by Marie Scully
The closer I get to Liam, the more questions he’ll ask. I can’t get attached. Either he’ll end up leaving or I will. This is not a permanent place. As much as I sometimes wished it were, it isn’t. Soon it’ll be time to move on; I’ve already been here longer than I should.
“Danny. You’re lost in your head.”
I move my head quickly back and forth, shaking the thoughts from my brain. It’s just a couple of riding lessons. I can do this—no big deal, I try to convince myself.
“A deal is a deal. I’ll let you give me a ‘refresher course’ with riding,” I say using air quotes.
“Can’t wait. The feel of the wind against your face and the trust between the horse and yourself… As much as people say that you’re in control while riding, you’re not. The horse is in control. The best match for a rider and a horse is when they have a bond, in a sense.”
“Do you always have a bond when you ride?” Ben had told me that many well-known racehorse owners hire Liam. Sometimes months or even years in advance and other times at the last minute. The last race he won, the owner had called a few days before because his jockey had fallen down the stairs, breaking his arm.
“Not always a deep one. I try to only ride with horses I know. I think that gives us both a better chance for the win. Every now and then I can’t do that, but I try to get as much time with that horse as possible before the race. That’s why I do so much traveling.”
“You attended the North American Racing Academy, correct?”
“Did you do your research on me before our date? Should I be honored, or do you do that before all your first dates?”
“Ha ha. Ben told me about the school and how they only admit twelve riders each year.”
“That’s correct. It’s a grueling program but well worth the time and hard work. I met a lot of amazing and talented people. I also got to know my competitors. Their strengths and weaknesses.” Liam walks back to the board to return the darts before continuing. “Enough about me. Let’s dance.”
Before I can say anything, he grabs my hand and starts towards the dance floor.
“Liam, I don’t dance,” I say to his back, starting to panic. I’m a horrible dancer. If there was an award for that, I would win it. My picture is next to the definitions of “lousy dancer” and “no rhythm.”
He looks back as he continues to move us through the crowd. “I’m sure you’re not as bad as you think. Trust me.”
I’m pretty sure I am as bad as I think. James had once compared my dancing to a newly born fawn trying to walk on ice.
The band has taken a break, leaving the DJ to pick the songs. “Just Dance” is playing, and people part the way for Liam. He stops once he finds a spot he likes on the dance floor. He spins me around, and I land with my hands on his chest, looking into his bright eyes. He holds me close, his hand on my back.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, his hand making tiny circles on my back. The skin beneath his movements tingles, getting warm with each motion. My body has never had that kind of reaction from someone simply touching me. What is he doing to me? I don’t want to think about why my body’s having such a strong reaction; I need to change what’s happening quickly—defuse the situation.
“I guess as long as you don’t video me and put it on YouTube, I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
“One of these days you may have to answer that question, Danny,” Liam says before he kisses my check. The song changes.
Liam leads me into a dance, and we move to the music. I let him take the lead and follow him as he walks. Soon I’m not just following him but anticipating his next move, and we match, moving as one. I can still feel where he kissed my check.
He twists me away from him, and I spin, holding his hand. With each circle, I feel myself becoming freer. My smile is getting wider, and my laughter louder. The crowd’s colors and faces are mixing into one. I end up back in his arms after the last spin.
Liam leans down close to my ear and says, “See, I told you. You can dance.”
The song ends with the last drumbeat echoing. We stand still in the middle of the dance floor. Others dance around us as the next song begins.
I make the mistake of looking into Liam’s eyes, and for a moment everything else in the room fades away—the music, the lights, the people. Everything but the two of us.
I’ve never had such a strong instant connection with someone. I’ve never let myself. It’s always been just for fun, nothing that was going to grow into anything serious. Liam bends towards me, his lips just a brush away from mine. I want this kiss, but I can’t. I lean back, breaking free of his hands on my back in the process.
Surprise crosses his features, then concern. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.
I quickly shake my head. “No. Not at all. It’s been a long day. I was up early working and didn’t realize how tired I was till it just hit me. Do you mind if we head home?”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he says, “Yes, of course. I understand.” How can he understand when I hardly understand it myself?
I turn around and start towards the door. I don’t look back to make sure he’s following. I can’t. I can’t face him.
Chapter Sixteen
Danny
The car ride home is almost silent. The closer we come to the ranch, the quieter the car becomes. The silence is almost deafening, but the familiar glow of the lights hanging off the porch gives me a sense of calmness.
We roll down the driveway past the familiar trees and structures and pull up in front of the main house. I reach for the door handle as I hear the driver’s door open. Damn it. Why can he not just let me open my own door? I wanted to make a quick escape. After the door opens, I climb out and breathe the air, hoping it’ll calm me.
“I’m sorry if I did anything tonight that upset you,” Liam says, breaking the silence.
Oh God, now I made him think it was him, when it was all me. “No. You didn’t do anything. Can we talk about this later?” I ask, glancing at the front door. I need to collect my thoughts. I can’t think straight with him looking at me.
He opens his mouth to respond, but my feet have a mind of their own, and they’ve already moved around him towards the door. I call without turning around, “We’ll talk tomorrow. Thank you for tonight. I did have fun.”
I open the door to the house and quickly shut it, then lean my back against the door, letting it hold me up as I try to catch my breath. Closing my eyes, I breathe in and out and hear his car pull away. I open my eyes once more. Thankfully everyone else looks to be asleep. The only light left on is the one from the lamp in the entranceway. They must have left it on for when I got home.
I take one more breath, push myself off the door, and manage to climb the stairs to my room. I need to leave soon. I’m getting too comfortable here, calling this my room. Looking forward to coming back here is only going to cause more pain when I can no longer come back.
I’m tired. I’m tired of moving. I’m tired of my ghosts, some alive and others gone. I climb into bed without changing clothes and fall asleep so quickly that I don’t even notice the tears flowing down my face.
❖
It took what felt like hours to find enough change for the bus. I walk the mile and a half to the bus stop and take the seat as close to the driver as possible. The bus pulls away from the stop and I’m off. My hands are shaking, my heart thundering in my head. What if he refuses to help? What will I do then?
I stare at my feet and notice that my once-white tennis shoes are now stained with dirt and I don’t want to think what else. I don’t think I can ever get them as clean as they were. Too much has happened.
I can do this; I need to do this for James. Without our father’s help, I’ll be alone for good. James won’t make it another year without help. I try to help him, but it’s not enough. If Mom was still here, maybe she could, but she left.
I look out the window as it pulls to the fifth stop. My stop. I stand up and make my
way to the front of the bus. I feel eyes on me. Others are probably wondering why I have no one with me. Once I step off the bus, I begin my two-mile walk to his home. I can do this.
Passing many neighbors and businesses, I try to pick the things I liked about the houses that I want for my future home. I want red rose bushes in the front with a porch. With many-colored flowers in pots. A backyard with a fence and maybe an oak tree. The house will be brick and two stories—lots of windows to bring the outside in.
Before I know it, I’m in front of the iron gates. I hit the button before I lose my nerve and wait for the voice to come. It doesn’t take long.
“How may I help you?” the voice on the other end echoes back to me.
“Hi. I’m looking for Chris Monroe.” Nerves make my voice lose some of the strength I was trying to fake.
“Do you have an appointment?” the voice asks, annoyed.
“No, but he’ll want to see me.”
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have an appointment, I can’t help you.” I can practically hear his finger going to the hang-up button.
“My name is Danielle… he’s my father. He’ll want to see me.”
Silence on the other end and then the buzzing of the gate. I can do this. I take the six steps from the communication station to the gate, then quickly make my way up the long drive to the front door. The grounds are huge. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a whole new world.
A woman is waiting for me by the front door. She wears a simple black dress reaching a little below her knees. Her black hair is cut short and her hands are clasped in front of her.
Once I’m standing in front of her, she says, “Hi, you must be Danielle.”
“Danny,” I surprise myself by correcting her.
“Danny it is. Come on in, Danny.” She reaches her hand out for mine, and I take it, hoping it will give me some strength. Kindness comes off of her in waves. “My name’s Elizabeth. But you can call me Beth. I’m Chris’s personal assistant. I know this place is intimating at first, but the more you’re here, the more normal it becomes.”
Beth leads me across the marble floor, past paintings of different scenes and colors. Each room we pass is grander than the last. The chairs and couches look like they’re for show. They don’t look like the kind you could take a nap on.
As we pass the bar windows, I see two children racing from one end of the yard to the other. The girl has long hair that flows behind her. She’s wearing a yellow dress and is winning the race. Not by much, but she’s still in front. The boy looks to be getting frustrated that he’s losing. He has on shorts and a red shirt.
“Who are they?” I ask Beth.
“That’s Holly and Nick.” She says this as if I should know who they are and maybe I should.
“Oh,” I say, giving one last look at my half-siblings as we turn the corner and they disappear from view. We continue down a narrow hallway that leads to only one room.
Beth gives a knock. We wait for what feels like eternity for the man hidden behind the door to say a simple “Yes.”
Beth slowly opens the door and a squeaky sound escapes. She walks straight into the room, but my feet refuse to move forward. I stare at the man sitting behind the desk with his hands folded on the papers beneath them. The room is dark with only two windows covered by blinds. The wood in the room is dark, the family portrait that hangs above the desk also in dark hues.
Beth reaches her hand towards mine again, trying to convince me to come into the room. But I know if I take her hand, he’ll see it as a sign of weakness. Without giving it another thought, I convince my feet to take the three steps needed to make it into the room.
I continue to stand in front of his desk, watching as he takes in my appearance. Without taking his eyes off me, he says to Beth, “You can leave.”
After Beth leaves the room, the air feels colder.
“You wanted to see me?” The judgment in his eyes and tone has me wanting to run out the door.
“Yes. My mom…” I start but he cuts me off.
“Yes, I know she’s gone. I’m sure you’re aware that we didn’t see eye to eye. I can’t say I’m unhappy she’s gone. Again, I ask, why did you want to see me?”
“I need your help,” I disclose.
“I don’t give help unless there’s something in it for me. What do you possibly have that you can offer me?” His eyes are the only thing that gives him away—he’s intrigued by why I’ve come.
“Since you asked, I’m sure you have something you want.”
He smiles. Not in a happy manner but how a cat would smile at a bird it has trapped in a corner with no escape.
“Maybe you’re smarter than your mother. But first, tell me why you came.”
“My brother—he’s in trouble. When Mom got sick, he started drinking more. But after Mom died, he had an accident, and he started doing more. Drugs. He’s been in the hospital a few times now, and the doctors say that the next time he could die.”
“Now I see. You came here for your brother. You’re not going to get anywhere in life looking out for others.”
“You’re wrong.” My voice comes out stronger than I felt.
“No, Danielle, I’m not. I’m never wrong. You’re just naïve. Don’t worry, one of these days you’re going to learn that everyone looks out for number one. Themselves. Everyone leaves when something better comes along. It’s just life. Everyone wants to be the most powerful person in the room. It’s been me for a long time. But your mother’s little stunt with the journalist put questions in people’s heads and some people don’t look at me the same way. She took some of my power and now I’m taking it back. Here’s what I need from you…”
❖
The smell of the horses and hay gives me a sense of peace as I sit with Flame. Waking at 3 a.m. and unable to get back to sleep, I go to the place that helps me get my head back on straight. I go to Flame; however, he’s not enough to keep the memories at bay.
❖
The crystal, Andy Warhol paintings, and loving family pictures were all a trick of the eye. The mansion, as well as the family, gave the impression that they had it all. From the outside looking in, most people would sell their soul to be in this family. From the large-scale parties to the maids and butlers, it looked like it was a never-ending dream.
Unfortunately for me, I’m not most people. I see the cracks beneath all the glam and style. I see the fake smiles and the act. There’s not enough money in the world to make me want to live here.
And for most of the days of the year, I get my wish. Unfortunately, the days of the year I am pulled in to do my daughterly duties almost kill me. I made a deal with the devil long before I knew what I was doing.
I was ten and James was fifteen when Mom got sick. I knew the day we found out that she wasn’t going to get better. I felt it in my soul.
The day she found out, she went to our father. The father we knew all about but never spoke of. The father that lived behind his gates in his castle with his beautiful other family while we lived in a trailer park in a part of town that even the rats and pimps avoided. We all knew about each other, but none of us would acknowledge the other.
Mom went to beg him to take us when the worst came to pass. But her pleas fell on deaf ears, and he tossed her out once more. For as long as she could she worked as hard as possible to save for us, but no matter how hard she worked we would only be able to survive for a short while once she was gone. What little she made went to medical bills. A year of pills, pain, doctors, hope, despair, and finally death.
Her final days, she wrote to an old friend who worked for the local newspaper. She asked him to write a story for her. Why Rich Lehmann agreed to do it, I may never know, but what I do know is he listened to her, and more importantly he wrote the story for the whole town and world to read.
The story that was told painted the good Chris Monroe in a dark light. He went from family man to deadbeat dad in an instant. From town hero
to villain. The truth of how he had who knows how many affairs and left one woman knocked up with his children to live in harsh conditions with little food and even fewer amenities.
All because he didn’t like the shame or the children, because he didn’t want his friends and colleagues to know what he’d done, that his perfect life wasn’t so ideal. For Chris Monroe, how people perceived him was everything.
The story hit his life like an earthquake. The world began to see the cracks he’d tried so hard to hide. He tried to spin the story that he’d never known about the children and that, if he had, he would’ve supported them and loved them as he did his other children. Some of his friends nodded, certain that Chris would never leave his children, while others never quite believed his story. Which friends were which he would never know. People could maybe forgive one mess-up. One child. But two? Who knew how many “mistakes” people have a harder time forgiving.
He came to us the day after the story broke. The day after she died—James, drunk on grief, passed out on the stained couch and me left alone to deal with him. He offered me money to tell the paper his lies; offered us a room with strings that would make a marionette jealous.
I told him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, that we would make it on our own without his charity, and we did for some time. That was before James’s accident, before I ruined everything. Before James began to spend all the money on drugs and alcohol. Before I found him overdosed on cocaine in a bar restroom. Before the doctors told me he needed a good rehab. Before I knew how much a good rehab would cost. That was the day I dug under the bed and couch cushions for spare change to afford the bus fare to take me to the gates of hell but also my brother’s only hope.