Crazy Love (28 page)

“What?” Those sad bedroom eyes implored me to open up to him. I had to break eye contact, but my aching heart muscles were too weak for the task.

“I wish you’d believed more in us.” Saying it out loud made my throat tense painfully. Discussing “us” was a lot like talking about a dead friend. I sipped my warm tea in an attempt to thaw the frost settling over me. Fixated on the steam rising from my mug, I didn’t see him move until he was right in front of me. He took the cup from my hand and set it on the windowsill beside me. My pulse quickened at the layers of emotion in his eyes, and I felt my body respond to him. His hand was on the windowsill above me, and I took a half step back against the glass. I felt the pull of his magnetism and braced myself as if perched at the top of the first drop of a roller coaster. He inched forward, his eyes searching mine for a white flag of surrender, and the heat that flared between us could have burned the place to the ground.

“I always believed.” His nose brushed mine, and he pulled back an inch at the electric sensation that passed through us both. I was a prisoner to his imploring determination and unwilling to escape my bonds.

From the moment Reg’s lips had brushed against mine to my third orgasm, Dashul hadn’t even crossed my mind. Now, as I sat in the dawning light waiting for Reg to turn my way, he crept into my consciousness like a cat burglar. Regret wafted up as the dust of my actions settled around me. My breathing became more labored as I willed Reg to look at me, to at least acknowledge that I wasn’t alone with my guilt. He moved suddenly, stamping out his cigarette in one swift violent motion.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, Vi. I’m a wrecking ball. I’m sorry.” He was on his feet, and I watched him rake his hands through his tousled hair and recalled with painful clarity doing the same to his hair when his head was between my legs the night before. His movements were jerky as he pulled on his jeans. I felt the blood rush from my face as I slowly rose to my feet.

“You’re sorry? No, Reg.
I’m
sorry. I’ve had enough of your apologies to last me three fucking lifetimes. Why the hell do I keep doing this to myself?” With the frantic speed of a child at an Easter egg hunt, I flitted around the room searching for my discarded clothing. Shame avalanched over me as I stepped into my panties and hurriedly hooked my bra.

“I ruin everything,” he sighed, crossing toward me, but I held up a hand, clutching my clothes to me with the other. His hurt was obvious, and for a moment I felt victorious. Petty as it was, it felt nice to inflict pain on my torturer for a change.

“Don’t you touch me,” I seethed. “Watching you with your mother yesterday, you’d think you had some fight in you somewhere. But I guess Maisie and I aren’t worth the effort.”

You’d have thought I’d stabbed him in the chest. He looked crestfallen. “I love you
and
Maisie. With all my heart. The two of you are all that’s kept me alive.”

His tardy words were another assault on my barricade, but I was having no more of it. I tossed my shirt on over my head and tried to breathe through my narrowing windpipe. My face was so hot, it felt branded as I hopped a leg into my pants. I choked out my words. “If you
loved
us, Reg…really loved us-you’d go away and never come back.”

The wounded look on his face clawed at me. I couldn’t help but hurt when he ached. No legal piece of paper could undo our “for better or worse” clause. Fucking soul mates.

I picked up my shoes and flung open the bedroom door. Annie and Sam were in the hall with their bags, and startled, they both spun in my direction. I barely paused as I traipsed past them and up the stairs to rouse my daughter. When Maisie’s bed was empty, I realized that last night’s indiscretion was likely the talk of the house. I took a moment to gather my scattered dignity and covered my face with my hands. I was painfully aware of my frigid platinum engagement ring against my brow, and I dropped my hands to my sides with a dramatic exhale. I was humiliated that I’d defiled my prospective happily-ever-after for one blissful night of what could’ve been. I cursed the day Reg had sauntered into my life with his sleepy eyes and sexy voice. I remembered the final card that I held, and in my fury I raced down the stairs to deal it.

I stormed toward his room through the now empty hallway and flung his door open. He’d just pulled a shirt on over his head and looked astonished that I was back. I crossed to him, not only so no one else would hear me, but so I could watch every muscle in his face as I tossed my Molotov cocktail into his trenches.

“A month after you wrecked our car with
my
baby girl in the backseat? I went and had an abortion. It was the best decision I ever made.”

His outright disbelief was my only reward. A second later, he looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. For some stupid reason, I hadn’t expected the backsplash of pain his reaction caused me, and I shrunk back like he’d slapped me.

“Why?” That one quiet syllable from him spoke volumes. Without taking my eyes from him, I backed toward the door. Having just thrown my worst mistake in Reg’s face was like tossing him a hand grenade without pulling the pin. I had no choice but to retreat. He took a step toward me, and I lifted my chin with all the courage I could muster.

“You know exactly why.” I fled down the stairs and tried not to show how embarrassed I was when I saw Dale, Annabelle, and Sam eating cereal at the table with Maisie. They looked like a pack of deer in headlights, and Annabelle actually dropped her spoon when she looked up at my face.

“We gotta go, Baby Girl.” I scooped Maisie out of her chair and shot toward the door.

“But Mama, I’m not done with my Crunchberries!” she wailed as I raced for the car. I heard Reg call my name, but it only made me move faster. “You forgot my shoes, Mama! I want to give Daddy a bye-bye kiss!”

My hands shook so badly that I struggled to buckle her car seat. Somehow I prevailed, and I scrambled into the car and locked the doors when I saw Reg running toward me across the lawn.

It didn’t take a lip reader to see he was shouting my name, but my soundproof car spared us having to hear it. His anguished face made my heart hurt regardless, and as I backed out of the driveway, he threw himself onto the hood.

“Vi!” His muffled voice seemed to reach down inside me and get tangled in my heart strings. I slammed on my brakes and helplessly watched the tears stream down his cheeks. Maisie barked frantic demands at me from the back seat, and I realized that I was crying too. Unable to take back what I’d said, I resorted to hiding behind my anger. I stared him down and blared on the horn. Slowly and without taking his eyes from mine, he pushed off of the car and backed away. I managed to get about a mile down the highway before I had to pull over.

I beat on the steering wheel like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum. After several minutes, my hands throbbed but nowhere near as badly as the gaping hole in my chest did. As my breathing began to steady, I nervously glanced at my child with eyes like her father in the rearview mirror, wondering exactly how many years of therapy I was going to have to pay for. She undid her seatbelt (a move I’d often scolded her for) and reached out for me. Swinging her over the seat, I clung to her as if her life depended on it. She kissed me loudly on the cheek and chirped. “It’s alright, Mama. It’ll be alright.”

I tightened my grip on her and closed my eyes tightly. In the back of my mind, a haunting voice called out a rebuttal.

Oh no it’s not, Dahlin’. And you’re downright mad if you believe it ever will be.

I strolled out of the conference room, letting the door behind me swing with flourish. The murmurs of the board members followed me out into the corridor, and hearing Trip’s footfalls behind me made me grin. We were halfway down the hallway when he finally caught up, matching my stride.

“Sammy.” Daddy used to call me ‘Sammy’ and with a smile leaking into his voice, Trip sounded just like him. “You are a
total
dick.”

“Yeah, well…I learned it by watching you,” I quipped. At the first board meeting two weeks before, the board had made a united effort to treat us like upstarts, practically patting us on our heads. Unfortunately for them, I wasn’t quite the doe-eyed virgin they took me for. All attempts to interrupt me during my presentation were met with smooth admonishment and swift, unarguable facts. When a condescending senior board member tried to snap me back by the leash, I replied that we’d gladly sell off our stock, since neither Trip nor I were interested in keeping our considerable wealth tied up in a company with no agility. Two weeks later, they were falling over themselves to accommodate us. Hardly a shocker, since the two of us owned nearly sixty-five percent of Beaumont Enterprises. It appeared that, blood relative or not, I possessed the razor sharp teeth of a Great White Beaumont.

“Well now that you’ve proven you have the biggest set of balls in Chatham County, do you want to celebrate? I have to deliver the last of my paintings, but after that I’m free.” A disappointed frown escaped me when he mentioned the art. Since his blow up with Violet, Trip had been focused on accepting the responsibility that was his to own. Though his first instinct was to move to The Keys and give her the space she asked for, visions of Dashul raising his daughter quickly squelched it. His sponsor Vanessa told him to ‘quit being a pussy’ and in more diplomatic terms, his psychiatrist agreed. So when Vi refused take his calls, he’d written her a long email, explaining that he would never lay another amorous hand on her again, but that his daughter needed her father. Since Violet and Maisie were supposed to move to Charleston after her Valentine’s Day wedding, Trip made plans to leave Savannah. Though I knew it was killing him, he slapped on a smile and claimed the city held far too many painful memories for him anyway. He needed a ‘fresh start.’ Imogene’s was hosting a show to liquidate his inventory. Moving all of those paintings would be ridiculous, he explained. Frankly, I think they held far too many memories, too.

Trip had been to Charleston to house hunt a couple of times, and the week before Annie and I had joined him. Charleston was a charming city, but I had a very hard time imagining Savannah without my brother. When I pictured him elsewhere, I was taken off guard at how emotional it made me. It totally sucked that I was laying roots just as he was replanting. Now that he and I could speak to each other unfiltered, I discovered that I was going to miss the hell out of him. Though his relocation made me blue, I got it. I worried about his being without a support system. I openly questioned the strategic intelligence of it, but as he pointed out, I wasn’t faced with losing precious formative years with my child. What he failed to mention was that he’d continuously face the loss of his true love to his own past transgressions.

The abortion bombshell was devastating for him. He’d heaped the blame on himself in typical Trip fashion. Annie had proceeded to chew him out for that, telling him Violet was a grown-ass woman and that what she decided to do with her body was
her
call. Then she ordered Jayse, Dale, Randall and Patience to remove all the booze from the beach house. They did as she asked, each one of them looking relieved to have an excuse to blow the emotionally charged scene. Then my girl demanded his phone from him and proceeded to call Trip’s sponsor herself. I’m not sure exactly what Annabelle said to her, but twenty minutes later a busty, foul-mouthed blonde showed up on the porch. Pushing up her glasses anxiously, she introduced herself as Vanessa M. I was about to invite her in, but Trip met us at the door, and the two of them commenced a chain smoking marathon that I’m certain continued long after we left. With Vanessa M’s company, Trip seemed a hell of a lot more stable and he had insisted we go. At some point I had to trust him with himself, but Annabelle seemed as leery about going as I did.

By that time, we were both fried. We’d been up talking most of the night after she’d had her break-down. Crushed that I’d hurt or upset her, I begged her to tell me what I’d done. She just kept telling me to go, but I refused to leave her. Once she’d finally cried herself out, she caved and confessed about the abuse. I tried not to combust as I held her while her sweet voice described horrors that I don’t dare dwell on. The calm way she recalled the atrocities and the unforgiveable way her mother ignored them threatened to unhinge me.

She told me about the miscarriage when she was a girl and that she’d felt so low she’d nearly overdosed after. Though she’d had years of therapy, she said sex was predictably complicated for her. To use her words, “My extenuating circumstances have extenuating circumstances.” She’d had plentiful meaningless sex, and for a short time it gave her an odd sense of control. But there was no bond involved with any of the men, no connection. She said it was like having an out-of-body experience at the absolute worst time to be outside of one’s body. This sounded to me like some coping mechanism, like she’d learned to detach herself from the act to preserve her sanity. We were still spooning on the bed when she added that she’d never had an orgasm. She sounded embarrassed as she confessed that, at its best, sex felt about as pleasurable as a back rub.