by Alice Ward
Sadie cleared her throat uncomfortably. “It sounds like you’re defending her.”
“Not her.” She didn’t respond, just let silence settle between us like the dander in the air. My eye sockets started to itch, and it became difficult to swallow. “I’m defending myself.”
“You were a kid, Tate. You don’t have to defend yourself.”
“I feel like I do.” Tears were threatening to swell from my eyes, and I fought them with every mite of control I possessed, but I was angry as I retold my tale and my control was wavering. “That woman was an abuser. She took a child who literally had nothing and used him for her own personal pleasures.” The first droplet bloomed. “I hate her for that, but I hate myself even more because I still feel like I owe her something.”
Something I said must have grabbed Sadie by the middle and wrenched her out of her anxiety because she stormed toward me with pounding footsteps and arms swinging wildly at her sides. Her jaw was set in a hard square, and her eyes flamed with the fires of Hell. I momentarily wondered manically if she was going to hit me, but she came within arm’s reach and snatched my chin between her thumb and forefinger with jarring purpose.
“You owe her nothing.” Her hiss was so poisonous she could have frightened away a rattlesnake. “Everything she gave you or did for you came with an agenda. You were a means to a screwed up end for her, and the only thing she should get in return is a horse’s head in her bed.”
“Sadie, I don’t owe her for taking care of me.” She hesitated, surprised by my revelation. Her hold on my chin loosened slightly. “That’s never crossed my mind.”
Her ferocious gaze softened, and her brows lowered together. “Then… why do you think you need to repay her?”
I swung my arm behind me, gesturing toward the stage. “For this. All this.” I raised the other to motion haphazardly around myself. “Don’t you understand? I got my start because of her. I am where I am because of her. My whole success story never would’ve happened if I hadn’t had a relationship with a married pedophile and become a freaking gigolo. I can’t escape her because everything I’ve become, my entire life as I know it, has her name stamped on the bottom.”
“Because she got you into community theater?” Skepticism now reigned where anger had been.
“She didn’t do just that.” I pulled myself away completely from her and crossed my arms. “I got to New York because she made it happen. She knew someone in the off-Broadway circle, and she made a call. The next thing I knew, I was on a plane, and it was like I’d been saved.” I lowered my face into my hand, and my voice lowered with it. “I’m indebted to a woman who abused me through statutory rape and human trafficking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sadie
I heard a click.
It was as defined as the sound of the shutter button on a camera or a lock snapping into place, except it happened in my brain.
Click!
The puzzle pieces were coming together, and I finally had a real view of the full picture. The drug addict parents and the grisly murder and the dysfunctional foster homes and the terminally ill brother were enough to explain a lot of Tate’s strange behavior when I’d spoken about my family and inquired about his. This, however, pulled back the curtain on everything else.
The secrecy. The lies, both outright and by omission. The deafening silences.
It all made perfect sense now. The lightbulb was on. I was wearing glasses I didn’t know I needed, and all the things that continuously tumbled around inside me and scrambled my nerves stilled to peaceful immobility. In their wake, however, new stirrings were beginning, but I needed to address the broken man in front of me before I addressed them.
“Remember when your brother yelled at you yesterday for taking on the blame for his sickness?” I asked. I made a conscious effort to keep my voice level and calm, but my mind was starting to bluster with an overload of unwelcome thoughts. “When he got mad at you because you just wouldn’t believe him that it wasn’t your fault?”
“Yes.”
“Do I need to explode on you too, or can you believe me when I tell you that you’ve become as famous and beloved as you are because you made it happen?”
Tate didn’t look at me. He stared somewhere over my shoulder with unmoving eyes and his mouth tightened into a thin line that remained as unmoving as he did. The lack of response didn’t deter me, though.
Whatever was going on in my head would have to wait because I wasn’t about to leave California letting him think all that was good in his life was only cloaking the bad. Regardless of what happened between us when we got back home, nobody deserved to be a victim, nor to remain one.
“The phone call that psycho, sick woman made wouldn’t have meant a thing if you didn’t have it, Tate. That off-Broadway friend of hers would’ve had you back on a plane within an hour if you were talentless or unwilling to put in the work.” I was tempted to grab his chin again and force him to look at me, but my hands were shaking. “You’ve been holding on to her for way too long, and you’ve been doing it for a reason that just doesn’t exist. She’s irrelevant to your success.”
He rubbed his forehead with his thumb and sniffed. “I’ve been telling myself that for a long time, but I never believed it.”
“Well, believe it now, because it’s coming from someone who’s made a living out of deciding what makes a good actor.”
His lips filled out again, and the edges of his eyes crinkled a little. It wasn’t a smile, but it was the closest thing to one I’d seen since we’d arrived at this forsaken theater. I stood back on my heels and watched him, waiting to see if I’d convinced him enough to lay down my weapons of insistence.
“Should we head back?”
It wasn’t the response I was looking for, but there was a warmth in his voice that served as validation. I studied him for a moment longer, then wrapped my arms around myself and glanced up at the concave ceiling. “You mean before one of those earthquakes that California’s so famous for hits and we’re buried beneath the rubble? Yes, please.”
***
Lodi looked different than it had the first time we’d driven through it. The dismal houses were sad to see, rather than alarming. I didn’t gape at the sidewalks with chunks missing like I had when I’d initially seen them. The dogs left to bake in the sun on dried lawns with chains around their necks made eye contact with me as our car went past, and I saw hopelessness within them. I wondered how many had witnessed the same kinds of nightmarish things Tate had witnessed in his formative years, and I pitied them.
A large hand closed over my knee. “What’s on your mind?”
Neither of us had spoken since we’d left the forgotten theater and hearing his voice without warning jolted me. I felt him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“Nothing.” The fib slipped from my mouth before I could stop it. “It’s just been a lot to take in.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It has.”
His hand was warm on my leg, and I found its presence both comforting and intrusive. The new string of doubts that had started forming after he’d told me about Joanne were thrusting against the barriers of my mind, bullying me into facing them, but I was reluctant. Reluctant and tired.
So. Tired.
I was tired of feeling insecure about Tate and our relationship. It had been exhausting trying to pry my way past his walls, and it was exhausting now that I’d seen behind them. The amount of energy it took to separate each intricate particle of why we had failed was astounding.
My efforts to shield myself temporarily from deep thought were weakening with every second that passed. Tate turned on the radio, and I tried to let the soulful tunes of Hootie & the Blowfish take me away, but there was no escaping what was already inside.
On one hand, there was no denying the connection I had with him. Our relationship had blossomed at the speed of light, and feelings had deepened way sooner than I’d ever experienced. The other side of that coin
, though, was that the negative feelings were just as intense and gripping as the positive ones. I had soared from dawn ‘til dusk when I had known I was going to be in his arms, and I was crashing like an eighteen-wheeler on an icy mountain pass pummeling into an evergreen as I realized I didn’t know anything at all.
And that was the crux. With the truth, the whole truth, laid out in front of me, I knew nothing. Who was this man?
Tate McGrath was someone I was familiar with. He was the man who’d headlined more than a handful of incredible Broadway productions. He was someone who knew how to throw himself so thoroughly into a character that he was virtually inseparable from his fictionalized self, and that gift brought tears, laughter, and raucous applause from any audience lucky enough to witness him in action.
Tate McGrath knew eccentric owners of Italian restaurants and stargazed at midnight. He appreciated his fans but avoided being mobbed with attention. His eyes could tear the chastity belt off a virgin, and his wit could bring any intelligent woman to her knees.
I didn’t know Tyler Finnigan.
I knew Tyler Finnigan’s story, his whole tragic story, but I didn’t know him.
Did he have nightmares about his dead mother when he slept at night? Was he paranoid when he was alone? There was no doubt in my mind that he was carrying his childhood traumas around with him in his adulthood, but what that meant for his day-to-day life and personal relationships, I couldn’t be sure.
Had he actually been able to enjoy having sex with me, or had the entire act been tainted by his beginnings? And what did I mean to him? Did he think of me in remotely the same way he thought of those older women who took advantage of him?
I was disgusted with myself for making any of this remotely about me, but there it was. My fear and doubt spilling over me in waves.
“Are you hungry?” Again, his voice startled me, and I had to blink a few times to distinguish his speaking from my vivid musings. “We can get something to eat before we get on the plane, if you want.”
My stomach growled at the mention of food, but my tongue recoiled. Eating was likely the smart thing to do as I hadn’t had any sustenance since Artie’s zucchini bread, yet my appetite seemed to have taken off on an extended vacation. I shook my head and offered him a split second of eye contact before turning my gaze back out the passenger-side window. “No, thanks.”
“Is there anything you want before we get on the plane? A souvenir t-shirt, maybe?”
To oblige him, I cracked a smile as I shook my head again. “My closet’s too full as it is.”
“Really? You never struck me as a fashionista.”
“I’m not. I have a habit of not throwing things away.”
Maybe that’s why I was suffering so much self-inflicted turmoil surrounding Tate. Just like I held on to clothes I’d had since high school that were ten years out of style and missing threads in the hems, maybe I was trying desperately to find a reason to hold on to whatever it was he and I had. And the struggle was because logic was overwhelming desire. Maybe there was nothing to hold on to, and I simply didn’t want to let go of the fantasy I’d built for myself.
My vision fogged with uninvited tears, and I twisted my neck a little more to eliminate any chance of Tate seeing my face. I didn’t want to walk away a second time. He’d done what I’d asked — he’d opened up to me and told me all the things he’d hidden from the world.
But how was I supposed to trust him again?
How was I supposed to trust anyone?
Especially myself?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tate
The flight back to New York was as quiet as the one from it, but it wasn’t my doing. Sadie was in her own little world, keeping her face turned toward the window and her hands knotted in her lap. I attempted to initiate casual conversation several times, figuring light chatting would be a relief to both of us after such heavy conversation, but her responses to me were short and closed-ended. Eventually, I decided it was best to leave her be, and we soared over America in silence.
While Sadie was evidently weighted by all she had learned over the past couple of days, I was feeling more weightless than I’d ever felt. The chains had been removed from my waist, the irons had been unlocked from my ankles, and I was able to take a deep breath. I was astounded, actually, that shoving myself back into the heart of everything I’d sought to eliminate from my life had already started to release some of the weight of the cross I’d unwittingly borne.
I had initially decided to take the step of opening up to Sadie and bringing her to California for her peace of mind — and, selfishly, for mine in hoping it would bring us back together — but it was beginning to feel like it was the greatest thing I could have done for myself.
Who knew?
When we landed in New York, Phillip was waiting onsite with my Town Car. Sadie stood hesitantly beside the vehicle as he loaded her bag into the trunk.
“I can get a taxi so that you don’t have to go out of your way to drop me off,” she suggested.
The idea was ludicrous. Of course, I would have preferred to head straight to the penthouse because that would mean she was coming with me, but even if she wanted to go home, I wasn’t going to make her take some filthy taxi with a scuzzy driver who charged an exorbitant fee for a fifteen-minute ride.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I opened the door for her and motioned for her to climb in. “You’re not paying forty bucks for a cab when I’ve got a car right here.”
She glanced back at Phillip, who offered her a small smile and an inclination of his head to indicate he didn’t mind, then shrugged and lowered herself into the backseat. I waited for her to scoot all the way across before getting in myself. The way she kept avoiding my eyes told me I should limit how much contact we made, so I made sure there was enough room for a third person between us as I settled in.
By the time we reached her apartment, I was starting to wonder if she was angry with me about something. Being overwhelmed was one thing, but she had her elbows tucked so close to her sides that it was as if she wanted to stay as far away from me as possible. Her gaze didn’t move in my direction once, and her posture was so straight she could have passed for a nervous student in a Catholic boarding school.
When I exited the car and held the door open for her, she eased herself out like a snake, wriggling at the middle to keep her body a safe distance from mine. I shut the door with a slightly aggressive slam and took her bag from Phillip with a look that told him to get back in the car and give us some privacy.
“Thank you for coming with me and letting me share all that with you.” I was willing her to meet my eyes, but she just fiddled with her purse and stared off to one side.
“Of course.”
I was starting to get upset. It felt like anger, but I had enough insight to recognize the anger was only a front for the vulnerable reality. I was scared. After what I’d considered to be a successful trip, the subject of said trip aside, I had anticipated a completely different reaction from her than what I was getting.
Not necessarily immediate forgiveness, but a new closeness. An ability to look one another in the face and see each other for who we were, what we were, and what we could possibly be. Instead, I had a woman I loved standing in front of me who wouldn’t even make eye contact.
“Should I call you tomorrow?” Asking the question was embarrassing. I wished I felt confident enough to tell her right out I was calling her tomorrow, and I wished I could know in my gut she would agree cheerfully.
“Um…” She turned around and looked at her building like she was expecting her answer to be printed somewhere on the front. “I think I need some time to myself.”
She might as well have told me to drop off the face of the Earth, if the vile swoop in my stomach was any suitable reaction. I didn’t say anything, just continued watching her expression and trying to gauge whether this was a formal farewell or a temporary goodbye. She shifted her weight from one foot to the ot
her, stared over my shoulder again, and licked her bottom lip. “It was a lot to digest, you know?”
“Yeah.” It was a lot to digest. I didn’t blame her for needing to sort out her thoughts. I needed to hear that this wasn’t the end, though, and she didn’t seem willing to assure me of that. “You’re probably tired.”
“Definitely.”
The peaceful sounds of a New York evening — horns honking and dogs barking and people shouting — wafted over us, and I suddenly missed California. It was a jarring sensation because I’d never missed California in my life. We’d been somewhat back to normal there, though, and I felt like I’d gotten her back even in the midst of the heart-wrenching memories.
“Thank you.” I placed her bag gently on the sidewalk at her feet. “For finding out the most terrible things about me and not judging.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she looked at me. Her eyes were glazed with emotion, and I caught a slight glimmer swimming in them from the streetlight. “Nobody deserves to go through what you went through. And look what you’ve become.” She rolled her purse-wielding shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Who could judge you for that?”
Her lips remained parted as the last word left her tongue, and I wondered if I could still taste myself on them from the night before. The desire to kiss her was powerful enough that my neck ached with the need to crane down, but I fought it.
“Good night, Miss Danes.”
She stared at me for a moment longer, then nodded. “Good night.”
I was burning as I got back into the car and told Phillip to take me home. Sadie watched me pull away, and she still hadn’t picked up her bag by the time I turned the corner. My mind was screaming at me, bellowing that I needed to turn around and go back to her and kiss her because it might be the last time. But she’d said she needed time. I had to respect that.
So, I gave her time.
I didn’t call or text when I got home that night.
Or the next night.
Or the one after that.
And I was starting to think I should’ve listened to my instincts. I should’ve kissed her once more because, by the third sunset after our return, I hadn’t heard a word from her, and it felt a lot like goodbye.