Damage Done (13 page)

"Kenneth wanted to contact you, but- but he wasn't
sure. We didn't know if you'd want to hear from him."

“What?” he asked severely, and then a moment of
remembrance, "Oh yes, Kenneth. Your husband."

"Yes, my husband, he was there. We wanted to call,
but- but we heard your wife is considering a malpractice suit, and then, you
sent me that check, and I haven't- I mean, under the circumstances, it just- he
wasn't sure you'd want to hear from him."

She had no idea what she was saying, she didn’t even want
to talk about Kenneth.

"She's not my wife," he spat bitterly, "We
were never married." He looked hard at her then, a flash of fury as he
finished, "I've never been married. But I'm trying to dissuade her from
filing any lawsuits. She's still grieving."

Rachel inched toward the overstuffed chair opposite him on
the couch and sunk into it slowly, guarding herself. He took another deep
breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, and exhaled heavily. She'd never
known him to be capable of such disquiet, to be so uncontrolled, and she knew
she should feel afraid, but suddenly she was fighting the urge to hold him,
touch his face, anything to still the pain of losing a child. The dark shadows
of her own loss moved her to console him now, even after blaming him for so
long.

But she didn't want to feel compassion for him. Years of
therapy and trying to move on with her life, they’d all gone out the window
when he’d shown back up, and her memory of him had been reborn in hurt and
anger. She couldn't reach out to him, she sat stiffly in her chair, popping her
rubberband, waiting quietly for him to finish.

"I don't know if she'll ever stop grieving, but she
knows in her heart that this was just a tragic accident, whether she says it or
not. Nobody is responsible. You can tell your husband I appreciate what he
tried to do for Michael."

He wiped his hands on the lean muscular thighs covered in
heavy black silk, and stood to leave, then reached into his pocket and pulled
something out, a shiny coin or a button, she wasn't sure.

"Dylan, I- " she stood, too, without realizing
it, mirroring his movements, "I'm so sorry. Thank you for the check, and
please- "

"Rachel. Stop about the fucking check."

"I'm sorry," she stammered, "I just- it was
so unexpected."

He rolled the shiny button around in between his fingers
and glared in her direction.

"Yes. I'm sure it was unexpected," he said
evenly, his eyes darkening, "You know what else was unexpected? Seeing you
that night. And then seeing your face in the newspaper two days later.
That
was
a total mindfuck, reading about all that you've done with your non-profit work.
And then learning that you'd married a paramedic.
A paramedic
. I always
figured you turned out more like your mother, you know, a cold hearted gold
digger with an axe to grind."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she
asked, outrage sweeping over her, her entire body shook with adrenaline, she
held her breath to fight back the tears.

"Don't be offended, puss," he said moving to the
door to leave, "It made me feel better to know that I hadn't been
completely wrong about you, that maybe you do have a heart beating underneath
all of the other selfish neurotic bullshit. Keep the check, you need it."

He left then, but not before dropping the mysterious item
he'd been toying with on the table near the entry. The door creaked shut,
Rachel’s nails were digging painfully into her palms. She relaxed her fingers
deliberately and walked to the table where he'd left whatever was in his
pocket.

A pin, only a few inches from her hand. A tiny gold lapel
pin, a flower with diamond petals inside a horseshoe. Her vision went blurry as
more tears pushed their way to the surface, overwhelmed by the angst and
confusion of knowing he'd kept it all this time.

***

It was the week after graduation, another humid Saturday
morning, and she’d just finished her run-through with Sugar Babe, they stood
near the stable talking. Rachel was seven weeks pregnant, they hadn't told
anyone.

They'd argued that morning about her jumping, but she'd
insisted, told him luck was on her side as she touched the shiny horseshoe pin
on her lapel before she entered the course.

Dylan was leaving that afternoon. He’d decided to spend the
summer working offshore with his father, and they’d argued about it for a week,
but he told her she couldn’t stop him, it was the responsible thing to do. He’d
work two week shifts, and be home for a week at a time in between. Once he’d
saved enough money, they’d get married and find a place to live. They promised
not to tell anyone until then, it would only be a month and then they could be
together.

"For luck," she said, pressing the shiny gold pin
into his ratty old swimming t-shirt.

"I don't need any luck, puss,” he said, smiling down
at her with scandal in his smile and seduction in his eyes, “I've got you.”

"I'm serious. Those rigs are dangerous, Dylan. Promise
me you'll be careful."

"I promise," he mouthed as he leaned down to kiss
her, and then pulling her in close, he reached down sneakily, grabbing her ass
and holding her tight.

"You think your mom sees me?" he whispered, and
then laughed when she struggled from his grip.

"Stop! She'll freak out! All of her friends are
here!"

"I don't care if she sees me, Rachel. You're a grown
woman, we're starting a family, and three hours ago you tore my clothes off and
violated me," he said, and then turning to the onlookers, his voice raised
for their sake, "And you stole my virginity! Now you have to marry
me!"

She should have been embarrassed, her mother would have
been disgraced if anyone had heard him. But instead of blushing like she
normally would, she'd laughed, and pushed up on her toes to kiss him, proud he
loved her, proud he wanted to share it with the world.

Those two weeks came and went, and when Rachel called,
Ginny said he hadn’t made it home from the rig yet, but she’d give him the
message. They’d promised not to tell anyone she was pregnant, and she didn’t
want to let anyone see how upset she was.

So even though she was desperate to talk to him, she waited
for him to call. But after that first week when she hadn't heard from him,
she'd called again and again, and Ginny swore he'd tried to see her, but he was
back out on the rig, and she promised to give him Rachel's messages.

That had hurt her, Ginny defending him.

She never heard from him again. For more than four years
she'd lived and breathed him, he'd introduced her to a world with kindness and
compassion, made her believe there was more to life than cold survival. He'd
helped her learn to love herself, to be proud of who she was, to love her body,
even just a little bit.

Then he'd left her broken hearted, agonizing over what
she'd done wrong, and it set in motion a chain of events that would drastically
change her life.

She'd loved him infinitely, with a kind of impulsivity and
urgency she'd never tried to understand or control. And losing him then had
meant losing herself forever.

She rolled the pin between her fingers and threw it across
the room before she walked back into her office, shutting the door so she could
cry in private. But the moment she shut it, it pushed back open, her sobs had
drown out the creaking of the front door.

She turned in surprise and Dylan was on her, her back
against the wall, and she pushed against him to get away, but his hands went to
hers, lacing his fingers with hers, and he held them hard against the wall over
her head.

“Why are you crying?” he asked angrily.

“I don’t know!” she yelled.

His eyes tore into her, his jaw hard and through gritted
teeth he said, “You don’t get to cry.”

He brought his mouth roughly to hers, searching for
answers, his soft wet tongue dipping in and out and Rachel’s body went
weightless.

Anger and lust flushed through her, white hot, the
deprivation of him had drowned her, and now she was consumed with greed,
desperate to make up for it. She ran her tongue over his lips, tasting him,
reaching for the buttons on his shirt, her heart pounding against her chest.
The never ending chatter in her head retreated as her body screamed to feel him
against her again, to know if she'd been wrong, if their connection had been
just a school girl fantasy or something more unforgiving, something
inescapable.

He let her go and his dick pressed hard against her through
his pants, his hands weighing into her, roaming the course of her body in a
frenzy, like a madness. His mouth went to her neck and her back arched, panties
soaked in anticipation as he kissed and bit the sensitive skin. His fingers
pushed up her back and neck until he held her face while he kissed her, his
thumbs tight against her jaw, fingers tangled in her hair. And when her hands
found the warm flesh beneath his shirt, he leaned back to look into her face
between kisses.

"You fucking wrecked me," he choked.

Rachel froze, "I wrecked you? You left me! What are
you even doing here?"

She pushed him away then, furious she'd allowed herself to
kiss him back. It was a mistake, he'd been her biggest mistake. And now here
she stood repeating it.

"You broke my fucking heart, what am I even doing
here?" he repeated, incredulous, hateful. He stepped back, his eyes
narrowed, glaring at her, "You evil bitch, I can't get you out of my head,
my fucking life is falling apart all over again and all I can think about is
being close to you. I have no idea what I'm doing here, I needed to see
you."

She felt disoriented, she broke his heart? She was furious
at not being able to battle with him, to say all the things she'd imagine she
would say if she saw him again, without losing control or being overrun with
tears or choking sobs.

"Get out!" was all she managed, screaming over
and over, “Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!”

And then all went black. She'd fallen. Or maybe she sat
down, but her back was to the wall, her legs curled beneath her. She didn't
remember sitting. She was still in the place where he'd kissed her. Where his
fingers had touched hers, fire against her flesh.

Ten minutes? Thirty? What time was it?

In the distance, a ringing. Her cell phone. How long had it
been ringing? She stood, shakily, reaching for the chair to support her legs,
weak and numb. Vomit in her mouth, on her dress.

She hadn't forgotten, it was always there, just below the
surface. She'd learned to shut the door, to consciously put it all out of her
mind. But the old tricks weren't working anymore. And she couldn't stop
remembering. She grabbed her purse to leave, she needed help this time.

***

Dr. Valentine was out of the office, and his secretary
watched Rachel wearily, annoyed that she refused to leave until he returned.

"He may not be back for some time, Ms. Daniels,"
she said, "You really should let me take a message and have him call
you."

"I'll wait."

"If you insist, but sometimes his lunches run pretty
long, and he has other appointments, he may not be able to see you." She
was eager to return to the soap opera behind her frosted glass window, Rachel
was interfering.

"I'll wait."

She walked to the bathroom designated for clients, washed
her face and tightened her ponytail. Taking stock of the serious circles under
her eyes, she was confident the shrink would give her something to help her
sleep. That's really what she needed. Sleep.

An hour and four celebrity gossip magazines later, Dr.
Valentine made his way into the office, smiling pleasantries at a few other
patients who'd taken seats in the waiting room.

He saw her and smiled, "Hey Rachel, did we have an
appointment today?"

"No, but Dr. Valentine, I just need a moment,"
she said quietly, rising to follow him to the door leading into his private
office.

"Sure. Come on back."

Walking into his office was like walking into a fancy cigar
shop, dark cherrywood paneling, expensive leather furnishings. She'd spent
dozens of hours in there over the years, it was one of the few places in town
where she'd felt safe from judgment and contempt. He emptied his pockets onto a
small plate and sat in his faded leather desk chair, leaning back, hands
crossed neatly across his stomach. His hair and beard were full of gray that
hadn't been there when she saw him last year.

"I have about ten minutes,” he said, “How are
things?"

Rachel sat in the overstuffed chair in front of his desk,
clutching her purse to her chest. She wasn't ready to talk about everything
going on, but she couldn't afford to let it get worse. She'd experienced too
much progress to let her past create any distractions from taking care of the
kids or planning the gala. Summarizing all that had happened was impossible,
there was no way she could get it all out in ten minutes.

"I've been really anxious, worrying about the kids,
irritable, Kenneth and I aren't communicating, he's been sleeping downstairs
for months. I'm stressed about work, I'm not even sure if I want to be doing it
anymore. And you probably heard about the boy who was hurt at the game Friday
before last? I'm just overwhelmed, and the worst part..." she stopped to
breathe. She had to say it, "The worst part, is that Dylan showed up. I
saw him at the game. It was his son who broke his neck. And then his law firm
gave us a bunch of money to sponsor our fundraiser. It has really stirred up a
lot of shit. And, I'm exhausted."

She couldn't bring herself to tell him about that morning,
the kiss that led her to come running into his office. Some things needed to be
hers alone, and that belonged to her. To them. She'd been disconcerted by how
Dylan evoked such a physical reaction from her, she didn't even want to think
about it, much less discuss it with her psychiatrist who’d only want to dissect
it for analysis.