Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
Anticipate
Present Day
taven
Saturday, 8:07pm
I stare out the window, hoping for the moment I see Inferno pulling into the driveway. I had been pacing the house wildly, calling Desiree, calling Melissa, not even knowing if the numbers I had for them were accurate. Desiree’s was, though I got no answer. Melissa’s was not, so I looked up the number to her childhood home, a house with a landline, and I dialed that. I mumbled my way through a quick hello to Mrs. Belle, hearing the shrieks that she must be having a stroke, that it’s 2011 all over again, and my old car is parked in front of her home and now here I am, calling the house. I breathe the slightest bit of relief at her joke, knowing Desiree’s safe. She drove up to Melissa’s, though I don’t like the idea of her driving when just this morning she still had a headache.
When Melissa got on the phone, she assured me Desiree was fine. On her way back to me, in fact, she just needed to process what I had told her. She explained that Desiree didn’t even believe me at first, which—call me dumb—wasn’t even something I had considered.
To me, I’ve been carrying around this knowledge of the kind of person Frank Hatson really is all this time. For nearly fifteen years, my family has lived with this dark spot on our collective history, the villain of the Carlisle story, invading our home and our lives. I had to mentally separate that villain from the man that called himself Desiree’s father. I couldn’t handle thinking of them as the same person. In many ways, I think it was just an added layer of the subtle ways I always kept Desiree at arm’s length, back in our early days of college. It was haunting, and a struggle to come to terms with the fact that this girl I loved so much was the product of a man who had damaged my beloved sister. The ultimate tug of war in my mind to try and marry the two concepts of Frank Hatson—father of my girl, and perpetrator. None of that was fair to Desiree.
I hadn’t even thought about how completely unbelievable the story would be to Desiree. Since I only worried about hurting her, I hadn’t even considered that she might struggle to believe it, and I’d be pushing her away due to her thoughts that I had been buying into some lie.
Thank God she went to Melissa. Thank God Melissa somehow got her to see that it was all true.
When I asked how she convinced Desiree to believe the hard truth, Melissa was quiet. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, and eventually she spoke. “Taven,” she said. “Just…one of these days, tell your sister that she’s not alone in falling into that pervert’s trap, okay?”
A wave of nausea combined with a punch to the gut. “How old were you?” I snapped, not meaning to be so abrupt with it, but I was going to fucking murder that bastard if he had done this to Melissa when she was still a child. I almost hoped he had, twisted as that is, because then, just maybe, justice could actually be served if Melissa had some way to provide evidence. A sick spark of hope churned in that idea.
I attempted to calm myself, not willing to let my torment and anger be wrongly unleashed on Melissa. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That came out rougher than I meant. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
“It’s alright,” she said. “Might as well hear it from me and not make Desiree have to rehash it. But it was after high school, just one time when I was nineteen. Biggest regret of my life.”
“No, Mel,” I say. “It’s him that should have regrets, not you, alright?”
She blows out a sigh. “Thanks, Vin.”
I tell her it’s all good. That I know all too well about mistakes and regrets and things we wish we could erase.
She says, “But all that living…that’s the stuff an actor’s emotions are made of.” I tell her that she has more grit and resilience than she realizes, and that if anyone can turn a tragedy into an award-winning career, it’s her.
When the purr of Inferno’s engine finally roars its way into my ears, I nearly faint with relief. It’s dark now, and while I know Desiree’s a big girl, I still feel the desire to protect her. I rush out through the mudroom, down the hall of glass that connects the house and the garage, and open the door to see my car idling in front of the open garage door.
The driver’s side window rolls down. Desiree’s blonde head pops out. “Hi,” she says. “I took your car.”
I jog over to her. “I see that,” I say, smiling. “You can take any of them, any time you want.”
She nods and looks toward the garage. “I appreciate that. But I’m kinda nervous to try and pull it in there.”
I open the door and grab her hand to help her out. “I got it, no worries. Go head inside.” I slide into the car, and smile at the scent of Desiree in here, something that feels so right. I rev the engine a little, showing off, I can’t help myself, and she laughs as she watches me maneuver my original baby safely into its spot.
We walk together through the mudroom and into the kitchen. She passes the island and plops down on a seat by the kitchen table. I ask her if she’s hungry, and she says she’s starving. I walk over to the fridge and pull out the chicken soup we never got to eat. “Do you want some wine or anything?” I ask her.
She looks at me, startled. “Do you keep wine in the house?”
I put the pot back on the stove and turn on the burner, then lean against the counter and slip my hands in my pockets. “Not usually, but I like to be able to offer whatever a guest might want.”
She stays planted in her seat, frowning. “Isn’t that hard for you?”
“No, Dazzle. Not anymore.”
“And you’re not tempted to even take a sip or anything?” I can see the skepticism in her face. The worry that she’s stepped right back into five years ago. What I wouldn’t give to make her feel secure that the me of five years ago is long gone.
I attempt to explain. “I’m not tempted to take so much as a sip, because I no longer believe alcohol serves me. And I understand that my body doesn’t process alcohol the same way, say, yours does.” I walk over to the table and take the seat beside her, turning to face her. I lean forward, my arms on my thighs. “When you drink too much, what happens to you? Do you get sick? Black out?”
She frowns. “I mean, generally speaking I’m a little more responsible than I used to be—other than a few days ago, but that’s another story.”
“So you don’t black out?” I ask, trying to ease her into this concept but needing her to understand.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t. A little fuzzy memory, maybe, but I’ve never blacked out.”
I grab her hands. “Well, I do. And it’s because I was known to binge drink now and then when I was a dumbass kid, which means today, I might have a drink or two and be totally fine, or I might wake up in the morning with no recollection of what happened. A total blackout. People would sometimes tell me I hadn’t even had much to drink on one of those nights, or they didn’t realize how bad off I was. Yet just like that,” I say with a snap of my fingers, “I could experience a blackout anyway. It’s pretty terrifying to realize that something could affect you so completely like that, and beyond your control. At some point I did realize it, though. And it’s not something I’m willing to risk ever again.” I study her face for a reaction, wait for her to say something, but she remains quiet, so I continue.
“When the urge to drink was strongest, it was when I was most at war with myself. I’m not anymore, not at that level, anyhow. I’ve learned how to actually feel things, even when it’s hard or uncomfortable. I don’t need something like alcohol to escape what I’ve got going on. So do I think I could have a beer and be able to stop from going further? Maybe. But it’s the blackouts that scare me the most, and I recognize that nothing’s worth that risk of losing whole nights and having no idea what even happened.
“I think of it like an allergy,” I try and explain. “Not everyone agrees on that concept, but for me it’s helpful. So think of it like this—if you were allergic to peanuts, you wouldn’t try a bite of one, right? Not even a taste?”
“No,” she whispers. My Dazzle puts her hands on my cheeks, shakes her head again, saying, “No, I wouldn’t,” and then leans forward and kisses me. I slide her chair closer to me and deepen our kiss, feeling everything she’s trying to say in it.
That she’s sorry I’ve had this battle. That she’s proud of me. She forgives me.
I plant one final kiss on her soft lips and take her hands in mine. I press my forehead to hers, wanting to get her fed before I end up throwing her on this table and abandoning this damn soup yet again. “I appreciate your concern for me, I really do, Dazzle. It means so fucking much to me, especially with all I know I put you through. Something I vow never to let happen again.” My chest tightens as I say the words, nearly choking on them.
She squeezes my hand. “I love you, Taven.”
I gently rub my thumb in circles over the back of her hand, trying to catch my breath at hearing her say those words. “Listen,” I say, my voice quiet. “I want you to know that I don’t ever want people around me to feel uncomfortable, or start feeling like they need to act differently, refraining from their own drinks, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good,” I say, pulling away and planting a kiss to her forehead. “So. Dazzle. Answer me honestly. Would you like a glass of wine with your soup? I don’t have any here but I would be happy to run into town and get you some.”
She raises my hand and kisses it. “No, Taven. I don’t need wine to enjoy my dinner. But I would love some tea if you have it.”
“Done.”
I get up and head to the cupboard, pulling out a basket of options for her to choose from. She smiles and selects a green tea, and I grab one for myself as well.
I contemplate the packets of tea in my hand for a moment before smiling back and saying, “I love you too, Desiree Hope Hatson.” I lean down and kiss her on her cheek. “You have no idea how much I love you.”
We finish our dinner and make our way to the family room. Desiree sits on the couch in front of the fireplace, and I throw some logs in, strike a long match and get the fire going.
She hums, “An actual fireplace, I think that might be my favorite feature of this house.” She sips her mug of hot tea as I settle down next to her .
“Mine too. One of many, really.” I pull her legs over my lap and massage her calves. “How are you feeling?”
She leans her head back on a throw pillow and settles herself. “Mmm, much better now, thank you. I mean, I want to kill my dad a little bit. I still can’t wrap my head around everything with that.”
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you.”
She smiles. “Remember the Bingo squares from when we were sixteen? Say something uncomfortable to someone you care about?”
I make my way down to her feet, pressing my thumbs into the arches. “How could I forget?” I say. “It’s where it all started, you and me.”
“Still one of my favorite memories, there in the dealership when you bought Inferno.”
“Mine too,” I agree.
“And after tonight, I’d say you deserve a whole row of squares crossed off for that one.”
I nod and continue with her foot massage, pressing in circles as if I could erase away the painful truth she’s trying to absorb about her father. I ask her if she’ll ever approach him about it, and she says she doesn’t know. She’s putting it aside for right now. What’s in the past is in the past, and beyond her control anyway. Some things in life are hard to accept, but that’s all you can do.
She finally asks me about Evelyn. “Did you break her heart today?” It’s funny to think how insignificant that topic seems given all we’ve been covering since Desiree’s been here. Predator fathers and the poisons of addiction. A precarious engagement suddenly doesn’t even seem that important.
But her voice is quiet, and I can see the bit of guilt she’s holding.
I stretch out and wiggle her toes, one by one. “Actually, she broke my heart today.” I see her startled response and I pat her feet. “It’s okay. The writing’s been on the wall for a while now. She just finally pulled the plug.”
“What do you think prompted it? Was it me?”
I sigh. “No, baby, not you. Another guy, apparently. Someone she works with.”
“Ahh,” she says. “The good old work romance. Are you okay?”
“I really am, Dazzle.” I turn my body toward her. “There’s been someone else that I’ve liked for a long time now. I just didn’t think they liked me back,” I say with a smile, hoping she remembers the times she would say that to me, back when we were kids. How I’d know she meant me, but I was too scared to admit my feelings for her.
But it’s how our friendship became so strong, and in many ways, I don’t think there’s anything that can replace the power of that foundation she and I have. It runs through us, steadfast and sturdy, and I think it’s the exact reason why I believe we can get through anything together, Dazzle and me. We can get through the pain of what happened with her father and my sister. Through the pain I caused her five years ago. So while I regret hurting her or making her question how incredibly worthy of my childhood crush she was at that time, I don’t regret the best friends we became in the process.
She pulls her feet back and crawls over to me, taking my face in her hands. “They like you back. Always have,” she says with a soft kiss. “Now go wash your hands so you can make sweet love to me.”