“We need to get you inside and warmed up, I can’t believe you’re just sitting out here on the ground Ellie, you’re going to catch your death!”
He reached up and unlocked his door and stood up. Eleanor did in fact feel a bit frozen, not just from the cold but from the exhaustion of the multiple emotional episodes of the evening. Patrick bent down and in one swift movement, lifted Eleanor up off the ground and carried her into his house, setting her on the sofa. He stepped back outside to get his groceries and ran to set them in the kitchen. Eleanor tried to unbutton her coat but her fingers were frozen stiff. She heard Patrick doing something in the kitchen, and a few moments later she heard the kettle starting to boil.
Patrick came back to the lounge and helped Eleanor get out of her coat and boots and then helped her move to the armchair nearest the fireplace. He wrapped her in throw blankets and started building a fire. She heard the kettle squeal and he went back to the kitchen. He came back with a mug of tea and a hot water bottle, the latter of which she clutched to her chest and then cradled the tea in both hands. He went back to the kitchen and returned with a tea of his own, and a bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot into his glass, and then before she could protest, poured another shot into hers.
“Medicinal. No arguments,” he said with mock sternness.
Eleanor took a small sip, the whiskey wasn’t so bad, since it was diluted by the tea, which Patrick had made very milky and very sugary. The combination started warming her from the inside. He sat down in the chair opposite hers, watching her very carefully. She took another sip and then leaned her head against the side of the high-backed chair and closed her eyes. She’d always loved this chair. It was one of her favorite places in his home. By the fire, with views out the front window and through to the kitchen, as well as of his well-stocked bookshelves in the lounge. The first day she’d been to his place she’d thought to herself that everything was exactly as she’d have done it if she’d lived here and designed it herself. It felt like home.
“What happened after I left Elle?” She heard Patrick ask. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. His face was a mixture of concern and something else. Fear? She wasn’t sure.
Eleanor sighed. “Well, long story short. Michael wanted us to get back together.” She saw Patrick’s face tighten. She looked at him pointedly and continued, “I told him hell no and to get out of my flat.” Relief flooded Patrick’s face. “Seriously Patrick, I swear, he wasn’t there for longer than five minutes or so, ten tops. And Jonathan arrived near the end of it. He helped me get Michael to realize I meant it and that he had to leave.”
“I wish you’d let me stay.” He said it so simply and Eleanor knew he meant it.
“I know. And I wish you could have stayed. Believe me, I would have much rather let you or Jonathan just deal with Michael for me. But I had to do it myself. Does that make sense? I had to handle it. Once and for all.”
“I can understand that,” Patrick replied gently, looking down into his tea.
“You’re always so good at taking care of me, just like you’re doing now. But this was something I had to take care of myself or it would never be truly over. I didn’t even hesitate Patrick. I don’t quite know what came over me. But when he said he wanted me back I started laughing. Like, full on laughing. To his face. He told me I was rude, and maybe it was, but I couldn’t help it. It was all so absurd. I felt like I was in some kind of farce. As soon as you walked out I wanted to go with you. But I knew I had to take care of Michael and just put the past to rest. After Michael left I started crying again, but it was so different. It was like I was crying out of relief. It was over, he was gone, I never have to feel bad about him again. I was released Patrick.”
Patrick was silent for a moment, just looking at his tea, like he was trying to make a decision. Eleanor waited.
Finally he said, “So, you’re released from Michael, and earlier you sounded resigned and past things with Mark.”
“I am. They’re both in the past. Firmly in the past.”
“What about your dad?” He asked directly.
Eleanor paused, then said slowly, “That’s why I’m here. I want to put that in the past too. So I can move on. With you.”
Patrick’s eyes grew wide, his mouth opened slightly out of surprise. “Do…do you mean that?”
“Patrick, I’ll be honest, I’m scared out of my mind. Moving forward terrifies me, it always has, that’s why I’ve wasted so much time stuck in the past. But I want more. Our friendship has been the biggest gift, but I’ve been unfairly holding us both back. I’m scared, but I don’t want to let that fear guide me. I want to be brave…with you.”
Patrick’s eyes shined a little brighter in the firelight, and he reached up to wipe at them roughly with his sleeve. He collected himself and then looked at her solemnly, “Eleanor, I can’t promise you that I’ll never hurt you or that we’ll end up being together forever. But I can promise you that I will never intentionally hurt you the way you’ve been hurt before. I’m not Michael or Mark…or your dad. I know what’s happened with Michael and Mark, if you’re finally ready to tell me about your dad I’m here to listen.”
“Ok. Just…be patient. I’ve only ever told this story once. To mom. I know mom told Jonathan and Aunt Vickie, Jon tried to ask me about it, but I couldn’t bear to get into it again, it was too painful. I thought I could just forget it, but you’re right, it’s been haunting me ever since and it’s time to tell you. Because I trust you.
“Take your time, there’s no rush,” Patrick leaned back in his chair with his tea and just looked at Eleanor, a soft, neutral expression on his face.
Eleanor took a deep breath and began.
Chapter 20
“After the divorce, I would go spend a month in Manhattan with my dad. He never insisted on the whole ‘alternating holidays and two weeks in the summer,’ I think I told you that already, so the arrangement had been just one month in the summer. They were never terribly exciting, I was a teenager and I was mad at my dad for the divorce and for how sad mom was. But it was Manhattan, so it was hardly a punishment. When I was still 16, 17, he’d take me to some Broadway shows and there were always nice dinners out. But mom had always been the one that made us feel like a family. When it was just dad and me, I always felt like I was on a field trip with a professor. For those first few years after the divorce I gave him the benefit of the doubt and just tried to have fun and behave. He would still spend most of the day at work or in his home office doing research. It was hardly a vacation. After I turned 18 it never occurred to me to stop going to see him. He was my dad and if he still wanted me to visit I would. When I was 19 though, well, that was the summer it changed. That was the last summer I would see him.
“The summer had been good at the start. Manhattan is humid and hot but not nearly has hot as Phoenix. I had been looking forward to getting away from the desert for a bit. I had finished my first year at university for my undergrad. I felt like an adult,” Eleanor laughed bitterly, then continued. “I had my own room at my dad’s apartment. It was more like a hotel so it felt really luxurious. Dad gave me cash for every day I was there. Looking back, I should have been furious about that. When mom was taking care of me, in those first few years after the divorce, we had to be very careful with money, but as long as I was in my dad’s care there was an envelope with $200 cash every day, just for me to spend on whatever, like a daily allowance. Some days I’d only spend $10 on some street food and save the rest for another day, then there’d be days where I’d take all that saved cash and go shopping for new clothes for the fall. Over the course of a month he’d give me several thousand dollars in cash. If he wanted to take me out to dinner somewhere nice he’d leave an additional $500 with the usual $200 so I could go buy a new dress. Now I can see how weird and problematic all this money was. But I was 19 Patrick. And living off of student loans and my mother’s generosity living at home as an undergrad. I was 19, a legal adult, but I still felt
15 and wanting my dad’s attention and love.
“Anyway, I’d spend most of the days wandering around. Dad was always working, so I’d hang out at the Met or the Public Library, I’d write in coffee shops or wander around Central Park. Some nights, usually once or twice a week I’d meet my dad for dinner somewhere extravagant. He never went anywhere casual, so that’s why I would buy a new dress. Once I thought I’d wear trousers, but he made me change.
“Other nights I’d come back to the apartment and he’d be entertaining his colleagues. After the first week of being there I noticed one of them, one of the younger ones, watching me. I always tried to ignore my dad and his friends and just go to my room, but I had to walk past them to get there, so I always had to stop and say hello. But this one guy just made me so uneasy, the way he was looking at me. He was probably in his early 30s, a new associate professor in my dad’s department, some kind of rising star in his field. Not that I cared. He’d always make a point of saying hello when I walked in. And each time he would ask me something about my day, something personal. I was always so shy and nervous; my dad’s crowd was a whole different scene than I was used to back home. And being a 19-year-old girl in a room full of older men, it just made me uncomfortable. Even in my dad’s home with him sitting right there.
“So, eventually, by the middle of the second week, I pretended to be talking on my phone when I got home, I just waved at the men in a friendly way and practically sprinted to my room. The next day my dad stopped me. He told me I was being rude and he expected me to talk to his friends if they are over when I come home. He told me he wouldn’t be disrespected in such a way and with everything he was doing for me that summer the least I could do was have polite conversation with his friends. I knew he was referring to the money. He was paying for my respect and my time. That was the implication. I tried telling him that the younger guy, Brian was his name, made me uncomfortable. My dad just dismissed me and said I was being ridiculous.
“After that I tried coming home at different times, if I came home late they were often still there, but had usually been drinking a bit of brandy by then. If I came home early I could usually avoid them, but then I’d be stuck in my room the rest of the night. They’d stay over until 1 a.m. sometimes. It was at the beginning of the third week that it all started to unravel. Dad made a big deal about me going with him to some fancy charity gala he was connected to through work. Dad was always more than just a traditional academic. He liked the intellectual elitism of academia but he also craved social power, connections, and wealth. So there were always side projects and book deals that helped him afford his lifestyle, and then charity stuff that connected him with the New York elite. He loved all of it. I did not want to go, it sounded too formal and I knew everyone there would be older than me. But he insisted. Said if I didn’t go I could just pack my bags and go home to mom. So like a fool, I agreed. He gave me the name of a stylist to go see the next day, one of the personal shoppers at Neiman Marcus. I would need a new dress and he wanted a ‘professional,’ his words not mine, to pick it out. All the dresses she showed me were gorgeous but very revealing and grown up. I was a 19-year-old from Arizona, not a Hollywood actress. We finally settled on one that was a little more covered up at the top, but it had a long slit in the skirt. It really was gorgeous though, and I felt like a princess in it. God help me, I was so naive.
“The night of the dinner, dad and I arrived and he made us mingle in the lobby for a bit before going to our table for the dinner. Patrick, it was awful. All these older guys with their dates, all of whom were either older but clearly trying to fight it or practically my age looking bored out of their minds but laughing mechanically whenever the guy said something. Looking back, I know most of them were only with those guys because of their money. And the men were all complimenting my dad on his ‘hot date’, lots of winking and slapping him on the back. They knew I was his daughter, he’d introduced me! I was so disgusted by the way they were joking about me. It was mortifying.
“We finally got our seats at the table and I immediately wished we hadn’t. It was a formal table setting. Millions of glasses and cutlery, I had no clue what order I was supposed to use everything. Then, to make matters worse, Brian was seated next to me and my dad was across the table. I had to make conversation with him all night. He kept complimenting me, saying how beautiful the dress was and how pretty I was. But it was all so inappropriate. Like, it wasn’t just ‘that dress is beautiful’ instead he added how perfectly it hugged my figure. Or that my lipstick made my mouth look so kissable. If he had been my age and not my dad’s colleague I might have been flattered. But by this point I’d Googled him and he was 35, sixteen years older than me! What kind of 35-year-old goes after a 19-year-old?! It’s disgusting. He thought it was ‘cute’, that’s what he said, ‘cute’, that I didn’t know which fork or glass to use, so he made a big show out of helping me out, like it was our little secret, and he wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just trying to get through the dinner. But the wine was flowing and later champagne. Brian kept brushing his arm against mine, or would reach over and squeeze my hand in the middle of telling a joke. He’d brush his thigh against my leg. It just kept getting worse.
“After dinner, when dessert and more champagne was served, he started trying to place his hand on my leg, reaching through the slit in my dress to my bare leg beneath. Or he’d reach for my hand and try to place it on his thigh. Each time I’d push his hand off me or snatch my hand out of his grasp. He wouldn’t even react. All of this crap happening under the table so no one could see, he’d be doing this in the middle of talking to my father or someone else at the table. He’d make a move and I’d resist, then he’d try again. I was on the defensive all night long, he just wouldn’t stop. The couple times there was a break in the conversation I would try to lean over and tell him to stop and either he’d act like he didn’t know what I was talking about or someone else at the table would make a joke about Brian and I sharing secrets. My father ignored the whole thing. It had to have been clear from the look on my face, that I didn’t like what was happening.
“I just wanted to go back to the apartment so desperately. I had made up my mind that I was going to pack my things and get an earlier flight home. I wasn’t even going to tell my dad because after all this I was afraid he’d stop me. Clearly, he knew about Brian and was helping him. I was convinced he’d orchestrated the whole thing. I was frustrated and angry and scared. At one point, before they cleared all the table servings away, I slipped one of the dessert forks under the table and just held it at an angle. Sure enough, a few minutes later Brian reached for my leg again and hit the fork instead. I was just staring straight ahead, acting like nothing had happened. I don’t think it made him bleed, but he was rubbing his hand for a few minutes after that. He didn’t reach under the table again.
“Finally, after five hours of this constant assault under the dinner table, we went home. Our table walked out as a group and Brian stayed very close to me. He kept trying to put his arm around me and I would wiggle out of it. Finally, as he said goodnight to my dad and I, he shook my dad’s hand and they shared a joke about something, I wasn’t even paying attention. Then my dad got in the car first and before I could get in after him Brian wrapped his arms around me in a hug and he whispered in my ear that he would see me soon, that he liked a girl with ‘fight’ in her.
“Patrick, I swear, in that moment it felt like a threat. I’ve never been so terrified. I refused to talk to my dad the whole drive home, I just told him I was tired. He kept trying to talk about Brian, how he was such a nice guy from a very prominent family, that it was time I had a real, adult relationship. Patrick, he was honestly trying to set us up! Like I was some Victorian Era daughter needing her father to make a good match. I knew then if I stayed the rest of my trip my dad was only going to continue trying to set me up. It was past midnight. As soon as I got home I got my computer and looked up flights. There was a morning flight, the day after nex
t, that the airline would let me switch my ticket for, I just had to get through one more day and night. I thought I could do that.
“The next morning, I slept in and then went out and spent one more day at Central Park and visiting a couple of my favorite places. I got back to the apartment early, in order to miss my dad and his friends if they came over. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening packing for my flight the next morning. I didn’t even tell my mom I was coming back early, I was too afraid she’d call my dad and chew him out. I just wanted to get home and explain everything later. I thought it was all working out. I had picked up dinner from a deli, just a sandwich and some chips, and I ate in my room. My dad had come home but for a while didn’t know I was in there. But when I hadn’t come in at my usual time he texted to see where I was. I texted back that I was feeling sick and I was lying down in my room, that I was about to go to sleep.
“About an hour later there was a soft knock at my door, which I ignored. My lights were out, but I was reading my Kindle under the blanket. I was too afraid to go to sleep while I knew they all were still out there. I had locked the door but I heard the person jiggling the lock. I thought it was my dad coming to check on me so I just turned off my Kindle and pretended to be asleep. A few seconds later I heard a soft click at the door and then someone opened it. It wasn’t a sturdy lock, it was just one of those standard bedroom locks, there was a little key that could open them all that my dad kept on the top of the door frame of his room. So again, I assumed it was my dad.
“Oh god. Eleanor. It was Brian,” Patrick said horrified.
Eleanor just nodded and took a deep breath before continuing.
“I felt someone sit on the bed beside me. I foolishly thought my dad had come to check on me since I said I was sick. I was about to open my eyes to talk to him when I felt someone kissing me, hard. One hand slipped under my head to keep me from wiggling away and the other reached under my blankets trying to pull up my t-shirt. I immediately freaked out. I started fighting. I clawed at him. I realized then it was Brian. He just laughed quietly as he clamped his hand down around my mouth. In the distance, I could hear my dad and his friends talking and laughing. Brian smelled like brandy and cigars. I nearly passed out from fright. I knew in that moment what Brian was going do if I didn’t stop him, with my dad sitting in the other room.
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