Freedom (26 page)

In the warm glow of the candle, she looks so beautiful that I dread to think that she’s suddenly feeling sympathy for me.

“Except now. You have a doctor and a program that is altering it, right?”

“To a degree. Yes. Don’t have any illusions that I’m cured.”

She tilts her head and studies me with a kind calmness that goes against everything this little, bossy, aggressive woman has shown me. “Have you ever been suicidal?” she asks without any reservation.

“No. Never. I never had suicidal thoughts, regardless of what some people may have told you. Sometimes I thought it would be better if I just went to bed and never woke up—a natural death in my sleep so I wouldn’t have to face myself in the morning, but I’ve never plotted my own death.”

“Nobody talks about you as if you’re suicidal. People in Hera say very nice things about you, Dylan. You’re quite popular. I just wanted to know for myself. I wanted to hear it from you.”

The whole topic makes me uncomfortable. It’s easy if I am talking to Dr. Wang or the people I was in treatment with. Not with Emma. This is not how anyone wants to be seen or perpetually thought of by someone who unknowingly owns the deepest part of you.

Brian comes to mind, and his endless worries about his wife and friends having to take care of his mental illness and his inability to cope. He talked about it every day for six weeks straight, through meds and daily therapy. Brian’s fear of living with the label as someone who has a mental illness—along with the medical treatments that were ineffective for him—scared the shit out of him. It scared me, too. I was terrified that my future would hold the same fate of a never-ending cycle of failed treatments.

“I don’t have any illusions about anyone,” she says.

“What about Robert? Why are you still holding on to him?”

Her long, dark lashes flutter as she looks at the candle, and in that solemn moment, she looks like a painting of a sad Madonna from another time.

“It’s not him I’m holding on to. It’s the few good times I’ve had that I want to preserve. Seeing him distressed and possibly in trouble makes everything about my life seem phony and sad. I’m not one of those girls who grew up thinking she’d be a ballerina or a princess; I never had the opportunity to truly romanticize life, not much anyway. I saw a lot of ugly things and I can’t necessarily blame Robert’s family. My father didn’t attempt to shield me from anything. Seedy, backroom bargaining deals, the men who came and went from his office, and some of the
special errands
he took me on… I didn’t always understand what was going on, but I know my father is a good guy. He’s had to do what was necessary to protect his business and us.

“Sometimes, though, his rages and closed office meetings with dirty people made me wonder what side we were on. Robert was in the same boat, and I kind of pinned all of my last hopes on him. That’s what naïve, hopeful teenagers do. It’s what I did. I found the one person who understood me, and that’s the only part I could romanticize. It wasn’t real, though.”

“What happened? Why did you break up? Because of his family?” I hate hearing about him, and I want her to say that he is as corrupt as his father and she never loved him.

“Vincent Marchetto controls my father, and my father always controlled me. My father decided who I could hang out with, where I went to college, where we lived, and how much our family participated in that world. Part of me has always resented or maybe even hated him for that. The other part loves him for taking care of us as best he could. I fell in love with Robert years ago, and then—when he came back into my life—I made a conscious decision that he was the one who could change things. At least that’s what I thought.”

“So then he controlled your life?” I ask, finding it hard to believe that she’d let anyone manage her. She is too strong-willed for that.

“I let him. I thought Robert represented safety and…”

“And?”

“Love.” She shrugs.

“So your history was just as mental as mine,” I quip and she laughs.

“See? Mental or not, that’s how I ended up with Robert. He had the same twisted childhood and understood me.” She smiles. “But having these men control every aspect of my life became unbearable and not much of a life at all.”

“So then, what do you think of Carson as your boss?” I lean forward on the table and resist the urge to pick up her hand.

“He’s a piece of cake. Heaven. Wonderful,” she gushes.

“Yeah, women like him. He’s good.”

“I’m talking about him as a boss. Geez.” She blushes.

“I know. I’m just razzing you. You’ve been giving me a lot of shit about women, and you’re making us waste this perfect hotel room.”

“Thanks a lot, Dylan,” she snaps. “I actually thought we were having a nice time talking. I didn’t know this was all about getting me in bed.” Emma stands up and slams her chair against the table before storming into the bedroom.

“I was kidding.” I follow her. “Since when did you become so sensitive?”

“Since you wrecked what we had.” She throws herself on the bed and turns her head away from me.

“Jesus. Is this still about Jess? How many times can I explain that it was nothing to either of us other than a mistake? How can you hold this against me when you’ve got Robert chasing you down—a guy you said you loved? Maybe you’re the one who wrecked what we had.”

She flops onto her back and stares at me. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t really understand you, and you certainly don’t understand the crazy-ass place I came from. So we’re even.”

“Don’t start with that lame excuse.”

“Then tell me what the phone call was about, Dylan,” she says sternly as she sits up on the bed.

I stand over her, deliberating how I can tell her something that could only create a barrier between us.

“It’s not something I can talk about. It’s not about you, though. It’s something no one should hear.”

“And that’s why you should tell me. If you trust me, you’d tell me.”

She’s right of course. In group therapy they kept telling us that we had to share everything with our loved ones and open ourselves up so we don’t wallow in pain. It’s easier said than done. I can barely talk to Carson about my emotional struggles, and I can’t imagine sharing this with a woman I care about. It is not like talking about your day at work. The emotional turmoil makes you feel abnormal and weak, and anyone who has to listen to you day in and day out isn’t going to fair much better.

“Emma, it was my doctor. He gave me some bad news. It’s not about me, though.”

“Yes, it is. It upset you. You were not yourself today, so it is news that has affected you, and I’d like to know what he said.”

She crosses her legs and rests her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for me to talk, looking incredibly sweet. I am pretty sure she won’t try any offensive hand maneuvers on me if I sit on the bed.

I put one knee on the edge of the bed and slowly sink into the cushiony mattress. “I was in the treatment center for about six weeks, and I made a few friends. You kind of need to. The person I was closest to was a guy from Ohio. His name was Brian, and he really helped me a lot. We became very good friends.” I glance up at Emma and her expression is filled with cautious interest, as if she can already read what is going through my mind. “My doctor called to tell me that Brian committed suicide this morning.”

She lets out a small gasp. “Oh, God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I can’t change what happened.”

“You could go to Ohio now. You can still make the funeral, and Carson and I can handle this stuff with Mercer. Or I could go with you to Ohio. We can drive through the night,” she rattles off without taking a breath.

Her reaction leaves me speechless. I never envisioned driving with her through the night to see Brian’s family.

“No. I can’t do that.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I sense I have failed Brian.

“You can. He was your friend.” Emma says in a soft, pleading voice.

“His wife, Katy, is having him cremated because of the damage done to his face by the gunshot, and she’s having a private family memorial, not a funeral.”

“Oh. Is there anything we can do? Send a note? Flowers? A donation?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think it will make much difference.”

“And your doctor called to make sure you’re okay, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you going to be okay, Dylan? Isn’t this how your father died?”

I am surprised she knows that, or at least that she has cared to remember it from whatever someone has told her.

“Yes.”

I don’t think I can keep this conversation going without breaking down. I haven’t shed a tear since I was fifteen. I suppose it’s from years of building up a hard shell of indifference as a defense mechanism. Emma’s sad expression pulls some deeper pain anchored in me, and I think I could collapse and bawl if I don’t hold it together.

“So, how do you deal with this, Dylan?”

“I don’t know. Stick to my program, I guess.”

“Meds, therapy and running?” she asks thoughtfully and touches my hand.

“It’s all I know. Those are the tools I’ve been given, and I don’t know what else I can do.”

“I know, and those are necessary. You can also talk to me.”

“Emma, I like you, but you’re not my therapist and that’s not where I want this to go. Not at all. Understand?”

“I understand that you’re stubborn.” She pulls her hand back and lies down on the bed. “I need to sleep, so you should go make yourself comfortable on the couch and get some rest, too.”

She shuts off the bedside lamp as I head back into the living room. I push the dinner table out into the hallway and then return to search for an extra pillow and blanket in the closet. When I find the items, I make a bed on the couch. I am too long for it, therefore I have to hang my legs over the armrest.

Up until our argument over Jess, I had a lot of brilliant ideas of how this hotel stay would go down. Nothing in my imagination has had me sleeping on a couch and Emma alone in the bed.

I keep the shades open so I can watch the bright lights of the Manhattan night sky. It does nothing to calm my nerves, but it provides some relief that we are far enough from Hera so I am not worried about a surprise visit from Emma’s stalker ex, and we’re also far enough from Ohio that I only let a few traces of Brian’s image enter into my train of thought. There is a brief period where I imagine his wife’s grief and his young son asking for his father. I have to block them out, too. I am really thinking about Emma and how she is sleeping ten feet away in a bed that was meant to include me. Her sleep is restless and I listen as she mumbles her way through a dream until her sudden cry jolts me off the couch in a flash.

“Stop it!” she screams.

When I run into the bedroom, she is sitting up in the bed, illuminated by the desk lamp she’s left on. Her big eyes flick around the room bewildered, looking like a lost little girl in a very big bed. I rush to her side, and she reaches out to take my arm.

“Bad dream?” I ask eagerly, as if I have been waiting forever to talk to her again.

“I think so, but I have no idea what I was dreaming about.” She’s fully awake and lucid as she takes in the familiar surroundings of the hotel room. “Someone or something was chasing me, or bothering me in some way. I’m not sure.”

“You screamed for them to stop. Pretty loudly.”

“I did? I guess I’d had enough,” she chuckles and then looks down at my briefs. “Don’t you have pajamas?”

“No, you know I usually sleep naked. I’m wearing underwear for your benefit.” I smirk.

She is braless and her nipples make hard points through her sheer, snug t-shirt. I am already thinking about sex and driving away depressing thoughts about Brian. I know I have to get back to the couch before she decides I am a lecherous creep trying to take advantage of the situation.

“Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?”

“No, I can’t sleep at all.”

“Mmm,” she says quietly.

I don’t know how to interpret that or her lidded eyes that usually accompany the moan I take as a sign of arousal.

I am about to stand up and go back to the other room when her hand slides down to mine.

“Stay here. You can sleep on that side.” She motions to the large, empty space next to her.

“Are you going to put some big pillows between us, so I don’t touch you?” I ask wryly. Who am I kidding? I want back in her bed and she knows it by the way my briefs are straining against the prominent bulge I am sporting.

“Nope. No pillows are needed because you’re not going to touch me. Remember?”

“Oh, great, so we’re still playing that game.”

“I’m not playing any game. You’re the one who didn’t put all your cards on the table.”

“But then I did. I’ve told you everything.”

I don’t know where she is going with this, and for the first time, I really care what a woman thinks about me. Aside from temporarily obstructing a relationship between Carson and Jess, my short-lived fling with Jess confused the crap out of me. Most of the time, I was also off in my own world. For years it was very easy for me to tune out any woman who tried to engage me in deeper conversations, anything they thought would bring us closer together; especially those post-coital, huggy-feely moments when I was ready to leave. Though, I would do any of that for Emma in a heartbeat and I wouldn’t think twice about it. Whatever she wants, I want to be the one to give it to her.

“Stop talking, Dylan. Lie down.” She points to the bed.

As I rub the back of my head and walk around the bed, her eyes are on me the whole time, scrutinizing my lower half and letting her eyes slowly roam up to my chest. She’s blatantly obvious. Watching her study me in appreciation is both arousing and unnerving, like I am on display as the catch of the day.

Arguments and grudges are one thing, but this is something entirely different. I cannot pinpoint where the change is, yet I am sensing there’s been some galactic shift between us.

I stretch out on my stomach next to her, keeping a good ten inches between us so I don’t invade her space. The bed is fantastic. I close my eyes and sink into the comforter, stretching out my legs and popping every kink the damn couch has been giving me.