Damage Done
Page 14
"I’m sorry, I don't know what came over me. Please, Rachel, let me take care of you. I care about you. I know it's only been a short time, but really, I can be good to you. Let me show you I can be good to you."
She was an insecure, weak and stupid eighteen year old girl, she was pregnant, and the father of her child had disappeared from her life. Her own father had walked out on her mother, she'd been terrified and alone and she had somebody begging to let them take care of her.
She hadn't been able to bring herself to consider abortion, she had nobody else to help her. Savannah said it was going to kill her father, he'd already been so old and fragile. And Brent offered her exactly what her mother told her she'd needed, with him she'd have everything she'd ever need for herself and her child. Dylan’s child.
She forgave him.
CHAPTER NINE
Rachel's legs moved her down the sidewalk, anger and confusion fueling her as she walked in no particular direction. Her vision blurred as she called up memories long lost, checking the phone over and over to make sure it was working, wondering why the ringer had been turned down. They’d only lived in the new house with Jameson for a few weeks then. She saw her mother answering the phone in the kitchen, whispering, hanging up.
"No, dumplin', that was the landscaper, he's on hard times, he needed an advance," or "No, dumplin', that was just Jameson calling to check on you, but I promise if that boy calls you I'll come running to let you know."
Savannah consoled her, told her she was sorry that Dylan hadn't returned her calls. When Rachel cried and admitted she was pregnant, told her they were supposed to get married, Savannah held her and promised to make it better. She'd tried to keep Rachel busy, tried to keep her mind off of her heartbreak. They'd gone to Dallas to tour the Institute of Art. Savannah hadn't allowed her to consider it before, insisting she only submit applications to the most prestigious private universities in the state. And then they'd spent weekends out at Jameson's ranch, where they only had Savannah's cell phone because the landlines were being repaired. She’d promised they were having all of their calls forwarded to her cell phone.
And Brent had shown up over and over. Brent, Jameson's godson, his college roommate’s only child. His family was always coming over and she'd been forced to entertain him. Then when she refused to have an abortion, and she was convinced Dylan had abandoned her, Savannah pressured Rachel to let Brent take her out, told her it would help her to forget about Dylan.
Dylan followed as she half-ran through the streets of Houston, but he’d stopped asking her to slow down. She glanced back as she took a corner around a tall building, and saw him walking briskly behind her, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his blue slacks, his hair no longer the perfect crown it had been moments before when she'd first seen him in the coffeeshop.
She looked around and crossed the street, her mind still racing. She couldn't look at him, had he been lying? Was her mother capable of deliberately breaking her heart in such a way? Keeping the father of her unborn child from her?
No, he couldn't have been lying. The spontaneous trip to San Antonio had been Savannah's idea. How else could Dylan have known about it? Rachel hadn't wanted to go, but Savannah insisted.
"Rachel, how fun would it be to just get away?" she'd said, her smile as wide as the Rio Grande, a fresh martini in her hand, "You can go to that spa on the RiverWalk that I've always loved so much, I'm sure Brent and his friends will show you an excellent time, dumplin'. Listen, Brent, here, take my credit card and book your rooms right now. It’ll be fun, Rachel!"
Of course she'd kept Dylan from her, Savannah always thought he was beneath her, it made sense that she'd have orchestrated their separation. Her mother always found ways to remind her he wasn't from money, that his father worked on an oil rig in the gulf.
And she'd hated that Dylan's mother was Native American. When Rachel broke down and told her about the pregnancy, and then refused to have an abortion, Savannah had warned her, disgusted, that their unborn child would be inferior, "It's a matter of scientific record, dumplin', I know you love the boy, but their bloodlines are defective, full of violence and alcoholism."
Rachel lay on her bed and cried, heartbroken over losing him, her mother telling her matter-of-factly, "They're a dying breed for a reason, Rachel."
She'd screamed at her to get out, told her she was a racist and called her a bitch. But Savannah never lost her cool or became defensive.
She'd simply apologized and said, "I'm sorry, Rachel, you don't deserve for him to have used you and left you this way," and then she'd patted her softly on the back and said, "Your father is too old to deal with this, Rachel, it will kill him. But don't worry, I'll help you, dumplin', we'll fix it."
Rachel slowed, suddenly certain that Dylan couldn't have known. Why else would he be here? He told her in the text message that he'd have already asked for closure if he'd been able to talk to her. Savannah had told her that he must have wanted her to have an abortion, that he didn't love her, he was probably leaving Harrison Township to put distance between them, that's why he hadn't come by or called.
And then she'd dragged her off to Dallas and Jameson's ranch and sent her off to San Antonio.
He'd been everything to her, the best thing in her life. He was going to marry her, they were going to have a baby. And she'd been too vulnerable to keep calling him, she was too insecure and hadn't trusted that he would never leave her. And now, here he was years later, asking her to explain.
Her mother was right, she was weak.
The concrete beneath her feet darkened, the raindrops coming slowly. Thunderstorms near the Gulf can be unpredictable, and Rachel hadn't seen the forecast in weeks. If it had been anything else, anything other than rain, she'd have kept walking. It had been like this the first time he'd said he loved her, an argument in the rain.
What a trivial argument it had been, jealousy over a friendly smile given to another girl. Teenage insecurity compounded by her father's infidelity to her mother, and Dylan was all Rachel had. She'd been terrified of losing him, too. Savannah never failed to remind her it was only a matter of time before Dylan found somebody new.
She'd waited near his truck until he made his way over to her from his friends and asked angrily, "Should I find another ride, would you like to take her home?"
He'd laughed, and she walked off. He followed, begging her to wait. It started to rain, and he'd looked her in the face and yelled, "Rachel, you make me crazy!"
"Then why do you want to be with me?" she'd yelled back.
"Because I love you, you crazy bitch! Even though you're always trying to find ways to push me away, I still love you! Stop thinking I'm going to leave, or that I give a shit about some other girl, you're never going to get rid of me, you're stuck with me!"
She hadn't even been angry he'd called her a bitch, he'd said he loved her. And that was all that had mattered.
The rain came faster now, pounding the pavement, water splashing her face, her white blouse sticking to her frame. But she had to run again, the disbelief and the grief and the rage controlling her now had replaced the fear and sadness.
How would she ever find a way to live now knowing all that had happened had been a result of her mother's manipulation? And deceit? She'd been weak and foolish and her insecurity had driven her to become this nervous, worrisome freak who never believed she deserved good things to happen in her life. She hated herself for it.
"Rachel!" Dylan barked, "Fucking stop!"
She turned to face him, looking up into his pained and concerned face, "I didn't know."
"I know that now."
"I'm sorry, Dylan. I should have tried harder, I should have been stronger, I was sick without you. I was an idiot. I couldn't think- " she broke off.
"Rachel, I never stopped loving you. Even when I hated you, I never stopped loving you. It was my fault, I should have tried harder to show you what you meant to me, to make you know without any doubt that I could never l
eave you."
"It wasn't your fault, it was mine. I was broken. I'm still broken."
His blue eyes clouded, the tears disappeared into the rain falling on his face, and for the first time she could remember, the anxiety fell away from her, there was strength in knowing her weakness. His hands went to push back his wet hair, his blue suit soaked and dripping. Lightning cracked nearby, and she didn’t flinch.
"You're not a piece of glass, Rachel,” he brought his wet face to hers, "You’re not fucking broken.”
***
He hailed a taxi, and they sat together quietly in the back, his strong hand gripped her leg tightly, the fingers pressing hard into her jeans. The sky had darkened considerably, the rain blew sideways. The driver slowed to make out the road in front of them, his wipers no longer working fast enough to see through the pounding rain.
Buildings passed in a blur, people standing under doorways and awnings, waiting for the rain to pass. Dylan needed to be alone with her, somewhere quiet to process how they'd come to this place, and where they'd go from here. The driver pulled up to the apartments, his doorman quickly opened the back door with an umbrella in hand, eager to please whichever tenant may be on their way home.
He stepped out deftly, careful to step over the river that raced along the curbside then offered Rachel his free hand, helping her out and then steadying her so she wouldn't stumble in the small space between the cab and the sidewalk. The rain was still picking up, wind pushing through the tall buildings. The canvas awning bucked loudly against the strong gusts, and he reached for her elbow to escort her inside. They rode the elevator in silence, Dylan held her hand, his fingers laced with hers as he unlocked the door to his apartment.
"Can I get you some dry clothes? Do you want to take a shower?" he asked, removing his wet suit jacket and throwing it to the floor near the front door.
"I'd love that, thank you."
He wanted her here, but now he felt uncertain. He kept his distance, unsure what they were doing. His body stiffened as he walked past Michael’s closed door, he hadn’t been in there since the accident.
"It's right in here," he said, walking her down the short hall into a bedroom that hadn't seen company for quite some time, "There are towels in the closet, everything you need should be in the bathroom. I'll set something dry on the bed for you."
He turned to walk out, but stopped and looked at her, "Rachel, I'm glad you're here."
She was beautiful, wisps of wet hair against her face, the cold rain turned her lips a darker shade of pink, almost red, her eyes were dark and sad against her pale skin. He wanted to close the distance, rip her clothes from her and lose himself in her body.
But he left her to shower instead, closing the door behind him, he made his way to his bedroom.
If she hadn't still loved him in some small way, even after all this time, she'd have made that clear weeks ago. She'd never have returned his kiss, or looked at him hungrily as she'd run her hands over his skin. And she'd never have come here with him, to his apartment, not if she was happy or committed to her marriage.
The thought of her being married sickened him, would he be the kind of man that broke up a family? That wasn't the man he wanted to be.
But too many things had been out of his control. Ordinary rules no longer applied, everything had changed now.
What had he done?
He’d seen her with him then and his heart had shattered into a million pieces, why hadn’t he gone to her? Fought for her? Maybe he had walked away, too. He’d been terrified of having a baby, but he loved her. And then he lost her, because he’d been too proud.
He stepped into the walk-in shower and let ice cold water wash away the bitter regret he'd felt for kissing her weeks before in her office.
They deserved to know if they were still meant for one another, to hell with the consequences. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again, he wouldn’t walk away without fighting for her.
But he wouldn't pressure her. She had to choose him for herself, and until she did, he would take her any way he could get her.
***
She toweled off and found a pair of gym shorts and a large t-shirt lying for her on the bed. It was thoughtful, but they swallowed her. She opted instead for the heavy white robe she saw hanging in the bathroom. For the first time in her life, she knew what she wanted and she wasn't going to hesitate to take it.
She needed to feel Dylan's naked skin next to hers, and she wanted him to know it. And the bathrobe would say what Rachel couldn't. If she were a braver woman she'd walk into his living room totally naked, leave no room for misinterpretation. But they needed to talk first. There were still too many things that needed to be said.
The lightning illuminated his apartment through the floor to ceiling windows that stretched the length of the wall. The apartment wasn't huge, but it offered an impressive view of the Houston Skyline. It was nicely furnished in a classic Le Corbusier modern style, well suited to a single man. The black leather sofa and chairs were accented with soft black and white cow hide rugs on a dark wood floor, an entire wall covered in shelves, filled with books and trinkets collected over the years. It was clean, but inviting.
Scattered throughout were large heavy picture frames that held photos of a blond child at various stages of his life. Michael.
"Dylan?"
"I'm in the kitchen."
His kitchen was immaculate, nothing like hers at home, perpetually covered in half-eaten bowls of cereal and paperwork that somehow managed to pile up. Dylan stood at the sink washing peppers, he'd begun to saute' onions and garlic in a pan on the stove. His freshly washed hair slicked back neatly, he glanced back from the sink and for a moment she saw the boy she'd loved from the time she was fourteen.
"Still like omelets?" he asked.
"Of course."
She sat on a nearby barstool and watched him work. Her eyes made their way towards the fridge, the only place in the apartment that was in disarray, it was covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, take-out menus and hand-written notes.
"Dylan, do you have anything to drink? I know it's early, but I could use a glass of wine."
However much she hated it, she was still nervous, and needed something to help take off the edge.
"There's an open bottle of white in the fridge, the glasses are in the cabinet to the left of the stove."
She plucked the cold bottle of La Crema from the big chrome fridge, looking over the treasures Dylan and Michael had left on the door as she closed it. Photos of Michael, smiling and excited as he explored a cave somewhere, another of him with a large dog, his arms around its neck. A newspaper clipping from the local Ellis paper showed Michael in his football uniform, smiling brightly and holding the ball out for the photographer. The headline read, "National Merit Scholar Leads Eagles to First Win of the Season!" and then a note written on a napkin, "Can't wait for Aspen! Thanks again!"
She wanted to ask Dylan about Michael, but waited for him to bring it up, not wanting to push.
"Would you like a glass?"
"No, thank you. I'm having water," he nodded towards a glass full of ice water as he turned off the faucet and began dicing the peppers.
He looked to her then, hesitantly and asked, "Rachel, what happened to the baby?"
She'd prepared herself for that question, not knowing how to avoid compounding the pain he'd been feeling over Michael.
"I lost it," she said with more confidence than she felt, "There just- there were too many complications."
Relief flooded his face, she knew it comforted him to hear she hadn't had an abortion. But it was only a small consolation considering the price they'd both paid.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Me, too."
Silence.
"Dylan," she began as she took her seat back on the barstool, "Where did you go? After school?"
She held her breath and waited for him to continue the awkward conversation she knew had to take place.
"Where did you think I went?"
"I had no idea. First I thought maybe you were still in town, that you were avoiding me. Then I thought maybe you'd gone to visit your mother's family, or maybe you'd left early for college. I thought maybe you'd decided to stay out on the rig and work, or even that you'd drowned out at the lake, and nobody knew you'd been out there, I thought maybe you'd died in a car accident and nobody had been able to identify your body. I thought a million different things."
She sought courage in the wine glass and finished, "But mostly I thought you left because you didn't love me, that you didn't want me to have the baby. Your mother told me she'd given you my messages, but then- but I never heard back from you. I didn't know what to think."
He leaned over the counter across from her, rested his weight on his elbows, and clasped his hands together tightly, "We got stuck on the rig a few days because of a storm, and my mom said you'd called, and I swear I called you as soon as I got back. The housekeeper told me you were out of town, so I tried again and your mom said you were asleep. It was always something else, I don't even know how many times I called. I sat around, refused to leave the house, waiting for you to call again. Then I went to Jameson's house and your mom called down to the gate and told me you wanted to break up with me, that you were having an abortion. I didn't believe her at first, I said I'd be back, that you had to tell me yourself. I skipped work for a few days and waited to hear from you."
He paused thoughtfully and looked at her, "I'm sorry I didn't tell my parents. If I'd known, maybe- I should have told them. My mom could have told you how desperate I was to talk to you. I'm sorry I couldn't have seen that then."
He closed his eyes and shook his head before looking back up, "Anyway, I had to go back out on the rig, and I just kept thinking that you were worried, that you needed time to think about everything that was happening, about being pregnant and getting married."