by Nicole Helm
“No, Tess, Leah was sick. People with cancer are sick.” He should stop. Leave it at that. Find a way to push all the feelings down and ignore this. Accept his place.
Nothing could end well if he kept talking.
She stood from the table, following him into the little living area. She stood in front of the couch she’d convinced him to buy and resolutely said, “Alcoholism is a disease.”
He’d worked too many cases seeing the victims of alcoholism to feel much sympathy for a disease people chose, that always seemed to hurt the loved ones more than the “sick” person.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“He doesn’t mean to hurt me.”
It broke whatever last control he had, whatever he’d hoped to contain and ignore and pretend away. Because he couldn’t pretend it was okay for her to think that.
“He tricked you into coming to his apartment in the middle of the night, in the dark—using suicide and fear. He waited for you and then hit you with something hard enough to leave a mark that’s still there, bright and colorful on your face.”
She lifted her chin, not backing down for a second. His anger spurred hers on, because of course it did. Anger and yelling weren’t the answer. Pretending things were fine was the fucking answer.
“I’m not saying it was right.”
So why did she have to keep saying things that eradicated a lifetime of keeping his mouth shut? “Then what are you saying?” he asked. No, it was a demand.
“He’s sick. And he’s not perfect, but he’s my father. He deserves my help. I’m the only one who can help him.”
“People like your father are worthless assholes who can’t get their shit together for their own flesh and blood. He attacked you! He hurt you, and not for the first time. My God, how can you defend him and run to his aid again, Tess?”
“He’s my father.” Her voice cracked and wavered. “Alcoholism is a disease and that’s not defending him, it’s stating facts. I’m fairly certain I’ve read a few more books on it than you have, even with your extensive library.”
He could see it, too. Her poring over twelve-step books trying to find the magic cure to fix a man who repeatedly treated her like nothing, or worse, a punching bag.
God, it killed him. She killed him. This whole thing killed him because he was sixteen again, confused and trying so hard to be what everyone needed and failing.
Someone else’s disease was making him miserable again, and he was choosing that like some kind of fool who couldn’t learn a lesson. Why had he ever thought he was good at this? He’d never been good at it—his parents just hadn’t bothered to notice.
“He didn’t beat me, Marc. This right here is new. It’s the first time he’s ever—”
Because he was angry and hurting and so damn pissed at himself for falling in love with someone who’d put him in this damn situation he’d thought he could handle because he was so fucking good at it, he yelled.
He hated himself for yelling. Hated himself for this whole thing, but the emotions were out of his control now. Out of his reach. “Why are you lying to me? There’s not just your face. You also have a mark on your arm. And that’s just in the month I’ve known you. He’s hurt you twice. Harasses you almost daily.”
“The first time was an accident,” she said. “I know my face wasn’t, but the times before—”
“You have to know what you sound like.” The victim of repeated abuse. How many domestic calls had he worked? You don’t understand. He loves me. He didn’t mean it. It’ll be okay. “You have been a police officer too long to believe this bullshit.”
“It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I am all he has, and I am the reason—” She stopped herself, eyes filling with tears. “I know...” She cleared her throat, some of the certainty and fight leaving her posture. “It’s not my fault. It’s not.”
She didn’t sound nearly as sure of that as she had when defending her father, making excuses for him.
“You have done everything in your power since you were a kid, Tess. A kid. At some point you have to accept that you can’t fix it. You may be all he has, but he doesn’t deserve you. Not an inch of you.”
Her throat moved as if she was attempting to swallow but couldn’t. “He’s all I have, too,” she said in a wavering voice.
His own throat clogged. “Do you really think that?” he forced out. Because if she didn’t think she had him, what the hell was he doing so wrong? Bending over backward to be what she needed. Couldn’t she see that?
He’d thought she saw it. Appreciated it. That even if he came in second, she at least gave a crap that he was trying to give her what she needed.
But she thought an alcoholic abuser was all she had.
“It’s just that...” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I know you’re here, and you love me, and you’d do so much for me. You take care of me, and it amazes me how you do, that you do. But you’re still someone I’ve known for such a short period of time, and the fact of the matter is you could hightail it tomorrow. He is my father. I am his daughter. That can’t be changed.”
“Taking care of you, loving you, saying I would quit my job for you, that’s less important than time and biology? What has that man ever done for you?”
“He’s why I’m here.” She shrugged. “I lived. He kept me alive all those years before I could take care of myself. A lot more than my mother did.”
“They’re both shit. Worthless. And so damn stupid for not taking care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of. Do you have any idea how strong you are? To have gotten through that? To keep trying to help people? Fuck, Tess, you’re a goddamn saint, but sometimes you have to walk away.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“No.” Amazing how quickly the blankness swept back, anger leaking out of him completely. Anger could gallop beyond his control, but hurt? He’d been practicing too long not to hide that. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
“The next time he calls, I am going to answer. And if I decide to go see him, that’s not something you have any say in.”
He stared at the couch instead of her. “All right.”
“Don’t—” But she stopped herself.
He knew what she was going to say. Don’t be blank. But she stopped herself because that’s exactly what she wanted. Blankness and agreement with whatever she wanted. That’s what people wanted from him; anything else was...pointless.
“You should eat your breakfast. It’s likely cold by now.”
She blinked then looked back at the table. Their plates sitting nicely across from each other. Like a picture or a painting. Not real.
Her gray gaze met his and he thought for sure she was going to say no. Walk away. He’d spoken his mind and that ended whatever shot he thought he’d had at making this a real, lasting thing.
Instead, she opened her mouth and said, “Okay,” and walked back over to the table. “Cold French toast can’t be very appetizing.” She slid into her chair, took a visible deep breath and looked up at him.
He couldn’t decipher what her expression meant, what this meant. All he knew was it was pretend—an even bigger pretend than he’d been affecting up to this point.
Even as he walked over to the table and took the seat across from her, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pretend anymore.
* * *
EVERYTHING WAS WRONG.
Tess hated to be overdramatic, but, seriously, everything was all screwed up and she didn’t know what else to do except go along with it. Pretend it was fine. Take a page out of Marc’s book and mask the shit out of everything hard.
Except there was this perpetual lump in her throat, and her phone felt like a dead weight in her pocket. Every move, every w
ord felt like tiptoeing across thin ice.
And when the ice broke, Marc would disappear.
Sometimes you have to walk away. Marc had said that regarding her father, but the words kept rattling around as if they meant something more, something bigger.
It was fundamentally against everything she believed. Walking away didn’t accomplish anything except hurting the people you left behind. Whether or not her father deserved that hurt was a separate issue.
She couldn’t walk away. It had less to do with her father and more to do with her. Because how could she live with herself if she did exactly what her mother had done? Abandoning him when he needed something.
Why couldn’t she figure out what he needed? That would solve all of this.
“Tess.”
She looked up at Marc, realizing she’d been standing in front of the farmer’s market booth for minutes without...doing anything.
Except thinking and brooding.
“Can we go—” She almost said home, but today seemed to illustrate they didn’t have a home. Not together. “Can we go?”
He gave her a Marc nod. Barely noticeable. Blank.
The lump in her throat fizzled, made it harder to breathe. What was happening? How had everything gotten so messed up?
They walked to his truck; he placed his bags in the backseat. Then he drove. Back to their apartment complex. Silence choking every second of the short drive. Tears burning her eyes.
What was happening? One little argument, disagreement, and suddenly they were strangers. Acting like worse than strangers, pretending to care.
Her care wasn’t pretend, but everything else was.
They got back to the apartment. Marc grabbed his groceries. They trudged up the stairs. Silence. Silence. More silence. Keys out. Locks unlocked. Step inside.
He carefully locked the door behind her. Said nothing. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t ask why she’d wanted to leave.
It was all so fucking wrong.
“I’m going to go see him,” she blurted, not sure where it came from. When she’d come to that determination. She just couldn’t do this pretending-like-he-didn’t-exist thing.
It didn’t mean she forgave him or thought what he’d done was right. It only meant that she had to see him. Talk it through. Try to find some answers, and if Marc couldn’t see that...
God, she didn’t want to finish that thought.
Marc paused, though he didn’t turn to look at her. He simply paused, then continued walking to the kitchen and placing the things he’d bought on the counter.
“I have to.”
Again, no response. No words. No looks. He started unloading his bags.
“Marc.”
“Yes?”
“I...” She stepped forward and then stopped, exasperated and hurt and confused and, oh, fuck, all these damn feelings. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You told me what you’re going to do. What does it matter what I say? You don’t want to hear what I have to say, Tess. You’re going to go. Go.” He said it all so calmly, evenly. Not a hint of snap to his tone. Nothing.
“And that’s...just it?” Of course her voice was all high and squeaky with emotion. “Go? You... That’s it?”
He finally turned, slowly, carefully. All measured calm, so him it made her want to push him. And that made her feel kind of sick to her stomach. Violence. Wanting to enact it on someone she loved.
So gross.
“What do you want me to say, Tess?”
Her chest got tight, her lungs all squeezed and crunched. She wanted him to say he understood. That he’d support her. That she could come back afterward and they could go back to last night, when she’d felt good was finally a thing she was going to get.
Even knowing he couldn’t give her that, at least not authentically, she wanted it. The pretend. God, she wanted him to make her believe it was okay and he’d be there.
No matter what. No matter what. He wouldn’t walk away because she wasn’t doing what he wanted. No wonder she left, Tessie.
Marc wasn’t her mother. He wasn’t abandoning her. This wasn’t...like that...but oh, how similar the pain felt.
So much so, she couldn’t say what she really wanted to say. I want you to love me, support me, always be there.
Because that’s all she’d ever wanted, and she’d really thought she’d found it, but suddenly it was leaking out of her fingers.
Because of Dad.
Or was it because of herself?
“Can’t you let me handle this and understand that I know what I’m doing?” It was somehow easier to push those words out. “Trust it’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. You trust me, right? It’ll be okay. I can’t abandon him. I can’t do that. Even for you. So, please, find a way to understand.”
He was quiet, staring at some point behind her, shoulders tense and everything about him...untouchable, unreachable.
But his throat moved, and for all his pretending, he wasn’t unaffected. “I can’t do that,” he said, his voice coming out rough though the rest of him remained blank. “I’ve spent my life pretending I’m okay with things I’m not okay with. I can’t do it anymore, Tess. Even for you. I tried, I did.” He cleared his throat, still not meeting her gaze. “But you can’t have it both ways.”
She hated that she was crying. That he couldn’t bend for her, give her this. When he’d given her so much, so many things she’d never had, and now he was taking them away because he couldn’t let her...
She didn’t want it both ways—she wanted him to understand. To see. And he was refusing to open his mind to a world that was not all black-and-white, right and wrong.
“Goodbye, Marc. You can...put my stuff in a box, leave it at my doorstep or something.” Because she didn’t have the strength or wherewithal or whatever the crap she needed to go through his apartment and eradicate herself from it.
Just the thought...
“Tess, we still have to work together.”
Of course, work. He certainly wouldn’t be stepping down now, would he? And, oh, weren’t they going to make a lovely source of gossip? “Goody,” she muttered, walking out the door.
She’d always prided herself on ending relationships maturely. She didn’t feel like being mature right now. Or nice. Or Ms. Strong Woman Who Could Handle Anything. She felt like crying and throwing a fit and, damn it, why the hell not?
So she slammed the door behind her as hard as she could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MARC STARED AT the closed door. The sound of it slamming shut reverberated in his ears long after it was actually done.
There was a searing pain in his chest, a ball lodged in his throat and a heat behind his eyes he refused to acknowledge.
It wasn’t a surprise, exactly. Their painfully awkward breakfast and increasingly uncomfortable farmer’s market trip hadn’t ever been leading up to any amazing moments of super coupledom. Certainly hadn’t been the kind of day he’d pictured after the party last night.
Why couldn’t things have stayed like that? Why’d he have to open his mouth? Or why’d she have to be so...
He wanted to punch something. Hard. Really, really hard. He settled for giving the couch—the couch Tess had picked out and talked him into buying—a kick. A hard fucking kick.
Good. The pain was good. Bring on the pain and actual feelings.
How could she visit a man who would bash her face enough to leave bruises and marks? When was laying your hands on someone you were supposed to love ever okay?
He wasn’t so callous that he blamed her for thinking she could help. Hell, that’s what abusive men did all the time, convinced women to think there was something they could do to change them
. He had witnessed it routinely in his years as a police officer. And Tess had grown up with that man making her believe she somehow was all he had, all she had.
He didn’t blame her for thinking there was something she could do. He only wished there was some way he could convince her the man she called a father didn’t deserve it. Not her love, her attention, her sympathy.
There were men, men like him, who would give it all to her. Without asking for too much in return. He just wanted to be with her, because she was strong and fun and made him feel like a person.
Until this morning. Then he’d gone back to feeling like a useless rock, and it was so damn hard to go back, knowing what the alternative was.
Too damn hard to know he’d have to stand by and watch her go back to her father again and again, be hurt again and again, while he waited in a stupid suit with a ridiculous meal going cold.
He turned away from the door. It hurt that she could believe her father was all she had. Even knowing she’d had a lifetime of one man’s voice in her head and all they had was about a month. Intellectually, he understood all this.
What he didn’t understand was how to fix it or change it, and honestly? He was so tired of trying to fix and change people. So tired of being the strong, sturdy rock hoping to be seen.
He wanted something that wasn’t keeping his mouth shut, or ignoring his feelings. He wanted something that wasn’t someone else’s disease making him have to take a number with the people he loved.
It was selfish and childish and probably wrong, but he’d reached a breaking point. Caring hadn’t mattered. Why not try not caring? Last time he’d done that, he’d gotten Tess.
Now that he was pretty sure he’d lost her, why not try it again? Live for himself, for what he wanted.
He might not feel better about life, but this was better than the morning had been. Better to hurt and be angry and kick a couch than force blankness and stiffness and act as though he was nothing.
He was tired of being nothing. Tess had given him a glimpse of something, and it made the nothing parts impossible to live with.