Chapter 60
Gatsby
I'd abandoned my glass hours ago in favor of drinking straight from the bottle, and now I'd drained it completely. I dropped it on the carpet and lifted the photograph again.
Could this little girl be my daughter?
I didn't see my features in her, not really. Maybe the hair color, but blonde was common. She was still a chubby toddler here; it was hard to tell that Daisy was her mother, either. But yet, I was told I very well could be her father. The dates lined up. We hadn't used protection. It was my first time that I'd had sex with a woman without it. It'd been special to me. Could we have created a life that night?
Why did she not tell me?
Did she think I'd be a bad parent? Was it that I'd spent time in prison, or that I'd been accused of cannibalism, that caused her to hide little Lydia from me? The more I thought back to our summer together, the more depressed I got. She had so many opportunities to tell me she'd been pregnant, that I had gotten her pregnant, but she didn't. It was as if to her, our child didn't exist.
What did that say about her ?
She hadn't seemed concerned even once about Lydia's well-being. I'd seen her phone. There were no texts, calls, or even photos of the little girl. What mother didn't even have a photo? She'd acted all summer like it was just her and I, when all along, there was a child that was half her, half me, somewhere, alone, wondering where her parents were.
I'd been perpetually drunk for two days since the private detective had come in and tossed the news of my possible paternity on me. What was I supposed to do now?
I called Dewayne to bring me another bottle. He came for me, his hands empty.
"You're not going to drink yourself to death. I'm cutting you off."
"I'm cutting you off," I muttered. "You're fired."
"We can discuss my employment in the morning. For now, let's get you showered and in bed." He helped me to my room and pushed me into the shower, my clothes still on. It helped sober me up enough to remove them and actually shower. I somehow managed to get to my bed, where I promptly blacked out. I awoke the next day, mid-afternoon.
Dewayne came in with coffee while I was dressing.
"Am I still fired?" He chuckled.
"You should get a raise," I told him.
"Well, I wouldn't turn it down, but I'm happy with my current salary."
I smirked, reaching for the steaming cup. Of course he was. Dewayne and Jules were paid one million dollars a week, and the rest of my staff received half of that.
"Speaking of employment, we need to prepare the staff."
Dewayne's eyebrows rose. "Really?"
"Yes. Make sure everyone is going to be okay."
Dewayne shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think you realize how much you helped everyone here. Many of our lives are changed forever because of your generosity."
"Dewayne…" I set my drink down and placed my hand on my hip. "I can give away money for the rest of my life, every single day, and I'll still never be poor. That's the problem with the rich. They thrive on seeing the poor stay poor. They want to sit on their pile of money imagining they won, and sure, they may have, but it’s the rest of the world that suffers, and I never want to be a part of that. So, make sure my staff is financially stable if..."
"Got it. I'll start that today."
He left me to finish my coffee and begin my day. I passed by a housekeeper and asked her to remove the liquor from my office, at least for now. I didn't have an alcohol problem, per se, but my emotions had gotten the best of me, and I didn't want it to happen again.
I spent my day on my boat, driving around, anchoring in the same trees I'd done countless times to watch her house many a night before I’d grown the courage to meet her. I wasn't sure what I was waiting for, but when night came, I climbed off the boat and stood on my dock, waiting for the green light across the lake to come on, knowing it wasn't going to happen.
"Evening, Gatsby."
I spun around, hope bursting from my chest as I rushed forward, grabbing Daisy and lifting her up. She giggled loudly as I twirled her.
"Did you get my message?" she asked, referring to her news interview.
"I did. It's the only thing that's kept me going," I confessed, setting her down as my lips found hers—fast, eager, desperate to be closer. I needed her to feel what her absence had done to me. "Daisy, what is going on?"
"Are you the one doing it? All of his friends. They've gone missing. Max is panicking. He thinks you have something to do with it."
"What if I did?"
"I-I don't know. What did you do with them?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," I warned. She swallowed and nodded.
"Max seems to think you're taunting him. You know, leaving him for last." She let me go and went to the edge of the dock, where she sat, putting her feet over the edge. I joined her, reaching for her hand.
"Tell me to stop, and I will." It was the truth. My chest squeezed as I waited for her to do just that. To plead for me to spare his life. To let them get married, to raise her daughter, to be a family. To leave them alone.
She stayed silent.
I pressed my lips together, my stomach twisting in knots. I needed to have a conversation with her, but I wasn't sure I was ready. Would I ever be ready?
"Daisy, I need to talk to you about something," I said. The photograph in my pocket grew warm, as if calling for me to bring it out.
"I need to escape," she blurted. "For good. I walked here. I left through the back once I knew Max and Clarke had drank themselves into a stupor. Max has always been awful, but having Lilly's husband there too is insufferable. I'm like a bird, trapped in a tiny cage with another dead bird. The guilt, and the anger is too much. I, I—" She burst into tears, and I embraced her, letting her cry into my chest.
"Daisy, it's okay. I'm going to get you out. It's almost done. We're so close."
"Clarke won't leave. I don't know what his game is, but it's like Max is taunting me. I think he knows I know what happened, and he's using Clarke to get to me."
"Don't let him. Just keep quiet. If you can get Max here, I can take care of it. I'll make it so no one ever bothers you again. With me, you'll never be trapped again."
"Max won't ever let me go," she said, mournfully. "There's too much you don't know."
"He's not getting a choice. Is this because of—" I started but was cut off by her scrambling to her feet.
"Show me." She sniffled. "Show me what you plan on doing, and I'll get him here."
I blinked, and she repeated herself. She took my hand and dragged me forward. We reached the doors, and I stopped her.
"Daisy, I don't think you know what you're asking."
"I'm serious. I know what people say about you. I need to know the truth. Take me upstairs to the rooms you keep locked. Let me see the full truth. Don't hide anything. Tell me, Gatsby, how depraved are you, truly?"
I swallowed, licking my lips. What a loaded question. My breathing became labored as I took in her words. She wanted to see it all. Was I ready to bear my truth to her, finally, after all these years?
"I'm afraid you won't love me, if you know the truth."
"Same here," she said, nodding toward the doors of the house. "You tell me your darkest secrets, and I'll tell you mine. We can decide later if we deserve each other or not."
I stared into her brown eyes. She was so sure, so confident that her secrets matched mine.
Could she handle seeing just how broken I was?
Could I handle her secrets as well?