Damage Done (18 page)

"I think she's perturbed you're inviting strange women
into your special space," Rachel said, stirring her coffee with the tiny
straw. She'd hope to sound like she was teasing, but it came out more like an
accusation.

Dammit.

He looked after the barista, puzzled, "Brooke?"

"I'm sorry, I was just teasing," she offered
awkwardly, regretting she'd said anything.

She was married to another man, it was none of her business
if he was fucking the barista. She looked down into her cup uneasily and
brought it up for a taste.

"I see," he said, his features softening.
"Alright, so, listen, puss- " He caught himself. 

Just spit it out.

"Rachel- I have had this conversation with you in my
head a million times over the years, but now that I have you here, I'm not sure
what to say."

She'd had enough Valium, she decided to take over. She was
going to ask him why he'd given her the money for ReachingOut, why he'd sent
his partners to meet with her instead of meeting with her himself. She wanted
to tell him her heart breaks for him losing his son. She tried to temper her
annoyance over not knowing what he wanted.

"Dylan.I was pregnant. Why did you leave? You couldn’t
have given me the courtesy of saying goodbye?"

He looked stunned, surprised she'd started there. She was
surprised she'd started there. It's not what she expected to come out of her
mouth. He sat back slowly, bracing the sides of the chair, and he watched her,
the blue eyes sparkling against his tan skin. He was angry, but more prepared
than she’d been.

"Rachel, you know that’s not what happened. I didn’t
leave. I called you, I tried to see you. Your mother said you didn't want to
see me.”

"That isn't true!" she yelled, “I waited weeks
for you to call me!”

“So you waited weeks before you had an abortion and found a
new boyfriend?”he asked viciously.

“You’re disgusting! That’s not what happened!”

“I’m not making it up, Rachel. She said you didn’t want to
talk to me, and I tried to give you some space, I thought you needed to adjust
to being pregnant. Then she said you had an abortion and had a new boyfriend.
She told me you were in San Antonio with him, I drove there and walked the
RiverWalk for two days until I saw you, sitting in a restaurant with him. Just
like your mother said. I didn't disappear from your life, Rachel, you
disappeared from mine."

Her mind raced. That couldn't be right. He had to be lying.
But why? Why would he want to hurt her again? She raged inside, her body
trembling as she fumbled for her purse.

"Rachel- Let me get you some water," Dylan called
to the barista, "Brooke, can I have some ice water, please? Quickly?” and
then, “Rachel, you're pale. Are you okay?"

He took her hand, her small fingers lost in the enormity of
his. His face sought hers for a response, she was numb. No, she was on fire.

"Don't touch me, I need to leave. I have to go,"
she was already up, headed for the door, her purse in hand.

"Rachel, wait!"

He was on her heels, his strides easily keeping pace with
hers.

"Fuck you!"

***

She was in front of the hotel in San Antonio that summer,
Brent beside her. Brent had been all gentleman until that moment. For weeks
he'd shown her patience and humor, bringing her movies and flowers as she waded
through the melancholy. She'd told him she was sad over her father having left,
but he knew she'd also broken up with a boyfriend. He hadn't seemed to care,
and showered her with kindness and compassion.

But that night in San Antonio he'd become angry that she'd
asked to go home, nauseated from the twelve week old pregnancy she was still hiding.
They'd left his friends at the restaurant and he told the cab driver to take
them back to their hotel. The moment they'd exited the car he viciously reached
for her elbow and shoved her inside.

She wasn't scared until they reached the elevator and he'd
refused to let go of her arm. Not wanting to make a scene, she'd been raised
never to allow an intimate affair to be broadcast, she  hesitated to fight back
in the lobby. The elevator door closed and as he pressed the button for her
floor, she tried to push him away, angry and afraid.

"Listen, bitch, you just humiliated me in front of my
friends, do you have any idea what a disgusting, trashy thing that was to
do?" Brent hissed at her, his eyes full of violence, fingers digging into
the flesh of her arm.

"Let go of me, I said I was sorry, I just want to go
home now," Rachel had argued. "You're not my father, let go of my
fucking arm!"

"Fuck you," he whispered as the elevator doors
opened to her floor.

"No, fuck you!" she said, her voice trembling,
worried the guests waiting in the hall had overheard. They'd stepped off the
elevator and he let go of her arm, but followed her to her door. She already
had the key card out, ready to unlock the door by the time they got there, but
her hands had shaken visibly and she'd struggled to slide it into the small
space.

Brent snatched the card impatiently, quickly pushed it into
the card reader and yanked the door handle down the moment the tiny green light
flashed green. She wanted to go inside alone and get away from this jerk who
thought the world owed him something, who thought she owed him something.

"Get out," she'd said loudly as he pushed the
door open, but he refused and stood inside brooding, his fist clinched tightly
at his side.

"My God, take a hint, Brent, I don't want you in here,
I'm sorry you felt humiliated. We're not exactly boyfriend/girlfriend, your
father is friends with my stepfather. That's it. I thought we were friends, but
you're turning into an asshole." She walked past him, set her purse on the
table and walked over to the phone. "I'm calling my mother, I want to go
home, please get out."

"Rachel, you're not calling your mother," he
argued, taking the phone and cradling it in the receiver, "You're eighteen
years old, you're about to start college. You're a grown woman and you know
exactly what you're doing when you flirt with me and let me take you out,
putting on all that make-up. Any woman would be grateful to have me for their
boyfriend, I'm attractive, I'm about to start grad school at Rice, my father is
one of the most important men in Houston. But I chose to date you, I like you,
why can't you give me a chance?"

"I'm just not ready for another boyfriend, Brent. It
has nothing to do with you, but yelling at me and grabbing my arm isn't exactly
a good way to show me you're not some jerk just trying to get laid."

He slapped her. Hard. She'd been stunned, the sting from
his hand vibrating through her face. She brought her hand to her cheek and felt
the heat rising through her fingers, unsure what to do. She'd never been
slapped, not even by her mother.

"I'm so sorry, Rachel," he offered immediately as
he reached out for her.

She wasn't sure if he'd been offering her consolation or
seeking it himself, but she just stood there. Brent was only a few inches
taller than her, not a big man, but he'd been strong, something earned in his
life of privilege, day after day spent playing tennis and horseback riding. He
had a sad look, a face that begged people to be nice to him. He'd asked her to
forgive him over and over, swearing he hadn't meant to do it. She'd made him do
it, nobody had ever talked to him that way, it broke his heart that she thought
he was just trying to fuck her. He'd done nothing but try to be good to her.

"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.

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.