by Lisa Sorbe
Both of my hands are pressed against my mouth now, holding in the shock I’m feeling because certainly shit like this only happens in movies. Right?
“It didn’t excuse what he did – choosing to drive drunk and hitting my dad – and it never will. But it explained it. It explained why it happened. And sometimes, that’s all we can hope for.”
I think I know where he’s going with this. I think I know where he’s going, and I rebel. “Miles, that situation is totally different than what I had with Julian. I’m glad you were able to find peace with that whole awful ordeal, but what if you had to see that guy every day? Watch him go on with life right in front of your nose, knowing what he did? Julian wasn’t drunk when he fucked me over. When he did the things he did. He was completely aware. Of everything. I’m not about to condone his behavior.”
“Forgiveness isn’t about condoning, Jenny. It’s not even about the other person. Not really. It’s about yourself. Caring enough about yourself to let all that resentment and hostility go.” He places a hand on my chest, right above my heart. “Don’t let it eat you up.”
“It’s not that easy,” I whisper, leaning into his touch.
He nods. “I know it isn’t.”
“I don’t see how I can ever forgive him. I hate him. I just hate him so much…”
“And it might take a while for that feeling to go away.”
I look into his eyes. His beautiful, autumn-colored eyes. “How long did it take you to forgive? You know, that ass –” I bite my lip. “That guy. How long did it take for you to not just want to rip his heart out?”
He smiles, smoothing his hand up and over my neck, cupping my cheek. “Forgiveness didn’t happen overnight. Not for me, anyway. But the hate did. All the anger, the rage. It just sort of trickled out. And after he left, I crashed. I was so exhausted, had been sense I was ten years old, to be honest. An entire decade after the accident, and that night after talking with Merv was the first time I slept through the night.”
I frown. “Merv? Not… Not Merv the bum?”
Miles nods. “Yeah. The same one. Mervin Rothchester. Opened The Rothchester House and the soup kitchen when he got out of prison. Poured every scent he had in it.”
I try to speak, but my thoughts are sticky. “Merv?” I manage.
“Merv is a violinist virtuoso. He’s played with symphonies all over the world, even had some solo shows when he was younger. He’s from Cedar Hills, actually. Quite the local celebrity back in the day. He was playing with the New York philharmonic when his wife died. He sort of lost it after that. Every year he gets a little bit worse. I don’t know if it’s early onset Alzheimer’s or something just broke in his brain when Nancy – that was his wife’s name – was killed right in front of him. In fact, the only time he’s really with it is when he’s playing. I think that’s the only thing holding him together some days.”
“Holy butterflies,” I mumble, shaking my head. “I – I had no idea. None. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Miles shrugs. “People are adept at judging by appearances. But appearances rarely tell the whole story.”
I chew on my lip. Consider what he’s proposing. “How do you know when it’s gone? All that anger and hate? Because I just tried. Just said to myself, I forgive him.” I frown. “It didn’t work.”
He laughs, but I know he’s not making fun of me. “Forgiveness, for me, went in stages. Day by day, little by little. And it’s hard to explain, but letting go isn’t about saying something in your head and – poof! – suddenly all the resentment is gone. Changing the way you think helps, though.” He smiles. “Expressing those dark emotions – in safe way, of course. Sort of like when you paint. You’re definitely less bitchy after a few hours in your studio.”
I smack his shoulder, but then lean in and kiss his cheek.
“And then one day,” he says, “that two-hundred-pound load that’s been strapped to your back all these years will just be… gone. Granted, some people like that extra weight. They say the anger is the only way they can get through the day. And I understand that, because those day dreams of kicking the shit out of the – at the time – faceless bastard who was the reason my dad was dead was the only way I could get through the day without giving up. But eventually I wanted more. I didn’t want to just get through the day. I wanted to live. I saw other people smiling, happy, living their lives. And I wanted what they had. I just didn’t know how to get it until I met Merv. Until I gave him a chance and listened to what he had to say. And, sweetheart, let me tell you… Living without the hate feels so much better than living with it.”
“But I’m one of those people that like the hate and hostility. It feels good. Like I’m vindicated for all the shit I went through. For what he put me through.”
“I know,” he says. “Believe me. And you don’t have to listen to me. You’re free to feel any way you want. I’ll support you in whatever decision you make. I just wanted to tell you my story because I thought it might help.” He leans in and brushes his lips over mine.
When he pulls away, I sigh and reach out, grabbing the card Julian left behind from the coffee table. When I flip it over, I see his chicken scratch. It’s his cell number, the black ink stark against the white cardstock. The familiar handwriting brings back memories. So many memories. And, along with those memories, feelings. Feelings bad and good.
My lungs push out a pent-up breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. I wave to the kitchen island, where I left my cell. My legs feel rubbery, like jello, and my heart is hammering in my chest. “Would you mind grabbing my phone for me?”
Miles – sweet, sweet Miles – retrieves my phone, plants a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me, okay?”
I nod.
When he’s gone, I dial Julian’s number. When he answers, it takes a few seconds to find my voice. But when I do, it’s surprisingly clear.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Talk.”
I hate him the minute I see him.
Nope. Sorry Miles. This is a bad idea.
But I hold my chin up as Julian slides into the seat across from mine.
He sounded so relieved when I called him this afternoon and immediately agreed to meet me tonight at, according to him, “…wherever. I don’t care. Just name the place.”
So, I told him to meet me at Bert’s because this is a place he’d never set foot in otherwise. I wanted to meet him on my turf, gain the upper hand. Secretly, though, I just want to see how uncomfortable I can make him. This isn’t about giving him a chance. This is about giving him an ultimatum.
Stay the fuck away from us.
I didn’t even get dressed up for this. You’d think I would, right? Show him what he’s been missing out on all these years. What he let get away. Or, more accurately, what he threw away.
But, no.
My goal is to show him I don’t care. That a meeting with him isn’t worth getting fixed up for. Mascara and clear lip gloss is as far as I’ve taken my makeup. I pulled my hair back into a loose side bun, and the only jewelry I’m wearing is the necklace Miles got me for Christmas and my engagement ring. And if all that isn’t enough of a sign, my ripped black jeans and oversized gray sweater that keeps sliding down my right shoulder should scream I don’t give a fuck what you think.
My hand is wrapped around a beer, and when I see him glance at it, I ask, “Do you want something to drink?”
He nods, so I wave over the waitress. She’s plump and perky, and I’ve been here so much over the last six months I know her by name. When she makes her way to the table, I nod toward Julian.
Trina looks at him, and then shoots a questioning glance my way. I just roll my eyes and shake my head. Julian sees our interaction and clears his throat. “I’ll just have the same,” he says, and motions toward my beer.
Trina nods and smiles. “Sure thing.” She turns to me. “You good, Jenny?”
I nod, not taking my eyes off Julian. “As good as I can be, consideri
ng the company.”
Her smile wobbles, but she recovers up quickly. “Well.” She laughs a shaky laugh and turns to Julian. “I’ll be right back with your drink.” And with that, she scurries away.
Okay. So I may have just made the waitress a tab bit uncomfortable. But all’s fair in war. Catching innocents in the crossfire is sometimes unavoidable.
Julian, however, seems intent on playing his own game. He came dressed to kill. He shrugs out of his coat, revealing a navy sweater that loosely hugs his large frame. The sleeves are pushed halfway up to his elbows, probably to show off his large forearms. He’s wearing a thick leather cuff around his left wrist, a guy type of accessory that for some reason as always turns me on. It’s like medieval war hero meets contemporary man. Or something. Either way, it’s hot.
His dark hair is cut short on the sides and long on top, brushed up and away from his forehead. A trimmed beard and black glasses, broad shoulders and high cheekbones. Emilia’s sloping nose…
“Why are you here, Julian? And did you really think you could threaten me with a lawyer?”
Shock rearranges his features. “I wasn’t… I’m not trying to threaten you, Jen.”
I take a pull from my beer. “Yeah, well the card from that law firm says otherwise.”
But he shakes his head. “I just went there for a consultation. To, I don’t know. Talk. Find out what my rights are.”
Trina delivers Julian’s beer, and we remain quiet until she’s out of earshot.
“Rights?” I laugh. “That’s rich. You don’t have any rights, Julian. Shit, your name isn’t even on her birth certificate. By your choice, not mine.”
“I can get a paternity test,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
Coward. He’s a fucking coward.
And I tell him.
“You’re right,” he says, looking up. “You fucking hit the nail on the head, Jen.” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “I was a coward. I was a hotheaded asshole who freaked out when his wife told him she was pregnant.”
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “That’s no excuse for how you behaved.”
“I know,” he says, finally looking at me. “I know it’s not. Nothing excuses what I did. How I treated you and… her.”
I’m quiet, because there’s nothing to say. Nothing is getting resolved here. Nothing. I still feel the same way I did when I walked in here tonight – pure hate. Rage. Anger. Resentment. My insides are boiling over with it all.
“I was blindsided,” he continues. “All the years we were together and you said you never wanted kids. And hell, I didn’t want kids. We had a plan for a future without babies and bottles and diapers. Shit, without toddlers and playdates and soccer games. It was you and me, always. And that’s how I thought it was always going to be. I – I know I was never able to show my feelings the right way. Love was such a for foreign concept to me when I met you. I didn’t know what it felt like, so I had no clue when I was in it.”
“No,” I bite back. “You obviously didn’t.”
He seems small to me. Sure, he’s the same height, the same build. But something about him has diminished.
“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was scared. Fuck, Jen. That night you told me you were pregnant, I lost my mind from the fear. I’d never had a family, other than the piece-of-shit foster homes I bounced between when I was a kid. Not to mention before that, when my dad kicked the shit out of me on a daily basis. And I inherited that anger. I know I did. I couldn’t be a father, I had no idea how to be a father. I hated my own so much, and I was worried I’d…” He sighs, swipes his massive hands over his face, “I’d turn around and do exactly what he did. Because I could feel it. Back then, I could feel it – all that hate racing through me. It was so strong I could barely contain it. I was able to channel it into sculpting, working out. Sex.” He looks at me, his eyes dark. “But with a little baby in the house? I – I had no idea how I would handle that. What if she started crying and I lost it? There were just so many ways for me to fuck up. And yes, I know. I was a coward for not even trying.”
“You never told me that.”
He runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “Huh? Of, course I did.”
But I shake my head. “No, no you didn’t. You told me you were in foster care when you were seven, but that’s all you’d ever say about your past. You’d get pretty pissed when I tried to pry more out of you, actually.”
“Yeah, well.” His voice is dry. “Anything from seven years on down wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, much less remember. Not that foster care was much better, that is. But at least I didn’t get smacked around, which I guess was an improvement. Mainly, I got the silent treatment. Outright ignored for the most part. The people who took me in only wanted me for the money. Not that it was all that much, but…” He shrugs. “When you don’t spend any of it on the kid it’s meant for, it’s still extra cash in your pocket, right?” He tries to laugh, like he’s making a joke, but it falls short.
I never knew this. “Being ignored. I think that would be almost worse.”
“Yeah,” he says, “maybe it was. I guess I never really learned how to actually deal with people. Other than shutting them out, that is. Or treating them like objects, like a means to an end. The way I was treated growing up. You, though. Jen, you were different. And I could barely handle the way I felt when I was around you. It was so fucking overwhelming. All the years we were together, and you were the only thing I feared losing. I never wanted to love anything – need anything – in the first place. I’d been down that road as a kid. And I had no desire to go through it as an adult. But you…” He stops abruptly, takes a drink from his beer, draining almost half the bottle. “And it wasn’t long after – after we met – that I began to need you. You,” he shakes his head and chuckles, but it’s a sound filled with so much pain and sorrow and regret that it almost hurts me to hear it. “You were like air to me. And suddenly, without meaning to, I needed you to breathe. I tried everything in my power not to, at first. Wanting you was fine. I could handle that. But needing you… I never knew how to deal with it.”
I lean in, rest my elbows on the table. “So you fell in love with me, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Do you know how many people would kill to fall in love with someone who actually loved them back? Have them love you the way I did?”
Now his laugh is bitter. “Really, Jen? Really? Did you love me, or did you just love the lifestyle that was possible with me?”
My body jerks. “I loved you,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, well. That very well may be,” he says, lifting the bottle and taking another swig. “But you weren’t any better at showing it than I was.”
My mouth works, and when nothing comes out, I snap it shut. Press my lips together. Because, deep down, I know he’s right. I’ve always had love in my life. So much of it, in fact, I got to feeling like it was something I was owed. Like it would always be around, no matter how I acted or what I did. Unlike Julian, I knew what love was. But I was stupid enough to take it for granted.
For the first time, the door to maybe opens.
Miles’s mom can make music with the man responsible for her husband’s death. Maybe, just maybe, I can share my daughter with my ex-husband.
“Look, I can throw at you all the ways you chose stuff like modeling contracts and designer clothes and parties and influence over us, but I won’t. And it’s not because I’m trying to be the bigger person. Because I’m not. I know,” he blows out a breath. “I know I was way worse to you than you ever were to me. I – I know it.” He pushes aside his empty bottle, folds his hands on the table, and studies them. “And if you don’t want me back and you won’t let me see… See her, that’s fine. Well,” he amends, “it’s not fine. But I would… I would understand. I’m not here to demand anything from you, as hard as that may be to believe. I mean, I have – er, had – hopes, of course. Obviously.” He flattens his palms against the tab
le and looks up. His smile is small, shaky, and eventually it collapses, turning down at the edges. “The main thing I wanted to do today was to tell you how sorry I am. And baby, I am. I’m so fucking sorry…”
His voice catches, and he balls up his fist, presses it against his lips. And as I watch his eyes close and his shoulders shake, all thoughts of war dissolve.
Because this is real. In all the ten years we were together, Julian never once broke down in front of me. I’ve never seen him shed a tear. Not one.
And my heart, newly pieced back together, shatters.
I’m spent when I walk I through the door to Miles’s loft.
He’s waiting up for me, ready to deal with whatever emotional wreck I could possibly be in after my meeting with Julian. The record player is spinning an old Led Zeppelin album and Miles has his long legs spread out on the couch, a book about quantum physics open in his lap.
“You’re such a nerd,” I say, coming up behind him. But I bend down and brush a kiss over the top of his head to show him that I love him anyway.
He tucks the sleeve of the hardcover in between the pages to mark his spot, and then I take the book and set it on the coffee table.
“How’d it go?” he asks. He’s cautious, I can tell.
But before I answer him, I climb into his lap, straddle his legs, and press my lips to his. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him into me, kissing him with a passion that borders on desperation. I suck him in, every bit of him, and give him just as much of myself back.
Because I never, ever want him doubting my feelings.
When I pull back, I press my forehead to his. We’re both gasping, struggling to catch our breath. “I love you, Miles,” I say, my voice thin not only from lack of oxygen but from the emotion creeping up my throat.