How could I explain this to him without sounding like a tactless oaf? Maybe Caroline had a point. “I have a hard time dealing with feelings.”
“No kidding.”
“I don’t know how to change it.”
“You trust Caroline. You’ve trusted other people before, right?”
At least he had the delicacy not to mention Tom by name. “Yes. But it’s never been all that easy.”
“Help me make it easier.”
How could I give him an answer when I didn’t have one? “The problem’s on my end.”
Which sounded depressingly final. I knew I needed to be fixed. I knew he wanted to fix me. I just didn’t know how such a thing was done.
“I care about you,” Alexander said. “Much more than I probably should at this point in our relationship. You’ve been hurt. I understand that. But you can’t begin to heal until you admit you need help.”
I’d never deserved Tom. I probably didn’t deserve Alex. Despite his heartfelt promises, there was a reticence in his voice. I had to try to remedy it. “Can I take you to dinner so we can talk? I feel like doing this over the phone makes it harder.”
He paused. “I’ve already got plans for tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
Had we said we were exclusive? Was that a thing we had to do? Was he trying to let me down easy with pretty words and talk of emotional support? “Are you seeing another woman?”
I couldn’t tell what he was doing on the other end of the line since I couldn’t see him, but the length of time it took him to answer led me to believe he was gritting his teeth, pretending to throttle me, or most likely trying to keep himself from saying something he couldn’t take back. Not that I was an expert on such things. Except that I was.
“No,” he said. “It’s a business dinner. But I commend you for jumping to the worst conclusion.”
I needed to stop mucking everything up but didn’t know how to restrain my whims of self-doubt. “Maybe I should stop talking.”
“Christine.” The sound of my name on his lips calmed me a little. “I’m not mad at you for what happened the other night. I’m scared. For you. And for us. Shutting people out and stifling your emotions is not a healthy way to handle grief, or anything else for that matter. I’m worried about you.”
It had been easy to keep my night terrors a secret while I was sleeping alone. Now it was a bit tougher. “It wasn’t—”
“Don’t tell me it was a one-time thing because I know that’s not the case.”
The man could read me better than I thought. Was that good or bad? “I shouldn’t have locked you out,” I conceded.
“And…?” he said.
“And I shouldn’t have thrown your clothes in your general direction,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. My lame attempt at a joke.
The laugh I hoped for didn’t materialize. “And?”
“And I shouldn’t have waited four days to call and apologize.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re learning. Very slowly, but it’s something.”
I needed more than his words or his acknowledgement of my remorse. I needed him. “Can you stop by my condo after your dinner? Please?”
“It’s probably going to run late. Are you free tomorrow night?”
Even if I’d had plans, I would have broken them to see him. “Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he promised.
And I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
*****
The next afternoon, my phone buzzed. A number that seemed oddly familiar, but I hadn’t added it to my directory so it couldn’t have been anyone important. Still, instinct told me to answer.
“Hello?”
“President Sullivan? It’s George Guardiola.”
Alexander’s father. My mind started spinning. Something had happened. Something bad. Why would he call me? Had Alexander been in an accident? Was he ill? All the worst moments of my life were flashing before me and the slideshow ended with Alexander Guardiola in some horrible condition.
“Yes?” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray my growing panic. I took a breath and tried again. “What can I help you with?” Please don’t let it be Alex. Please please please.
“I understand congratulations are in order.”
For what? Alexander surely wouldn’t have told him anything about our budding relationship, about my willingness to try to move forward, about our happy little dinner set for later in the evening. Would he?
“I don’t quite understand,” I said.
“Oh, but you must! You don’t need to be coy. I know all about it. I found out this morning.”
I’d gone from sheer panic to vulgar discomfort to utter confusion in the span of two seconds. And that made me suspicious as hell. “Found out about what?”
“About the move to Barcelona.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” he said, in a voice that implied he clearly knew I did not. “The hybrid office Alexander’s agreed to open with the firm. I’m sure it helped that I’m his father. He’s a bright young man, you know. Quite a future ahead of him.”
Message received. He thought I was too old for his son. And yet. “Hybrid office?” I rasped.
“A mix of legal work and social services. Helping refugees, providing assistance, figuring out the changing legal market on behalf of the partners here in the States. Surely you must know all this, and yet you’re acting so surprised! I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I knew what I had in me. A deep, seething rage. “Of course,” I said.
“Started packing yet? I’m sure you have quite a few things to settle before leaving the country.”
“Oh, not yet,” I said casually, counting all the ways I could flay Alexander Guardiola once I got my hands on him. “But soon. Very soon.”
“My congratulations again. I’m sure you’ll be very happy in Spain. By the way,” George added, “I forgot to lose your number.”
The bitch at the end of his statement was definitely silent, but I heard it anyway. And he rather discourteously hung up, so I didn’t even have the opportunity to hurl a fitting insult back at him. I hated cell phones for that very reason. I couldn’t even slam down a receiver in anger, so instead I flung my phone, my purse, and everything in close vicinity against the wall as hard as I could.
Chapter 15
“You look gorgeous,” Alexander said when I opened the door that night.
There was no point in wasting any time. “And you look like someone planning transcontinental relocation,” I said.
He had the decorum not to challenge the accusation, though I did see a momentary flicker of confusion in his eyes. “How—?” He slammed his fist into his palm. “When did he call you?”
“Earlier today. It’s been rather invigorating sitting here stewing in anger for the past few hours,” I said. “I’m positively pickled at this point.”
“Don’t make jokes.”
“Oh, I assure you, I don’t find this amusing in the least.”
“Are you going to give me a chance to explain, or should I allow you to jump to the worst conclusion, again?”
I took a seat on the couch, gesturing for him to take a seat. He chose to stand. “The managing partner here in Philadelphia called me last week,” he said. “I agreed to hear him out. It was right after that night you locked yourself in the bathroom.”
Oh. He was going to blame this on me. “Stellar timing.”
“This has nothing to do with you,” he said, echoing my thoughts in a most unsettling way. “But at the time I was hurt and angry and I’m still somewhat adrift professionally, so when he told me that he and some other members of the firm wanted to make me an offer, I felt duty bound to listen.”
“You don’t owe them anything,” I said.
“Nor they me,” he said. “They took me to dinner last night. We talked about why I left, what I’d been doing, what I wanted to do. And they told me they were looking to branch out into other par
ts of Europe. Do more pro bono work. Form partnerships with local nonprofits. Create a business plan unlike any of their other offices. It sounded intriguing.”
“You told them yes.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. But I didn’t say no. I wanted to hear them out, explore my options, especially since I wasn’t sure what was going on between you and me.”
“So, it is my fault.”
“It’s not anyone’s fault!” he exclaimed. “I can make decisions in my life for reasons that have nothing to do with you. But it didn’t help that you were pushing me away. I knew I wasn’t in the right place to make objective determinations, even after our phone call yesterday, so I told them I needed to think it over.”
He could wrap his plans up in a cloak of rationality, but I knew better. “Your father gave me the impression it was a done deal.”
“Of course he did. Because he knew you’d believe him. Because he’s figured you out without knowing a damn thing about you.”
Ouch. I didn’t like where this was going. “Excuse me?”
“You might claim you want people to get to know the real you, but deep down inside you’re the very person you appear to be on the surface.”
I crossed my arms. “Explain, please.”
“Closed off. Aloof. Diffident. All those characteristics you claim to hate seeing used to describe your personality seem to be on the mark.”
I was losing him. I’d done it. He was slipping through my fingers, except maybe he’d never really been mine to begin with. “That’s not who I am,” I whispered.
“It’s exactly who you are. You really don’t trust anyone, do you? Every single person you meet must have nefarious intentions because there’s no possible way they might actually give a shit about you or your feelings. You’re carting around this lead balloon, largely of your own making, and you don’t have the courage or the humility to ask someone else to help you with it. You started walling yourself off the instant you answered the door tonight. You just can’t help yourself.”
“Alex—”
He held up a finger, cutting me off. “Let’s clear something up. It’s safe for you to assume that if I no longer want to see you or if I want to leave you, I’ll tell you. However, it’s a little insulting that you assume that this potential move means I’m doing precisely that. I haven’t decided anything one way or the other. I’m still trying to figure out logistics. And despite all my reservations, despite all my concerns that you weren’t ready for a serious relationship, despite my fear that grief was dictating your movements, I was going to discuss it with you and ask you to come with me. Because I love you.”
Oh god. He’d never told me that before. It had to come out at the very moment I shredded his heart into pieces. I tried again. “Alex—”
“Don’t. Don’t attempt to mimic my words or act like I didn’t say them. I won’t take them back. This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out how I felt or about my potential prospects but it’s out there now. So let’s deal with it.”
I was sure it meant his declaration of love. He wanted me to acknowledge it, respect it, maybe even repeat it back to him. And I wanted to. I really did.
But… I didn’t. My mind instantly went to the more immediate, less threatening concept of the dinner offer. “Why didn’t you tell me about this meeting last night on the phone?”
“I didn’t know what it was about. It was just a dinner. I figured we’d talk about it tonight. I thought you’d be happy. Not only for me, but for yourself. You hate having people staring at you. You hate having Secret Service agents. You spend all your time worrying about the opinions of people who don’t matter. I assumed you’d jump at the chance to get out of here. You could go to Barcelona and live in relative anonymity, going where you pleased, doing what you wanted, being who you wanted to be. No more speeches, no more posing for selfies, no more hiding from the press. Except maybe that’s not what you want. Maybe you get off on being a weary martyr, I don’t know. I never got that impression but you’re doing your best to prove me wrong.”
He was angry. And hurt. And lashing out. A reaction all too familiar to me. “How did your father know about it?”
“I’m sure the partners tipped him off. Bringing me back into the fold would be quite a coup, I’m sure. For all of them. I can’t believe he called you. That bastard has no rock bottom.”
“He doesn’t like me very much,” I said lamely.
“He didn’t do it to hurt you. He did it to hurt me.” Alexander hesitated. “Because for whatever reason, he knew how to hit me where it would cause the most damage.” He sniffed. “Do you know what my father said to me when he told me he’d given you my number? Do you?”
I’d been dying to know. It looked like I was finally going to get my wish. So I shook my head no, and waited.
“He told me I should fuck you to get ahead. Both metaphorically and physically. Only a true sonofabitch would say something like that, don’t you think? ‘Fuck her for the notoriety and leave her. That shrill harpy will do nothing but destroy you.’ End quote. Lovely sentiment, isn’t it? You can imagine what life was like for my mother.”
What could I possibly say to that? His father was right. I wasn’t about to try to defend myself. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t. But you destroyed me anyway. Score a point for dear old dad, because his misogynistic ass predicted this perfectly.”
I knew I had to say something. I had to make him listen. I had to take the time to convince him that I was more than I was. I knew, deep down, that he didn’t think I was a shrill harpy. That had been his father talking, not him. His father was the hurtful one, and he was the one being hurt. I knew there was a difference. I just had to acknowledge it. But the words wouldn’t come. “Alex—”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry, Christine. I truly am. I can’t balance between walking on eggshells and occasionally forcing the issue with no hope of relief.”
It was my job to stop this. I was the one who went from hot to cold, who shut myself down before opening up too much, jumped to conclusions without asking for explanations. He was the one who had continually laid himself on the line, made himself vulnerable, been willing to accept my unwillingness to explore my own vulnerabilities, and I’d thrown it in his face.
But my mouth stayed glued shut.
“I’ve tried to help,” he said quietly. “I’ve begged you to let me help. I’ve done everything I can to convince you to let me in, and it hasn’t been enough. I need all of you, or more than I’m getting now. I just… I can’t go through this pain without some possibility that there’s something for us on the other side.”
He was going to leave. Just like everyone else. They left and didn’t come back. “Alex, wait. Please.”
He averted his eyes. Red rimmed. I’d messed up so, so badly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t deal with you, or this, right now.”
I let him leave. I had no way to stop him. No magical words to say. No healing salve. No ability to be anyone other than who and what I was. I heard the door click behind him as he left.
And I wept.
*****
“You look like hell,” Caroline said.
I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep and had come over as early as she’d let me. “I know.”
“And you’re being too honest. What happened?”
“I messed up, Punky. Really, really badly.” I looked around. Not that I didn’t trust Jack but… “Can we go in your office?”
“Okay.” Caroline grabbed a box of tissues as we headed down the hall. “Just in case.”
Spencer was napping under Caroline’s desk. I ignored her and sat down on the couch as Caroline hopped up on her desk with a thump. The dog remained oblivious.
“I had a big fight with Alex,” I said.
“Obviously.”
“It was about more than the nightmares.”
“I see.”
“He said some really rotten things and
I didn’t contradict him because he was right.”
“I find that hard to believe, but go on.”
“I couldn’t get up the courage to tell him how I feel.”
“How do you feel?”
The million-dollar question. “I care about him. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long, long time.”
“How does he feel about you?”
I grabbed a preemptive handful of tissues. “He loves me.”
“Oh.” That simple revelation seemed to leave Caroline at a loss for words. “He told you pretty fast, huh? How’d you respond?”
“Not well.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. In an ideal world, what would you have told him?”
She was going to force me to say it. A predictable move but one entirely based in affection. I couldn’t fault her for it. If I indeed had to get more comfortable with my feelings, that included expressing said feelings as well. “I like him a lot.”
Caroline shook her head. “Try again.”
How could it be so easy to let those words slip out in one circumstance, but be so difficult in another? I had no problem giving and receiving affection with her. Or with her children. Or even with Jack. Nor had I ever had trouble with Tom.
But maybe that was the point. It wasn’t always easy, but I had to take advantage of opportunities to make it less challenging. And that started by being truthful with myself. “I love him. I wanted to say it during everything that was happening, even though it didn’t seem like the right time, but the words got caught in my throat.”
“He loves you, you love him. Seems pretty square to me, even if he was the first one to say it out loud.”
Technically the only one, since I’d foolishly held my tongue. Men always seemed to figure out the mushy stuff faster. “I don’t deserve his love.”
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t. I don’t trust him enough. He doesn’t know the real me.”
“Hardly anyone knows the real you. I think he might, though. Better than you think he does.”
Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7) Page 21