Damage Done

by Virginia Duke

  He wiped his hands on the lean muscular thighs covered in heavy black silk, and stood to leave, then reached into his pocket and pulled something out, a shiny coin or a button, she wasn't sure.

  "Dylan, I- " she stood, too, without realizing it, mirroring his movements, "I'm so sorry. Thank you for the check, and please- "

  "Rachel. Stop about the fucking check."

  "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I just- it was so unexpected."

  He rolled the shiny button around in between his fingers and glared in her direction.

  "Yes. I'm sure it was unexpected," he said evenly, his eyes darkening, "You know what else was unexpected? Seeing you that night. And then seeing your face in the newspaper two days later. That was a total mindfuck, reading about all that you've done with your non-profit work. And then learning that you'd married a paramedic. A paramedic. I always figured you turned out more like your mother, you know, a cold hearted gold digger with an axe to grind."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked, outrage sweeping over her, her entire body shook with adrenaline, she held her breath to fight back the tears.

  "Don't be offended, puss," he said moving to the door to leave, "It made me feel better to know that I hadn't been completely wrong about you, that maybe you do have a heart beating underneath all of the other selfish neurotic bullshit. Keep the check, you need it."

  He left then, but not before dropping the mysterious item he'd been toying with on the table near the entry. The door creaked shut, Rachel’s nails were digging painfully into her palms. She relaxed her fingers deliberately and walked to the table where he'd left whatever was in his pocket.

  A pin, only a few inches from her hand. A tiny gold lapel pin, a flower with diamond petals inside a horseshoe. Her vision went blurry as more tears pushed their way to the surface, overwhelmed by the angst and confusion of knowing he'd kept it all this time.

  ***

  It was the week after graduation, another humid Saturday morning, and she’d just finished her run-through with Sugar Babe, they stood near the stable talking. Rachel was seven weeks pregnant, they hadn't told anyone.

  They'd argued that morning about her jumping, but she'd insisted, told him luck was on her side as she touched the shiny horseshoe pin on her lapel before she entered the course.

  Dylan was leaving that afternoon. He’d decided to spend the summer working offshore with his father, and they’d argued about it for a week, but he told her she couldn’t stop him, it was the responsible thing to do. He’d work two week shifts, and be home for a week at a time in between. Once he’d saved enough money, they’d get married and find a place to live. They promised not to tell anyone until then, it would only be a month and then they could be together.

  "For luck," she said, pressing the shiny gold pin into his ratty old swimming t-shirt.

  "I don't need any luck, puss,” he said, smiling down at her with scandal in his smile and seduction in his eyes, “I've got you.”

  "I'm serious. Those rigs are dangerous, Dylan. Promise me you'll be careful."

  "I promise," he mouthed as he leaned down to kiss her, and then pulling her in close, he reached down sneakily, grabbing her ass and holding her tight.

  "You think your mom sees me?" he whispered, and then laughed when she struggled from his grip.

  "Stop! She'll freak out! All of her friends are here!"

  "I don't care if she sees me, Rachel. You're a grown woman, we're starting a family, and three hours ago you tore my clothes off and violated me," he said, and then turning to the onlookers, his voice raised for their sake, "And you stole my virginity! Now you have to marry me!"

  She should have been embarrassed, her mother would have been disgraced if anyone had heard him. But instead of blushing like she normally would, she'd laughed, and pushed up on her toes to kiss him, proud he loved her, proud he wanted to share it with the world.

  Those two weeks came and went, and when Rachel called, Ginny said he hadn’t made it home from the rig yet, but she’d give him the message. They’d promised not to tell anyone she was pregnant, and she didn’t want to let anyone see how upset she was.

  So even though she was desperate to talk to him, she waited for him to call. But after that first week when she hadn't heard from him, she'd called again and again, and Ginny swore he'd tried to see her, but he was back out on the rig, and she promised to give him Rachel's messages.

  That had hurt her, Ginny defending him.

  She never heard from him again. For more than four years she'd lived and breathed him, he'd introduced her to a world with kindness and compassion, made her believe there was more to life than cold survival. He'd helped her learn to love herself, to be proud of who she was, to love her body, even just a little bit.

  Then he'd left her broken hearted, agonizing over what she'd done wrong, and it set in motion a chain of events that would drastically change her life.

  She'd loved him infinitely, with a kind of impulsivity and urgency she'd never tried to understand or control. And losing him then had meant losing herself forever.

  She rolled the pin between her fingers and threw it across the room before she walked back into her office, shutting the door so she could cry in private. But the moment she shut it, it pushed back open, her sobs had drown out the creaking of the front door.

  She turned in surprise and Dylan was on her, her back against the wall, and she pushed against him to get away, but his hands went to hers, lacing his fingers with hers, and he held them hard against the wall over her head.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked angrily.

  “I don’t know!” she yelled.

  His eyes tore into her, his jaw hard and through gritted teeth he said, “You don’t get to cry.”

  He brought his mouth roughly to hers, searching for answers, his soft wet tongue dipping in and out and Rachel’s body went weightless.

  Anger and lust flushed through her, white hot, the deprivation of him had drowned her, and now she was consumed with greed, desperate to make up for it. She ran her tongue over his lips, tasting him, reaching for the buttons on his shirt, her heart pounding against her chest. The never ending chatter in her head retreated as her body screamed to feel him against her again, to know if she'd been wrong, if their connection had been just a school girl fantasy or something more unforgiving, something inescapable.

  He let her go and his dick pressed hard against her through his pants, his hands weighing into her, roaming the course of her body in a frenzy, like a madness. His mouth went to her neck and her back arched, panties soaked in anticipation as he kissed and bit the sensitive skin. His fingers pushed up her back and neck until he held her face while he kissed her, his thumbs tight against her jaw, fingers tangled in her hair. And when her hands found the warm flesh beneath his shirt, he leaned back to look into her face between kisses.

  "You fucking wrecked me," he choked.

  Rachel froze, "I wrecked you? You left me! What are you even doing here?"

  She pushed him away then, furious she'd allowed herself to kiss him back. It was a mistake, he'd been her biggest mistake. And now here she stood repeating it.

  "You broke my fucking heart, what am I even doing here?" he repeated, incredulous, hateful. He stepped back, his eyes narrowed, glaring at her, "You evil bitch, I can't get you out of my head, my fucking life is falling apart all over again and all I can think about is being close to you. I have no idea what I'm doing here, I needed to see you."

  She felt disoriented, she broke his heart? She was furious at not being able to battle with him, to say all the things she'd imagine she would say if she saw him again, without losing control or being overrun with tears or choking sobs.

  "Get out!" was all she managed, screaming over and over, “Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!”

  And then all went black. She'd fallen. Or maybe she sat down, but her back was to the wall, her legs curled beneath her. She didn't remember sitting. She was still in
the place where he'd kissed her. Where his fingers had touched hers, fire against her flesh.

  Ten minutes? Thirty? What time was it?

  In the distance, a ringing. Her cell phone. How long had it been ringing? She stood, shakily, reaching for the chair to support her legs, weak and numb. Vomit in her mouth, on her dress.

  She hadn't forgotten, it was always there, just below the surface. She'd learned to shut the door, to consciously put it all out of her mind. But the old tricks weren't working anymore. And she couldn't stop remembering. She grabbed her purse to leave, she needed help this time.

  ***

  Dr. Valentine was out of the office, and his secretary watched Rachel wearily, annoyed that she refused to leave until he returned.

  "He may not be back for some time, Ms. Daniels," she said, "You really should let me take a message and have him call you."

  "I'll wait."

  "If you insist, but sometimes his lunches run pretty long, and he has other appointments, he may not be able to see you." She was eager to return to the soap opera behind her frosted glass window, Rachel was interfering.

  "I'll wait."

  She walked to the bathroom designated for clients, washed her face and tightened her ponytail. Taking stock of the serious circles under her eyes, she was confident the shrink would give her something to help her sleep. That's really what she needed. Sleep.

  An hour and four celebrity gossip magazines later, Dr. Valentine made his way into the office, smiling pleasantries at a few other patients who'd taken seats in the waiting room.

  He saw her and smiled, "Hey Rachel, did we have an appointment today?"

  "No, but Dr. Valentine, I just need a moment," she said quietly, rising to follow him to the door leading into his private office.

  "Sure. Come on back."

  Walking into his office was like walking into a fancy cigar shop, dark cherrywood paneling, expensive leather furnishings. She'd spent dozens of hours in there over the years, it was one of the few places in town where she'd felt safe from judgment and contempt. He emptied his pockets onto a small plate and sat in his faded leather desk chair, leaning back, hands crossed neatly across his stomach. His hair and beard were full of gray that hadn't been there when she saw him last year.

  "I have about ten minutes,” he said, “How are things?"

  Rachel sat in the overstuffed chair in front of his desk, clutching her purse to her chest. She wasn't ready to talk about everything going on, but she couldn't afford to let it get worse. She'd experienced too much progress to let her past create any distractions from taking care of the kids or planning the gala. Summarizing all that had happened was impossible, there was no way she could get it all out in ten minutes.

  "I've been really anxious, worrying about the kids, irritable, Kenneth and I aren't communicating, he's been sleeping downstairs for months. I'm stressed about work, I'm not even sure if I want to be doing it anymore. And you probably heard about the boy who was hurt at the game Friday before last? I'm just overwhelmed, and the worst part..." she stopped to breathe. She had to say it, "The worst part, is that Dylan showed up. I saw him at the game. It was his son who broke his neck. And then his law firm gave us a bunch of money to sponsor our fundraiser. It has really stirred up a lot of shit. And, I'm exhausted."

  She couldn't bring herself to tell him about that morning, the kiss that led her to come running into his office. Some things needed to be hers alone, and that belonged to her. To them. She'd been disconcerted by how Dylan evoked such a physical reaction from her, she didn't even want to think about it, much less discuss it with her psychiatrist who’d only want to dissect it for analysis.

  "Sounds like you're feeling depressed," he hummed in his condescending shrink-speak, "When things in our lives become too heavy to manage, sometimes our bodies go haywire trying to shuffle the emotions and find the strength to organize and make sense of it all. How are you sleeping?"

  "I'm not. That's why I'm here."

  "Alright then, I'll have a prescription faxed over to Crane's, it's a non-addictive sleeping agent. Half a pill about an hour before bed every night. Give me a call if anything else comes up, let me know how it works and we'll schedule a real appointment in a few weeks. I know how you feel about the anti-depressants, but we might need to consider that route if things don't start to change, got it?"

  ***

  He hadn't meant to approach her the way he did in her office that morning, but after they'd learned Michael wouldn't make it, Rachel was all Dylan could see.

  Before today, he thought he could wait to talk to her. Michael needed him. And he’d waited sixteen years to talk to her, he could wait until the gala drew nearer. But then he’d seen her in the pharmacy that morning, and now every waking moment was eclipsed by his unearthed obsession with Rachel.

  Michael was gone, and he'd waited long enough.

  Dylan needed something pure to distract him, something explosive and raw, something big enough to help him keep his head above water. Losing Rachel had been like learning to live with a terrible sickness that could never be cured, it took him years to come to terms with it. But he'd never forgotten how she made him feel, how he'd loved her. How he never loved anyone the way he'd loved her, and he’d never forgive her for it.

  And then he’d left her office without saying what he’d wanted to say, she still hadn’t given him an explanation. So he went back, and she was crying, he lost control, he wanted to scream that she wasn’t the fucking victim. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, but once he’d done it, it was like a supernova, in a flash, she'd consumed him all over again, destroyed him.

  She felt it, too, he knew as soon as he’d kissed her.

  But when he confronted her, instead of making excuses or explaining, she said he left her. Adamantly, she’d pulled away from him and in one breath she’d placed the blame on him. What did she blame him for? Leaving her? For leaving to work that summer?

  Then she'd told him to get out over and over. And he couldn’t trust himself, his rage was unpredictable. So he’d left.

  Had he really expected an apology? An explanation?

  He thought he'd given up understanding what was lost between them, where he went wrong, but now he lay in his apartment with her face looking down at him, her thoaty song in his ear, her hands exploring his body, and he couldn't walk away.

  Was she happy in her marriage? Had she thought of him as he'd always thought of her?

  He was losing Michael, over and over every day, and the pain he'd felt when he'd first lost Rachel was fresh again. She’d been the first person he loved to leave him without saying goodbye, but Michael would be the last.

  Rachel would give him an explanation, no matter how long it took, he would demand it.

  ***

  Back at her desk, comforted by the sleeping pill prescription tucked safely in her purse, Rachel opened her laptop to try and get some work done. Her phone rang and she glanced over at the caller ID, it was Lana. She reached for the receiver.

  "Hey Lana."

  "Hey Dollface," Lana said loudly, "Good news! Megan is ready to leave, but she's only got a few hundred dollars. She's gonna need some help with a deposit on an apartment and the first month's rent until she gets a job."

  "That's exciting," Rachel said unenthusiastically, "Can she get us a copy of the lease so we know how much it'll be? And when does she need it?"

  "I've got the lease right here with me and she needs it today."

  Rachel sat silently for a moment, she knew they didn't have the money in the bank to spend on a client's apartment when she was trying to put the gala together.

  "You there, Rachel?" Lana asked.

  "Yes, I'm here," she breathed, "Okay, bring the lease by the office or fax it to me, I'll have a check ready for her by the end of the day."

  She reached into her purse for the bottle of courage she needed to endorse Dylan's check. She took the Valium, signed the check and put it in an envelope with the deposit slip, then walked out
to the mailbox on the corner before she lost her nerve.

  Her computer made the familiar noise indicating an incoming email.

  From: Dylan Easton

  To: Rachel Daniels

  Subject: I'm sorry.

  Rachel,

  There is no excuse for my behavior this morning.

  I wasn't myself.

  I'd appreciate an opportunity to explain. In person.

  Coffee tomorrow morning.

  She read the email again. And then a third time.

  He'd been a ghost in her life for sixteen years, why show up now and start digging up demons? Was he going to apologize? Did she even want an apology? She'd gone too long asking herself why he'd left, why she hadn't been good enough, why she'd been so stupid. And it took her too many years to find any peace in accepting that she would never know.

  Screw it. He owed her an explanation. She deserved to know why, but she needed time to pull herself together so she could say everything she needed to say. Rachel gulped down the rest of her soda and typed out a response.

  From: Rachel Daniels

  To: Dylan Easton

  Subject: Re: I'm sorry.

  Dylan,

  I'll be happy to meet with you for coffee.

  But I'm terribly busy.

  I'll be in touch once things slow down.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rachel took the time to make herself feel presentable, and she and the kids filed out to the car singing, "I want to scream and shout, and let it all out, scream and shout, and let it all out!"

  She knew she was screwing up her kids in a million other ways, but she'd never apologize for letting them listen to crap pop music. Not after being made to listen to her mother's collection of French jazz growing up, while her peers listened to Madonna and Prince.

  "Now, dumplin'," she'd say, "That garbage will just make you stupid, if you're ever going to attract a man of circumstance, you need to be well versed in more cultured, more sophisticated music."

  Dylan gave her an old stereo soon after they'd met, and she took the tapes he made for her up into her studio, where she knew her mother wouldn't overhear. She spent hours listening quietly to his carefully chosen songs, playing them over and over while she painted or read the old romance books she’d snuck home and hidden in her attic, the only place in the house she could go without being disturbed, where she could read or listen to music without being lectured on all of the inappropriate things her peers exposed her to.