14. Fourteen
FOURTEEN
W e went to a bar that was off Strip. We figured it was better to pick a spot where we were less likely to be recognized. The bar we chose was familiar to me but not to her, a little hole-in-the-wall I visited when I needed to disappear.
We both ordered beers—no fancy cocktail for Tallulah this time—and we sat across from each other in a cozy booth. Neither of us said anything for a long time.
I finally broke the silence. “Did you really have therapy?”
She made a face. “I can’t believe that’s what you’re focused on,” she complained, rolling her eyes.
Was she embarrassed? I’d been embarrassed about my therapy for the longest time. Maybe she needed to hear that, I mused. “I’ve had therapy,” I offered, trying to sound nonchalant.
She arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, instead taking a long swig of her beer.
“A lot of it,” I added. “And for a long time.”
“What sort of therapy?” she asked.
“I have anxiety. My therapist chalks it up to being a constant disappointment to my father. He was a yeller when I was a kid —never anything physical—but I started trying to get ahead of things. You know, make life perfect for him so he wouldn’t have a reason to yell.”
She nodded. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“My mother didn’t yell.” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “She was bohemian. Everybody loved Sharon. She was beautiful—a former showgirl—but she was a terrible mother.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You call your mother by her first name?” I tried to picture if I did the same to my mother and internally cringed. That wouldn’t go over well.
“She wasn’t a mother. She was more like an absent-minded older sister.”
“Were you guys friends?”
“No.” She let loose a hollow laugh. I thought she was done talking, but I waited anyway. She seemed to be making up her mind about something. “She used to leave me alone. It started when I was six. She would take a long weekend with her current boyfriend.”
I froze with my beer halfway to my lips. “She left you alone when you were six?” I couldn’t fathom that.
“She did. She left me with some microwave meals—I learned how to use the microwave when I was four, I think—and disappeared on a Friday afternoon. She didn’t come back until late Sunday night.”
My heart shriveled at the look on her face. “I’m sorry.” It came out softer than I was anticipating. “That is terrible.”
“Oh, it gets worse.” She took a long pull on her beer. “Her trips started extending. She left me for two weeks when I was eight. There was only enough food for two days. The neighbors fed me … and then they called Social Services.”
“That must have been difficult,” I acknowledged. “You were likely frightened at the time. That was the best thing for you.”
“It might have been if I’d stayed in foster care, but I didn’t.” Her smile was rueful. “My mother comes across really well in front of a judge. She kept making up stories where she was the victim.
“My father abandoned her when I was a baby, or she was struggling to put food on the table and doing the best she could, or a neighbor had promised to watch me and flaked out on her,” she continued. “Every judge fell for it, and I was always sent back.”
“How many times did Social Services step in?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Quite a few. More than ten. They stopped coming around when I was fifteen. Her trips lasted two weeks or sometimes even a month by then. I could take care of myself at that point and was always glad for her to be gone.”
“I am so sorry. That is terrible.”
“Yes, well…” She let loose a heavy sigh but didn’t say anything else.
“What about other family?” I asked. It was impossible to fix the past for her, but I found I was frustrated that she’d had to go through it at all.
“I had a grandmother. She was better than my mother but not by much. She died when I was young, though. I never knew my father. I don’t even know who he is.”
“And the therapy was provided by Social Services?”
“Yup. I hated it. I learned how to get past the therapists by shutting down and saying nothing.” A small smile appeared on her face. “Well, until I met Robin.”
I latched onto that name. This memory was somehow better for her, and that was the memory I wanted to dwell on. “And who is Robin?”
“Robin DeMarco. She was my last therapist, and she still tries to shrink me once a month. She sets up a lunch, won’t let me wiggle out of it, and spends an entire hour tricking me into talking about my issues.”
I grinned. “You still go to the lunches. You’re an adult. You could say no if you didn’t like them.”
“She’s given me a few coping techniques throughout the years,” Tallulah acknowledged “They’ve helped. I still have anger issues. They build up until I snap, and then I immediately regret overreacting.”
“Like what happened with Olivia.”
“Yeah. If Kyla had gone at me—or even you—I would’ve been okay. Olivia is the one person who has always been there for me, though. I can’t do nothing when she’s being attacked.”
“It seems to me that Olivia is just as protective of you.”
“She tries,” Tallulah said. “She can’t understand where I’m coming from because she had a stable home life. Her parents understood, though. They always invited me to spend the night when my mother was out of town.”
“Did you?”
“Sometimes. By the time I was a teenager, I’d learned to enjoy my freedom. My mother taught me the only person I could rely on was myself, and I still live by that motto.”
Her statement, which she saw as fact, made me unbelievably sad. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say.
“What are you sorry for?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just… I don’t have the best relationship with my parents.
My mother is better than my father, although that’s not saying much because she always defers to him.
No matter how much I dislike my father at times, hearing stories like yours makes me realize that I should probably suck it up. ”
Rather than agree, she shook her head. “Just because one person has it worse than another person doesn’t mean that anybody’s pain should be ignored. I understand the limitations of my mother. That doesn’t mean your issues with your parents aren’t legitimate.”
I pursed my lips. “Despite your anger issues, you seem to be pretty good at the therapy stuff.”
She rolled her eyes. My shrink says my biggest issue is that I’m a people pleaser and I can’t handle it when I disappoint my father. The thing is, I’ve been disappointing my father for my entire life. I should’ve come to terms with it by now.”
“And why is your father disappointed? Is it because you’re moonlighting as a dealer at a rival’s casino?”
“Oh, he doesn’t know about that.” I shook my head. “If he knew, he would blow a gasket.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m expected to take over the Hawthorne.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“Not even a little. What’s funny to me is that he takes digs. About my anxiety, I mean. He thinks that I’m weak because I melt down under pressure, and yet he still wants me to take over the Hawthorne, which would cause me to crumble on the first day.”
“You’re not weak.”
“I’m not strong.”
“There are different types of strength. I don’t think you’re as bad as you make yourself out to be.”
I leaned back, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. “So … you think I’m playing at being a victim, huh?”
That made her laugh. “No, I just think you don’t see yourself the way you should. I’m not talking about the genital warts or anything. I’m talking about who you are at your core.”
“And who am I at my core?”
“A guy who is doing what he feels he needs to do to make himself happy. At least you have a plan. I have no idea how my life is going to turn out. You have options. You’re working at the Stone because you have a goal for your life.”
I was suddenly suspicious. “What did Zach tell you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “He didn’t tell me anything.” Suspicion flooded her eyes as she leaned forward. “Why? What is there to tell?”
“Who said there was anything to tell?” I was suddenly the picture of innocence. “I didn’t say there was something to tell.”
“You’re hiding something.” Tallulah was practically gleeful. “Wait. Let me guess.” She held up her hand. “Your true desire is to be a headliner on the chorus line at one of the hotels.”
I burst out laughing. “Yes, because that would help my anxiety.”
“Do you want to be a stripper? I know a few guys over at Hunk Mansion. If you need an in, I’m your girl.”
I laughed even harder. “I’m pretty sure I’m not built for that.”
Her eyes roamed up and down my arms. “I don’t know. You have one of those bodies—it’s a little lanky but defined—that drives women wild.”
“Is that the type you go for? The lanky type, I mean.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Actually, I did want to know. In that moment, that was the thing I wanted to know most. What was her type?
Was it me? I hadn’t thought about her much in high school.
I’d had other things on my mind. I’d always found her beautiful, though.
She’d actually grown into her looks in a way that was almost fantastical.
You’re not in the market for a girlfriend, my inner voice reminded me. I had plans, and they didn’t include this. Heck, I didn’t know if she was in the market for a boyfriend. Maybe she was up for a fling. I could handle a fling.
You can’t only have a fling with her. If you give in, then you’ll become lost. You don’t want to become lost.
Was that my issue? Did something inside of me recognize that she might be my undoing? I did have a very specific plan. I had no intention of letting that plan go. That meant I couldn’t give in to the flirtation.
That didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends, though.
“If you could pick one job to do—I’m talking any job; it doesn’t matter what you’re qualified for—what would it be?” I asked, deftly changing the subject.
She didn’t laugh at the question or wave it off. She actually considered it. “I would want to be a sculptor.”
Her response was unexpected. “Do you know how to sculpt?”