Damage Done

by Virginia Duke

  "Hey Rach," Mary Elizabeth called as she breezed by, "You hear about old DA Addison? Arrested for drunk driving! Can you believe that?"

  "That's terrible," Rachel called back, "Hope nobody was hurt!"

  Thank God for some new personal tragedy to keep them occupied.

  When she walked into the classroom, Lauren smiled and ran over shouting, "Mommy! Mommy!"

  It was something she hadn't done much lately, she was growing too big and independent. Rachel took the time to savor it. She gathered her into her arms and squeezed, felt her warm little body and thought how small and fragile she felt, and thanked the gods for keeping her safe and happy. How lucky she was not to be sitting near her in a hospital room, the clock ticking away at the hours left before she would lose her forever.

  "Hello, my precious most beautiful girl, did you have a wonderful day?" she asked her sweetly, pressing her face into Lauren's curls and taking note of her smell, play-doh and strawberry shampoo.

  "Of course I did, and I'm going to be the belle of your ball, Daddy is going to dance with me all night," she said.

  She and Kenneth had agreed the kids could attend for a short while, and then Kenneth's parents would take them for the night. The gala was Lauren's favorite topic of late, she was always sharing her latest fantasies about fancy gowns and glass slippers.

  "Wait until you see the gown your mémère and I found for you today, my angel, you're going to love it."

  And she did. They'd picked out a delicate pink silk gown, trimmed in lace, something straight out of a Jane Austen novel, complete with gathered sleeves, an empire waist and tiny matching gloves that would reach above her elbow. Her fourth birthday was around the corner, and Rachel had a tiara to give her, the perfect little accessory to make Lauren feel on top of the world. She hugged her close and silently promised her all the magic any princess could dream of.

  But even holding her own healthy baby hadn't dulled the pain she'd felt when she pictured Michael's mother trying to pull herself together to comfort a room full of teenagers who felt responsible for killing another boy on a football field, or the agony she must be feeling as she waits for the nightmare to end. To lose her baby when she had, it had been terrifying and traumatizing. The thought of losing Hunter or Lauren, that was unbearable.

  Rachel felt compelled to do something for her, to give her a token of sympathy, something to let her know how much she hurt for her.

  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 th
e 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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."

  "Oh, I know you're upset, but it doesn't make it any less funny," he'd said, "And I'm not teasing you. I really am going to marry you. And nothing you could ever tell me is going to change that, especially telling me you can't afford
a prom dress. You've always had so many nice things, and never had to ask for anything, so this is new for me. I've always wondered how I'd be able to give you anything special since your parents give you whatever you ask for."

  "That's not true. I'm still the only person we know without a car, or a cell phone," she'd protested.

  "But you've got two horses, an attic full of art supplies and a closet full of hundred dollar jeans. But it's okay, now I know. Tomorrow we'll go into Houston and I'm buying you a prom dress."

  "Dylan, you can't!"

  "Yes, I can. I will. And you can come with me and pick it out, or I'll just show up in two weeks and you can wear what I want you to wear."

  His fingertips brushed her arm, his head resting against hers.

  "And what do you want me to wear?"

  "Nothing," he'd laughed, pressing his fingers into her ribs to tickle her.

  ***

  The building was stuffy, Rachel walked around and opened the old wood windows to try and get the air circulating. Her office was still covered in the invitation samples she and Jake spent hours arguing over before they'd finally settled on a classic style, heavily textured white cards with black ink, the ReachingOut logo stamped at the top. The invites went out the week before, one thousand of the wealthiest and most influential powerhouses in the Houston area, and their guests. They already had more than four hundred RSVP's.

  They'd ordered the signs and banners, and solicited dozens of donations for the silent auction. A local jeweler had given some expensive lapis earrings, they'd received several free stays at various bed and breakfast type resorts around the Houston metropolitan area, dinners for two at restaurants and bistros, ten free riding lessons out at Miller's Stables, and a dozen other items the wealthy elite would spend time outbidding one another to win. But she still had to get the linen orders in, finalize the floral arrangements, organize the restaurants that were donating food, make sure they had any supplies they would require on site for their buffet tables, and she needed to walk the event center with the lighting and sound crew, not something she was looking forward to. There were a million tiny details that would have to be attended to, and she'd practiced the argument she would make to Jake right before she begged him to supervise and take on the bulk of the coordination leading up to the gala.