saying.

“My dad just called,” I said, finally managing to breathe properly. “He said the mortgage was paid.
Completely
paid. Claire—he gets to keep the house!”

“What? Wow!” she exclaimed, finally catching on. “And—and, wait, let me get this straight. You think
Rob
paid the mortgage?”

I nodded before I remembered she obviously wouldn’t be able to see that. “I think so,” I said, slowing down to try to piece everything together for myself. “He spent a lot of time asking my dad about it when they met. Not many people even knew about the foreclosure—my dad wanted to keep it quiet. He didn’t want anyone to worry. I think he thought he could fix it by himself.”

“So, Rob—”

I nodded again, even though I knew she still couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I mean, who else could afford to do something like this?”

“That makes sense,” she said slowly. I could tell she wasn’t hesitating because she didn’t believe me, but rather that she was just taking a moment to digest the information. Finally, she said, “I think you’re right. It
must
have been Rob. So—what now? He obviously cares, right? I know this doesn’t make up for the lie he told you, but maybe there’s something else to it. I know he can’t bribe his way out of this, but he cares; that much is clear. Just talk to him, and hear him.”

I racked my brain, trying to think of a way this might fit into Rob’s plan to keep his company—but I couldn’t think of anything. There was no reason he would have done this unless—unless— I wouldn’t let myself finish that thought, even though hope crept back into my mind and my heart.

“You should text him, Steph,” Claire said. “Just to find out if it was him.
Then,
you can decide what you think about this whole thing.”

I knew she was right, and I
needed
to know whether Rob had done this. “OK. Yeah, OK,” I said after a moment. “I’ll let you know what he says, OK.”

With that promise, she let me go. My heart pounded so fiercely that I couldn’t hear anything else as I typed out a message:
Was it you?
I fretted and fussed for a full minute before finally sending it. Within seconds, my phone lit with a response.

Did the bank call?

They called my dad this morning. So… it
was
you?

Yes.

Why?

There was a slight pause before the next message came:
For your dad. For you.

While I still tried to process that, my head reeling, I answered:
Are you trying to bribe your way out of this?

I know it looks bad, but just hear me out. Let’s meet, and if you don’t believe me, we’ll go our separate ways.

The ice around my heart began to melt, washing away the pain and fury I’d felt since I found out about the lie.
What else did you lie about to me?

Just this. I’m sorry. I meant everything I said about us, Stephanie. I’m real.
We are real.

My eyes filled with tears again, but just like my dad’s tears, they were now tears of happiness and relief—relief that my dad would keep his house, that Rob cared, and that I hadn’t been used.

Come over
, I typed finally. I couldn’t spend one more minute away from him. I couldn’t keep dreaming about his arms around me, his legs entwined with mine. I had to feel it.

He didn’t respond, but I knew intuitively that he was on the way. Less than twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. My body tensed and shook in expectation as I opened the door. He stood, filling the space of the frame with his tall, broad body. He stepped forward, almost tentatively, as though he thought I might have changed my mind.