As the applause fades, he looks down at the award again, his face a mask of concentration – but mixed with something else. I can tell he's trying to formulate his next words – though, I'm surprised he doesn't have a statement prepared. On his face is a mix of longing, and nostalgia, and in that moment, I would have given almost anything to know what was going through his head.
“It's funny, I had this whole speech prepared to bore you all with tonight,” he continues, and the crowd chuckles politely, “but, I don't think I'm going to give it. I'm sure, much to your delight, I'm going to keep this very short.”
There is laughter and a smattering of applause around the room. Carter squints through the lights as he looks over the crowd – still searching for somebody – a smile on his face that could light up the entire gallery on its own. The same smile that used to melt my heart, and has haunted my dreams, and sent intense, stabbing pains through my heart, for the last decade.
“Anyway,” he says, “if not for this person, I wouldn’t be standing here before such an esteemed collection of people. Honestly, I don't know where I'd be without her. So, I think she deserves to be recognized.”
Wonderful. That's exactly what I want to see right now – the man who broke my heart gush about how transformative the love of his life has been for him. Yeah, this is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I look around, hoping to see another waiter with a tray of champagne. Alcohol is the only thing that's going to get me through the night without some sort of emotional meltdown.
“I can't see her at the moment, but I know she's out there somewhere. I saw her just before coming up on stage,” he says. “Darby White? Are you out there?”
I feel like he just dumped a bucket of water, straight out of the Arctic Ocean, over my head. My body hums with an intense, nervous energy, and I feel my body tremble.
I look up at the stage and see Carter scanning the faces of the people in the gallery, searching for me among the crowd. My stomach drops into my shoes and my heart climbs into my throat.
I shake my head. Surely, I misunderstood him. More than likely a textbook case of projection, and desire. I look around the room, looking for the woman moving toward the stage. I don't see anybody, though. Everybody is like me, turning this way and that, looking all around the room.
“Darby?” Carter calls. “Are you out there?”
There it is again. My name falling from his lips. I know I didn't mishear him this time. What in the hell is going on? How did he know I was here? I had no idea he would be here.
I watch as Carter takes the microphone out of the holder on the podium and steps to the front of the stage. He puts his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the lights. There's a curious, but excited murmur running through the crowd as he searches for his mystery woman – for me, apparently.
Carter's eyes finally land on me, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through my body, searing every inch of my flesh. My every nerve. I stand there absolutely petrified, and feel an overwhelming urge to turn and flee.
“There she is,” Carter says, a heart-melting smile on his face.
He jumps down off the stage, and the crowd parts like he's Moses wading through the Red Sea. People around me start to turn and look. Eyes fall on me, and all of the sudden, I feel incredibly claustrophobic. The weight of all those eyes presses down on me and I feel trapped.
Like I'm suddenly suffocating.
In front of me, I can see the spotlight moving and the crowd continuing to part as Carter makes his way toward me. I feel like I actually might be sick, and not wanting to make a spectacle of myself – I quickly turn, and start to head for the doors.
I don't make it very far before a hand falls on my shoulder. His hand on my bare skin sends tendrils of fire coursing through my veins, that fills me with exquisite pain, but also intense pleasure at the same time.
Carter turns me around so I'm facing him. I feel my breath catch in my throat, as I look into those once familiar blue-gray eyes – eyes that once upon a time, I would lose myself in for hours at a time.
As I look upon that oh-so-familiar face, I'm overwhelmed by a maelstrom of thought and emotion. So much feeling passes through my body in the blink of an eye that it threatens to consume me. Honestly, all I want to do is go somewhere dark, hide away from the world, and cry until there are no tears left in my body.
“This, folks,” Carter says into the microphone, his eyes never leaving mine, “is this reason I stand before you this evening. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Darby White. She's a talented artist in her own right, but this is the woman who opened my mind and my heart and showed me the world through her eyes. If not for her, I never would have taken an interest in art, and my path never would have led me to the Ravere Group.”
Applause erupts all around us and Carter looks at me, his amazing smile growing even wider. When I look into his eyes, it feels exactly the same as when he used to look at me, ten years ago. Back when I thought he loved me. Before he'd ghosted me and shredded my heart into a million tiny, little pieces – and then set those pieces on fire.
Holding the mic to the side, he cocks his head at me, a mischievous smile on his face.
“Hi Darby,” he says. “Good to see you again.”
His voice saying my name triggers another intense burst of emotion within me, and at this point, I’m doing everything I can to keep from crying, and making even more of a spectacle of myself than I already have. Not that it really matters at this point.
“You son of a bitch,” I finally manage to hiss.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think we probably need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Maybe not,” he replies. “But I have some things you need to hear.”
“Tough.”
Finally managing to break my paralysis, I turn to go, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me around again. My face is hot with anger and my eyes are narrowed. He wisely steps back and puts his hands up, a grin creasing his face. He raises the microphone to his lips, and looks around at the crowd, as if suddenly remembering other people are watching us. The throng of onlookers continue to stare wide-eyed back at us, the gallery filled with an awkward silence. Nobody quite knows how to react, and I'm suddenly quite sure they've never seen anybody involved in something this scandalous within the refined halls of the Sheldonhurst Foundation.
Oops.
“You'll have to forgive us, folks,” Carter says. “Darby's never liked being put on the spot like this.”
“I'm warning you, Carter,” I say, my voice pitched low, so only he can hear me.
“Suffice it to say,” he continues, totally ignoring my warning, his smile never faltering as he looks around at the crowd, “it was this woman here, an amazing artist in her own right – really, you folks should do yourselves a favor and take a look at her work, it'll blow your minds – who changed my perception about the world. Without her, there would be no Carter Bishop. So, thank you, Darby. This award is truly your honor, not mine.”
He tucks the microphone under his arm and starts to applaud. Soon enough, the rest of the gallery joins him – tepid and strained at first – but then, perhaps seeing the genuine sincerity and warmth on Carter's face, it became a full-throated roar. My cheeks burn with heat. I've never been one for the spotlight.
“Enjoy the rest of the gala, folks,” Carter says into the microphone. “And don't forget to participate in the silent auction. The money raised goes to a fantastic cause. Make sure you bid on the pieces, they're incredible.”
He hands the microphone off to somebody and steps closer to me as the string quartet returns to the stage and starts to play another holiday standard. My heart is beating wildly, and I still feel like I'm on the verge of passing out, as he steps close to me, his eyes glued to mine. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes me tremble.
“Can we go somewhere and talk for a minute?” he asks.
“Like I said, I have nothing to say to you,” I manage to stammer.
“And like I said, I have something you need to hear.”
I'm paralyzed with fear. Part of me wants to go with him, and believe whatever it is he is going to tell me, no matter how outlandish it is. If he tells me he was kidnapped by aliens ten years ago, and taken to their home world, there’s a small part of me willing to believe him. That wants to tell him it's okay, and that I'm just happy they returned him unharmed, and hopefully, unprobed.
That part of my brain – and my heart – wants to throw myself into his arms and pretend the past ten years never happened, and that we can return to those love-sick people we were a decade ago.
Yeah, I’ve really moved on, huh?
“Please,” he says. “Just hear me out. If, after that, you want nothing more to do with me, then fine. I'll accept it. But, please, just hear me out, Darby. That's all I'm asking you for. Call it a Christmas gift.”
“Like I owe you anything,” I snap.
“No, you don't,” he says, that little smirk returning to his face. “I'm just hoping that by some miracle, I can appeal to your sense of holiday cheer –”
“You mean exploit it.”
He shrugs. “You say potato, I say –”
“I say, shut up,” I growl. “Why should I even bother giving you the time of day after what you did?”
Suddenly, the light in his eyes, and his smile, dims a little. His shoulders slump, and I can see him that whatever it is on his mind, and heart, is weighing on him heavily. Maybe it has been for the last ten years.
“Honestly, I can't give you a reason why you should,” he says. “Not a valid one. Not the kind of answer you deserve. I'm simply hoping that you can find it in your heart to hear me out. And like I said, after you listen to what I have to say, if you still tell me to fuck off, I'll never bother you again. I swear it.”
I let out a long breath and look at the crowd around us. Everybody is busy laughing and talking to one another, as if our little melodrama had never happened. That's the one thing I love about New York – people know how to take things in stride and move on quickly. I turn back to Carter and feel my heart stutter drunkenly inside of me. He's as beautiful today as he was ten years ago. He's so beautiful it hurts.
I open my mouth, my mind fixed and focused, ready to tell him to get lost, that he can't undo the past. I have a snark, bitter, and biting comment all queued up and ready to go. But, when I hear the words that actually pass my lips, I cringe outwardly – and then mentally kick myself repeatedly.
“Fine,” I say. “Let's go.”
Carter lets out a breath and gives me a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Darby,” he says. “All this time –”
“Shut up,” I say, angry at myself. “I promised to hear you out. Nothing more. Now, let's go get this over with.”
He gives me a little wink and puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I reach back and slap his hand away, drawing a soft chuckle from him. He grabs a couple of glasses of wine as we pass by a waiter carrying a tray, and gestures to some doors near the rear of the hall.
“Through there,” he says.
He leads me through the doors and down a long corridor to another set of doors. We pass through them, stepping out onto a small patio in an enclosed garden. There's a slight chill in the air and I shudder, though I don't know how much of it is from the cold. Fall is definitely in the air, and New York is inching its way toward winter, but it's not too horrible. Not just yet. Carter sets the glasses down on a small table near a bench and takes off his jacket, draping it around my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“Please,” he says. “Sit.”
I take a seat and he hands me one of the glasses of wine. I accept it with a small nod of thanks, and take a sip, needing a little extra fortification for this exchange. I expected Carter to sit down next to me, but he carries his glass, pacing back and forth in front of me, instead. If I didn't know better, I would say he's nervous. But, the Carter I knew was never nervous. That Carter was always confident and full of bravado – or just bluster.
He stops pacing and turns to me. Carter stands before me, holding his glass of wine, his other hand in his pocket, a look of uncertainty on his face. It's as close to vulnerable as I've ever seen Carter before and I feel my heart going out to him – something I quickly and ruthlessly stamp out. Not only does he not deserve my pity, I can't afford to be weak right now. Carter is like an apex predator, and if he smells weakness, he'll pounce.
“I've thought about this moment for a long time,” he says, a sheepish grin on his face. “I used to have a speech all memorized and rehearsed and everything.”
“What happened to it?”
He shrugs. “Thinking about it now, it seems trite and insincere,” he says. “You deserve better.”
“Yeah, I do, Carter,” I snap. “I certainly deserve a lot better than getting ghosted too.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, you do.”
“What the hell happened back then, Carter?” I ask. “Why did you vanish like that? No call, no message, no, 'hey, go fuck yourself, Darby.' Nothing at all. I thought things were going great between us, and then I woke up one day, and it was like you fell off the face of the earth.”
He lets out a long breath. “It's complicated,” he says. “Or, at least, it was.”
“That's bullshit,” I say and start to get to my feet.
“Wait,” he says. “Please. Give me a chance to explain.”
I blow out a frustrated breath and glance at my watch. “You have two minutes.”
He gives me a crooked grin. “It might take a bit longer than that.”
“A minute forty-five,” I say.
“Look, Darby,” he says. “I'm sorry I bailed on you like that. I know I hurt you.”
“Yeah, you did,” I snap. “You have no idea how bad you hurt me, Carter.”
“You're right, I don't know,” he says. “Believe me though, it was nothing you did, or –”
“Yeah, that's great,” I say. “It's also easy for you to say now. Doesn't change all the time I spent beating myself up, thinking otherwise.”
“I'm sorry, Darby,” he says. “I truly am. If I could take all that hurt onto myself, I would. In a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, well, you can't,” I say. “It'd be nice if you got a taste of the hurt you caused me, but it isn’t possible.”
I lean back against the back of the bench and take a long drink of my wine, willing the tears in my eyes to not fall. He doesn't deserve them. What he does deserve, however, is my bitterness and anger. And that's all I plan to give him.
“Not that it compares in any way, but it wasn't easy for me either, Darby,” he says softly. “Please believe me when I say, you weren't the only one who was hurting.”
I scoff. “You're the one who left.”
He lets out a long breath and looks away from me. “You're right. There’s no excuse for that.”
“Why'd you do it, Carter?” I ask. “All these years, I only ever wanted an answer to that question. Why did you run out on me like that?”
He starts pacing again and his demeanor changes. It's clear to see he's agitated and upset. About what, I have no idea. But, it's something, that to my eye, looks like it has bothered and weighed on him for years.
“What is it, Carter?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair and turns back to me once more. Gone is the smile and the playful twinkle in his eye. His expression is grim, his jaw clenched. It's as if he's been debating whether or not to tell me, and has come to a decision – even though he knows I won’t like it.
“Your brother paid me a visit,” he says. “Back then. After we'd been seeing each other a little while. He randomly showed up at my apartment one night.”
Suddenly, I have a feeling I know where this is going. Back then, Mason was arrogant – so arrogant, he thought he could control my life. Thought he knew what I wanted and needed better
than I did. Thought he knew what was best.
Asshole.
“He told me that if I didn't stop seeing you, he was going to use his leverage with the cops...”
His voice trails off and he looks away again, an expression of fury and uncertainty written upon his face. I can see that he's frustrated and has been that way for a long time.
I have no idea what Mason held over him, but it’s clear to me, that even ten years later, Carter's rage is still as fresh as the day my brother threatened him.
“Use his leverage to do what, Carter?” I prompt.
He paces in front of me again, his hand deep in his pockets, his other hand holding his wine glass so tights, I'm afraid he's going to shatter it, a scowl etched deep upon his face. As furious as I am with him, I hate to see him in such obvious pain and distress over something my brother did.
“It's okay, Carter,” I say. “You can tell me.”
He stops pacing and turns to me. The pain in his eyes is plain as day, but it disappears after a few seconds.
“Mason told me that he was going to have the cops and the DA go after Pops if I kept seeing you. Said he'd use his position as an attorney to fuck with Pops,” he finally says. “Told me he'd pin some unsolved murders on him.”
“Murders?” I ask, feeling my blood begin to turn to ice as fear ripples through me. “Did Pops actually kill somebody?”
Carter shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says. “I mean, I don't think so, no.”
“You don't think so?'
He growls, clearly growing more frustrated. “I mean, it's not something we’ve ever sat down and talked about,” he says. “All I know is that whatever Pops did in the past, he’s atoned for it ten times over. He's a good man. The best man I know.”
“So, you traded me for Pops,” I say.
I know how unfair it is for me to say that, but I'm still hurting, and want to stick it to him anyway. Petty? Definitely. But, right now, I'm feeling pretty vindictive.
“It's not like that, Darby,” he says. “Your brother gave me no choice. I wanted to be with you – you have no idea how badly it killed me every fucking day to not be able to see you. But, I couldn't let Mason railroad Pops into prison for something he didn't do. Pops was – is – like a father to me. The only person, besides you, to ever see anything good in me. Anything worth growing and nurturing. Only other person who thought I'd amount to anything at all.”
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