Chapter 29 The Belief System
THE BELIEF SYSTEM
EMERY
Where is he? He should be here by now.
I lean against the hood of my car, arms crossed over my chest as my gaze stays glued to the parking lot entrance.
He needs to show up. He needs to hear what I have to say.
Last night, I felt something I’d never felt before.
I felt absence. His absence. He left without saying a word, without saying goodbye, and I felt it.
Why did I feel it? He gave me space. He did as I asked of him. Don’t follow me. And he listened.
I didn’t expect that.
Not at all.
Tapping my nails impatiently on the headlights, I swallow, his tortured voice playing over and over again in my head like a broken ballad.
It should’ve been me. I’ve never heard a man cry before.
Not even my father. He never cracked, he never shed a tear.
He kept it all locked up, and it made him miserable. It made us all miserable.
But Damon’s tears were familiar. I recognized the aching melody of his sobs. I’ve sung it before. For years. As a child, as a teenager, all into adulthood.
Why me? Why is this happening to me?
Those lyrics were my mantra, a daily ritual of begging for answers from a world that had none.
I stopped crying once I learned that there was no reason, that there was no one on the other side listening to my questions.
It brought me peace. Not happiness but peace.
I can’t give him the former, but I can guide him toward the latter.
Tires screech in the distance, and I snap my head in the direction of his blacked-out SUV, my heart suddenly hammering.
He came.
Damon parks a couple of stalls away from me, and I walk in his direction. The man who exits the vehicle resembles a ghost. Pale, almost withering.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he mutters, clearing his throat, avoiding my gaze. Red. His eyes are so fucking red. Like a splash of blood on an otherwise stark white sheet.
I scan his wrinkled clothes from the gala, his unbrushed hair. “You look like shit.”
It’s tiny, barely recognizable to the human eye, but he manages a smile, and a low, airy chuckle leaves his lips. Damon runs a hand through his hair. “Did you ask me here to insult me, Miss Jones?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, inwardly cringing at my inability to filter my thoughts around him. “It’s just—I’ve never seen you like this.”
“A first time for everything,” he says, sighing as he glances up at the hospital. “Why am I here, Emery?”
Hesitating, I take a step toward him, closing the distance between us. I reach out to touch his hand but stop myself. He doesn’t radiate warmth today. He’s cold. Frozen. Like the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. I’m also cold. I can’t help him. Not through touch. Not now.
“This is where I spent my childhood,” I say, turning to face the towering building in front of us.
He shifts uncomfortably beside me but doesn’t comment.
“This hospital sees over half a million children every year. Half a million, Damon.” I point to the fifth floor.
“That’s the oncology wing. That’s where they pump little children full of chemicals, hoping it’ll eradicate their illness.
” My finger shifts west, toward the fourth floor.
“That’s the NICU. At any time, there are roughly twelve babies housed there.
Newborns. Some on respirators, others with a machine pumping their tiny hearts. ”
Damon swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because…”
I turn to him, forcing him to come face-to-face with me. With the uncomfortable truth of our existence. His defeated gaze struggles to meet mine. With a determined breath, knowing the risk of collision, I reach down and clasp his hand.
“Emery,” he whispers, squeezing my fingers. “I’m—”
“You called me a nihilist before,” I say, cutting him off.
Whatever he has to say can wait. He needs peace.
He needs to know. “And while that may be true, you need to understand why.” I briefly glance up at the hospital.
“Do you think those kids up there did something bad to deserve to be sick? Do you think that they’re being punished for something? ”
A deep frown mars Damon’s brows. “Of course, not.”
“I agree,” I say, caressing his hand with my thumb.
“Bad things don’t only happen to bad people, Damon.
And good things don’t only happen to good people.
It’s a nice story, a utopian idea that we’ve crafted, but it’s not true.
Bad things can and will happen to good people.
It happens a lot actually. Every day.” I tilt my head.
“If you try and find meaning in every single unfortunate event that occurs in your life, you’re essentially searching for misery, Damon.
There’s no rhyme or reason for why bad things happen.
They just do. It’s life. And you have no control over it. ”
His jaw clenches, tears welling. “You don’t understand, Emery. I am not a good person. I’ve done things…” His muscles tense with unspoken regret. “I—”
“And yet you still have the same chances of attracting misfortune as a human who just came into this world,” I state sharply.
“Bad things happen to everyone, Damon. Every single person. I’m not trying to sound harsh or cruel when I say this, but you are not special.
You are not a unique case. What happened to you and your family, Damon, could’ve happened to anyone.
And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on. ”
“I can’t accept that,” Damon grunts. “I can’t live in a world with no fucking meaning, Emery. I wasn’t raised like that. I wasn’t brought up to believe in nothing.”
“Neither was I, Damon, and I’m not saying that you’re not allowed to have beliefs.
But maybe instead of believing that some unseen deity in the sky will smite you for every wrongdoing, believe in something more tangible.
Something you do have control over.” My thumb grazes his swollen knuckles, and I shake my head.
“Believe in yourself, Damon. Believe that you have the ability to change your life, your attitude, your outlook, your reactions. If you continue to live your life thinking you’re predisposed to bad shit happening, you’re just allowing bad shit to happen. ”
Damon pauses in thought, gaze flitting across my solemn features. “Has it worked for you?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“What?”
He cocks his head as I frown. “Has this approach to life worked for you?”
I blink. “Yes, of course it has.”
“Really?” he asks, frowning. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Emery, but you don’t strike me as an incredibly fulfilled and happy woman.”
I wince inwardly but keep my tone level, honest. “I never claimed to be happy, Damon, but I no longer tilt my head up to the sky and ask why bad things happen to me. Why do you think I quit my job with such ease when you asked me to, huh? Why do you think I didn’t beg Tom to stay with me?
Why didn’t I fight harder to keep dancing at Lux when you said I had to stop?
Did you think it was because, deep down, it was what I wanted?
No. It was because I accepted the hand I was being dealt. I accepted it and worked with it.”
Remorse clouded with shame flashes across his face. “I’m so sorry, Emery,” he whispers, teeth gritted as he looks at me with a desperate need for absolution. “I shouldn’t have—”
“But you did,” I say with no venom, no vile contempt. “And I dealt with it, and now you need to deal with it. Whatever it is that has you in a chokehold, deal with it and move on.”
“I will, Emery. I promise you I will,” he whispers, glancing down at our clasped hands, his fingers entwined with mine.
As our skin touches, I can feel my blood warming, melting the ice, banishing the cold.
“I want to make you happy, Emery.” His thumb presses hard into the soft flesh of my palm.
“How do I do that?” His pained gaze flicks upward. “How do I make you laugh?”
I offer him a small smile. “Focus on your own happiness first, Damon. I’m content with the way I am.”
He subtly shakes his head. “Contentment is not enough. You deserve to bathe in bliss. I want…” He swallows. “I want to give you the world.”
Placing a hand on his cheek, I whisper, “Some people aren’t capable of reaching those levels of happiness, Damon. I’m not being difficult or giving you a challenge, I’m telling you the truth. This…” I pause. “This is my potential. I’ve reached it, and that’s okay.”
“I refuse to accept that,” he states, and I believe him. “I will show you.”
I chuckle at his faith. “I think it would be best to put your energy into fixing the current problem we have.” I squeeze his bruised knuckles. “The media is circling you like a vulture. You need to stop playing dead and make a statement.”
“I know,” he grumbles. “I have a meeting with Paras later today. I will handle it. I will—”
“Well, if it isn’t Rocky Balboa.” Perfect timing.
Damon’s grip tightens around my hand, and I’m grateful.
As long as I’m holding his hand, it won’t go flying into Quinton’s face.
We turn around, Quin sauntering toward us with an envelope tucked under his arm.
He gives me a cheeky smile. “Good morning, darling. You look well rested.” His gaze snaps to Damon.
“You on the other hand…” He clicks his tongue. “Ouch.”
“What are you doing here?” Damon asks, keeping a neutral tone.
“I’m here to deliver a check.” Quin smiles at him, gaze briefly flicking down to our clasped hands. If he’s upset, he conceals it well. “And you? What brings you to the children’s hospital? Needed a checkup, did we?”
“Damon’s here to apologize about his behavior last night,” I state, ignoring the instant glare from him.
Gently wiggling myself out of his grip, I step in between Damon and Quin, acting like a human wall between two warring kingdoms. “And we were hoping that perhaps…” I clear my throat, pulling a check out of my pocket and handing it to Quin.
“Perhaps with this donation, we could accompany you to the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”
Quinton perks up a brow. “Ten million dollars? Wow, how generous of Cavanaugh Industries.”
Damon stays silent behind me, but I can fucking feel his stewing anger. I ignore it. Ten million dollars to a multibillion-dollar corporation is pennies. His actions last night have created irrevocable harm that not even a premier PR team can fix. The only person that can fix it is Quinton.
“Well?” I ask Quin, tilting my head. “What do you say?”
He licks his lips, gaze floating across my perfectly painted face. “I feel as though you have put me at a disadvantage, darling. How am I to deny a request from such a beauty?”
“Is that a yes?” I ask, flashing him a sweet smile.
“For you, little Emery, and only for you, I’m willing to share the limelight with Cavanaugh, but…” Quin’s gaze flicks over my shoulder, and I don’t even want to know how livid Damon looks right now. He grins. “I have yet to hear this infamous apology.”
“Damon?” I spin around, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
“Go on. Say sorry to Quinton.” Damon’s jaw ticks as he stares at me, furious.
Silent. I take a step forward, keeping my voice low.
“I’ve dealt you a hand, mister Cavanaugh.
Now it’s your turn to deal with it. Say you’re fucking sorry. ” I hiss out the last word. “Now.”
I can sense the turmoil brewing inside him, the hesitation, the hatred as he opens his mouth and says, flat and gruff, “I apologize for my actions last night. It was unacceptable and unprofessional. It will never happen again.”
I mouth, thank you, to Damon before spinning around. Quinton blinks a couple of times in disbelief, and then a smug smirk clips his lips.
“Well?”
He chuckles under his breath, amused as he grins at me. “A deal is a deal.” He pauses, glancing at Damon. “I hope you have another suit.”
“It’s in my car,” I say. “We’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Sure.” Quin flashes me a playful smile as he passes, whispering, “You ambushed me, little Emery. Well played.”
“I know,” I whisper back, proud of myself.
As soon as Quinton is out of earshot, Damon growls, “What the fuck?” I roll my eyes, unlocking the trunk and pulling out a garment bag. “I can’t believe—”
“Change,” I demand, shoving the bag into his chest. I place a bottle of eye drops into the crook of his arm. “And put these in. It’ll help.”
He grits his teeth. “You set me up, Emery. You—”
“I stoned two birds at once,” I say, unflinching. “I meant everything I said, Damon. I really did, but I also just fixed a major problem for you, for us.” I check my watch. “The ceremony starts at nine. You need to change.”
Damon bites his tongue, keeping his emotions at bay as he begrudgingly follows me toward the side entrance. “Ten million dollars?” he hisses. “That’s—”
“Going to help thousands of children,” I snap back, glowering at him. “Think of it as retribution for all the shitty things you’ve done.”
He doesn’t argue. He can’t. It’s a small price to pay. Smaller than I know.