Adventurous Me (21 page)

I manage to grunt, “Yogurt.” He looks at me for a second, then disappears and comes back with a yogurt cup and a spoon.

“Here. It’s,” he looks at the cup, “vanilla.” How ironic. “Come on, eat it. Please?” I let him spoon a couple of lumps into my mouth and manage to choke it down. And the sick feeling does seem to start going away. I open my mouth a couple more times and swallow some more. Pretty soon, the whole thing’s down. He hands me a glass of water and I drink every drop. I hear something, and he says, “I’ll be right back.”

Before I can lie back down, I see a figure in the doorway: Dave. He walks in and sits down on the side of the bed, and I can see Clint standing in the doorway, looking worried and drawn. The first thing that runs through my mind is,
Yeah, he thinks he’s in trouble.
Dave smiles down at me, but I can’t smile. I don’t have anything to smile about.

Dave strokes my cheek. “Trish, honey, are you okay?” I shake my head no. When I do, Clint reaches in for the doorknob and closes the door, leaving me to talk to Dave alone. “Sit up and talk to me, darlin’.” When I’ve struggled to a full sitting position, he takes my hands. “What happened last night?”

I shake my head again – seems I’m doing that a lot lately. “I have no idea. He asked me why I didn’t tell him I have a seizure disorder. I
don’t
have a seizure disorder.”

“Well, you had a seizure.” Alarms start going off in my head. I had a seizure; he pushed me until my body revolted. Fear starts in the pit of my stomach and travels upward, but I use anger to fight back against it. “And it scared Clint to death.”

“Yeah. It scared him so bad that he left me lying in there, heaving and seizing, for thirty minutes, lying in my own urine. Dave, why did you do this to me?”

He looks confused. “What do you . . .”

There’s nothing left to hold back, so I just turn it all loose. “He hates me. He’s hated me from the very first time he saw me, that first night at the bar when I walked down toward him and asked if the seat beside him was taken, and he just walked away. I don’t know why, he just does. And you backed him into a corner, made him bring me here. I have no idea why he agreed to the pairing. I was totally shocked when he did, knowing how he feels about me. All he’s done since I’ve been here is try to get rid of me, push me to breaking, make me feel bad about trying to serve him and follow his rules. He’s set me up to fail over and over.” That was something I just realized; there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with what I did, and he’d admitted that there was nothing in that room that I shouldn’t see. Yeah, there’s someone here who shouldn’t be trusted, but it isn’t me. “I thought you said he was the most trustworthy person you’ve ever known. What the hell?”

Dave looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Trish. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I think maybe Clint wasn’t ready for any of this. So if you want to blame someone, blame me.”

“No. He’s a grown-ass man. He made his own choices.” I glare at Dave. “I’ve got three more days. I intend to serve them if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I can. But then I’m done.” I’ve already thought about it and if Steffen still wants me, maybe that’s the direction I should go.

Dave looks down and shakes his head. “Honey, I really am sorry. I’ll have a talk with Clint. I know that won’t change anything, but at least . . . well, I’ll talk to him. Try to get some rest, okay? And if you need me, call me.” He leans in and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “But I can tell you this: If you’ve hung in this far, you’re going to make somebody an unbelievably good sub, little one.” He closes the door behind him as he leaves the room, and I’m alone again.

I don’t see Clint until sometime later – I still have no concept of time – and he sticks his head in the door. “Doing okay in here?” I just nod and he closes the door again.

Sometime late afternoon I get up and half stumble, half crawl into the kitchen. Clint’s sitting on the sofa, not moving, and when he sees me he half whispers, “Trish, if you need something, I’ll be glad to get it for you.”

Before I can stop myself, I turn and snip, “Why? Don’t trust me to get into your cabinets?” I’m not sorry I said it; it actually makes me feel better. Then I get a look, a good look, at his face.

He’s just staring at the floor. It’s not a look that conveys a lack of caring. It’s a look like he wishes he could die. I want to feel sorry for him, but I can’t. I just get what I want from the cabinets, the drawers, the refrigerator, and go back to the bedroom alone, leaving him sitting there with that sad look on his face. I don’t care anymore; I
can’t
care anymore. If I keep caring, one way or another I’m afraid I’ll wind up dead.

It’s after dark when I get up and make it to the bathroom. When I’m done, I stumble down the hall to check my room and, when I see that the bed’s been made with fresh sheets, I go in and lie down. I don’t want to be in his bed. I don’t want to be anywhere near him. All I want to do is manage to get through the next three days so the nightmare is over. As I lie there, I feel something on my face; I’m crying and I didn’t even know it.

The next morning I wake to the sound of the shower in his bathroom. I go to my bathroom, splash some water on my face, and go straight into the living room. When he comes out of the bathroom, he gets the shock of his life.

I’m kneeling by the door. I have my pajamas on, but I’m kneeling there. Even though I’m not looking at his face, I can still see his expression in my peripheral vision: Pure disbelief. He walks over in front of me and just stands there, looking like he’s trying to figure out what to say. And here’s what comes out:

“What are you doing?”

Wow, brilliant. So much for thinking on the fly, hot shot.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I spit.

Bewilderment is written all over him and his voice is almost pleading. “Trish, you don’t have to do this. Just . . .”

“Yes. I do. I made a commitment, and I intend to live up to it.” I can feel my face getting red and my blood pressure going up. “And do you know why?”

He shakes his head, so I start in. “Because I’m an honorable person. Because when I make a promise, I intend to keep it. Because I don’t give up easily. Because I’m kind, and considerate, and
helpful
,” I say with emphasis, and now I’m getting angry because I can feel the tears, “and smart, and funny, and some people might even find me attractive and think that I can cook.” Now I’m almost choking because I’m trying so hard not to cry. “So yes, I have to do this. You can hate me and abuse me and mistreat me and hurt me, but I live up to my promises. I’m almost done and, when I am, I’ll go away and leave you alone and you won’t ever have to see me again. But until then, know that if you wanted to kill me, you should’ve done a better job.” I’m shaking and tears are rolling down my face, but I refuse to sob. If there’s a shred of dignity left to hang onto, I’m looking for it and trying to clutch it in both hands.

In that moment, I see something on Clint’s face, a sadness there, some kind of pain, something digging into him and wounding him and clawing at his insides. There’s no way for me to know what it is, and he’s certainly not going to tell me anything, but I see it. And even though I don’t want to care, I do. I keep waiting, hoping he’ll say something that will give me some insight, when he sits down opposite me in the chair and says, “Look at me. Please.”

That’s what I do. I look directly into his eyes, and I expect him to squirm, but he doesn’t. He sighs and sits back like he’s trying to start but he doesn’t know how or where. “Dave talked to me. Trish, I . . .”

I turn my head away and hold up my palm to him. “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t want to know. Nothing you could say could change anything. It’s not necessary.” It’s not that I’m angry or sad. I just don’t want to be hurt anymore, and I get the feeling that whatever this is, it will hurt.

“Yes, I do. I have to say this.” He takes a big, deep breath, then blows it out like he’s a deflating balloon. “It needs to be said. Trish, I don’t hate you. I know that’s what you think, but I don’t. Matter of fact, that’s exactly the opposite of what I feel.” Now I’m curious where he’s going with this, because I know what it sounds like he means but I also know that just can’t be. “It was wrong of me to bring you here and refuse to share anything of myself with you.” I want to yell,
Damn right!
, but I don’t, just wait. “You need to know that I was married. My wife left me. She’d been fucking my best friend for three years and I didn’t know it. She left me
and
the girls, just walked away. When he dumped her six months later, she called and wanted to come home, but I said no. I couldn’t trust her.” He gets a weird look on his face, and then he says, “So she killed herself.”

For the first time in my life, I truly don’t know what to think or say. I mean, what can you say to that? “I’ve felt like the lowest of the low. I felt responsible for her death. Everyone has told me that she was an adult, that she made that choice, not me, but I live in ‘what-if land’ every day. I’ve kind of slogged through life ever since, just trying to stay in the driver’s seat long enough to raise my girls.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and drops his face into his hands, then looks up at me again.

“When you walked up to me at the bar that night, you seemed kind and friendly, maybe a little naïve, and I thought, ‘Here’s a woman I could get to know. She looks safe.’ And it scared the shit out of me. I tried everything I could to stay away from you, but Dave was determined to get us together. I know why he did it, and I appreciate his attempts, but I think it was misguided. I’m obviously not fit to be partnered with anyone. Ever again. For the rest of my life.”

He stops and stares at the carpet, a kind of exhausted resignation settling over him. “Trish, I brought you here and threw everything I had at you to get you to turn tail and run. Then I could say you weren’t trustworthy, you didn’t keep your commitments, you weren’t worthy of my time, of me. I damn near killed you trying to get you to go and you just wouldn’t. And every time you hung in there, I felt more drawn to you, even though I didn’t want to. But last night I finally realized that it’s
me
who’s not worthy.
I’m
the worthless piece of crap. It’s not you. It’s
me
. And you’ll never know how sorry I am for what I’ve put you through. You trusted me and I betrayed your trust at every juncture.” He stands. “So I’m going to go and get dressed. If you want to go, I’ll be glad to take you home. I broke the promise, not you. You honored it. Matter of fact,” he says, his voice almost too low for me to hear, “you’re probably the most honorable person I’ve ever met in my life.”

I watch him retreat down the hallway and disappear into his bedroom. My head is spinning and I don’t know how to process the things he’s just said. But I realize that I’ve loved him since the first time I laid eyes on him. And that means one thing.

I have to leave.

He drives me home and carries all of my stuff into the house. When he’s finished, he turns to me and says, “I know you probably don’t ever want to see me again, but if I can ever do anything to help you, all you have to do is let me know.” I can tell he wants to hug me, but when he moves toward me, I stick out my hand for a handshake. If I let him hug me, I know I’ll never want to let go, and I’ll be opening myself up to more pain and misery than I can handle. He takes my hand in both of his, then strokes a finger down the side of my face and walks out the door.

I cry for two days. I don’t sleep, don’t eat, don’t shower, don’t go anywhere. My bed becomes the tomb of my heart, the place where I try to bury it and it won’t stay buried. It just keeps crying out for him. On Friday evening, I realize I could try to anesthetize it, so I shower, get dressed in black street clothes, and drive to the club. When I walk into the community area, a pair of arms wraps around me from behind and Dave hugs me tight.

“How ya doin’, baby?” he whispers in my ear.

I choke back a sob. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay. You look shot. Want a drink?”

“Yeah. Just a beer. If I drink anything stronger, well . . .”

“Uh-huh, I know. If you’ll recall, that’s how I met you, drinking away a broken heart.” Leave it to Dave to cut straight to the chase. I take my beer and turn my back to the bar, not wanting him to see my face or the pain I know is there. “I know you’re wondering if I’ve seen him or talked to him,” he adds.

“No, I’m not.”
And I’m a big fat-ass liar, too.
I wait. Dave wants me to ask, I can tell.

He lets me get two-thirds of the way through my beer before he finally says, “Trish, I’ve never seen him so broken.”

Something’s been bothering me all along, and I finally identify it in that instant. “You talk like you’ve known him for a long, long time. How long
have
you known Clint? What’s the story there?”

Dave shakes his head. “I’ve known him for twenty-eight years.” I spin around and stare at him, and I’m sure my eyebrows are in my hairline. “I was his stepdad until his mom and I divorced. He wasn’t my son, but I raised him from the time he was seven.”