Forgiven (Ruined) (16 page)

             
All the while my heart is pounding wildly and when Carmelita gets up and starts tidying away the mess I made, I don’t even really realize she's doing it or that I'm no longer listening to her or trying to help.

             
What I'm thinking is if he's protecting me, he's given me no say in
being
protected and no way to reciprocate.  What if we were to face this as something we were in together as opposed to something he has to
save me
from?  Two heads are better than one, after all, and two people can be twice as vigilant. 

             
What gives him the right to try and rescue me anyway?  I thought we had decided if he was ruined, so was I, that we were right for each other. 

             
I thought he was trusting me a little.  I couldn't have destroyed the trust just by looking at the box he left in the kitchen.  Who
wouldn't
have looked inside?  And if that's all we had between us –

             
We had more.  I don't know if he's doing this for me or for himself or for both of us.  But he didn't give me any choice in it and that's not fair.  Mama Lita didn't know that part.  But I know who will know.

             
I need to talk to Kellan.  But first I need to talk to Bruce.

* * *

             
"It's open," Bruce calls from his office. 

             
It's after hours by the time I get across town in a taxi to his tree-shaded, lovely office.  His secretary has gone home and everyone else in the office is gone.  There are photos all over the place of beautiful properties and framed certificates of appreciation from Better Business Bureau and Real Estate organizations and chambers of commerce.  Bruce is a highly successful businessman as well as a highly rich one.  He can afford to do for his son what he's doing, and maybe I should just be grateful that he's now stepping into his son's life, at least to this extent, though
this extent
kind of gets Kellan back out from under Bruce's roof.

             
"Bruce?  Got a minute?"  Stupid question.  Not like I was going to come all the way down here and then go away again if he was busy.

             
"Willow!  So nice of you to come visit."

             
Yeah, right.  I live in your house.  This doesn't seem at all odd?

             
I was in the neighborhood…. After taking a taxi across town.

             
"Bruce, I need to talk to you about Kellan."  I sit down in one of the leather armchairs, which are far more elegant than comfortable.  "Did something happen?"  Maybe there's been another package, or even contact from Stacee, if it is her.  Maybe Bruce knows what's going on.

             
His face doesn't exactly go cold or shut down, but it isn't what I'd call welcoming either.

             
"Look, Willow," he says, straightening a bunch of hardcopy files on his desk.  "I know you two have had a relationship, and I think it helped Kellan start taking some steps back into life."  He doesn't say "Life on the outside," but I hear it.  "I wasn't thrilled about the relationship though I've tried to accept it."  He stands, running a hand through his mane of hair.  "But I think maybe it's time you let it go."

             
I jump to my feet, pacing on the hardwood floor of his office.  "Let it go?  Just like that?  No explanation, no idea what happened?  Why would I do that, Bruce?  Would you do it if Mom just got up and left one day?"

             
He gives me a look like I'm a little girl being unreasonable.  "I hardly think your relationship with my son is on par with my relationship with
my wife
," he says.  "You and Kellan were only together a very short time.  You're both making adjustments and going through a lot of changes in your lives."  He spreads his hands, trying to look reasonable. He's wearing a blue oxford shirt rolled to mid forearm, jeans, though they're expensive, and he looks reasonable enough I'd like to heave a paperweight at him.

             
"Damn it, Bruce, I'm not playing a game.  I'm in love with Kellan."
             
Great.  I'd really planned to tell Kellan's
father
that before I told Kellan. 

             
It strikes me that I don't even know where he is so that I
can
tell him.  I have to get out of here.  As I make my way out the door I hear Bruce calling after me to wait, something about everything is going to be alright, which I don't believe, and then I'm out the door, brushing past people in the business complex, making my way out onto the street, trying to figure out how I'll get home from here.

             
Trying to figure out what I'm going to do now.

             
Pulling my phone out of my pocket and texting Emmy.

* * *

             
"It's like an alcoholic milkshake," Emmy says, pouring us our third glasses. 

             
More like an alcoholic nightmare.  I've never been a drinker, not after my father had all those problems that led to everything that happened.  Today just seemed like a day to cut loose.  After Emmy came and picked me up she took me back to her dorm room, where we're sitting on her unmade bed and she's used a blender on top of her desk to mix up strawberry ice cream with what I think is rum.

             
I'm probably going to be very sorry about this.

             
Turns out Emmy could have used that CheckMate website I saw when I was looking up information on marriages and trying to find out who might be stalking Kellan.  Because the guy she met turns out to be married, very married, with children and a very angry wife.  At least there was no subterfuge once it came out – the wife appeared, didn't stalk, didn't act weird, didn't beat around the bush.  She walked into the campus library where Emmy'd just found work and let her have it, shouting until security walked her out.  I don't know whether to be impressed by Emmy's response or horrified by it, but apparently she ran after the woman, caught her just outside the library, cried and said she hadn't known and no way would she see the guy again and she, Emmy, was sorry for anything that might have hurt the woman.

             
Probably confused the wife more than anything else but it was a pretty perfect Emmy reaction.

             
Now maybe she can fix things for me?  Only Em seems as thrown by Kellan's move as I am.

             
"I called my mom," I say, trying to focus on my phone.  "What time is it?"

             
Emmy doesn't bother with phones or clocks.  She just looks out the window and says, "Dark."

             
Good enough.  "She doesn't know where Kellan is either."

             
Emmy frowns.  "Who doesn't?"

             
"My mom."

             
"What about your mom?"

             
Pause.  "I don't want any more rum."

             
She nods.  "Good idea.  I'll make coffee."

             
I look around.  There's no stove or coffee maker in the dorm room.  "With what?"

             
"Microwave."

             
"Pass."

             
"No.  You're going to need it."

             
She's probably right.  I need to stop talking about Kellan, since he didn't see fit to talk to me before leaving.  My mom doesn't know where he went, though she sounded sincere that she didn't know he was going or where he'd gone.  Bruce – OK, Bruce is kind of being a jerk about it and I feel like it's because he's still mad at Kellan.  Like us breaking up over this would serve Kellan right.

             
Fine.  But what did I do to Bruce?

             
No answers.  No answers at all until morning, when I wake feeling fine, not at all like I did after the bonfire when I accidentally got drunk and Reed rescued me.  According to Emmy we must have been on a sugar high, because there wasn't more than 3 shot glasses of rum in the whole of what we drank.

             
"So I'm a lightweight?"

             
"No.  You're a sweet girl who was upset."

             
"So are you," I tell her.  We sit for a minute, then sigh simultaneously, shaking off the mood.  "So if we're through with the mutual appreciation moment – "

             
"Yeah."

             
"What are we going to do?"

             
Emmy actually looks like she has an answer.  She shoves the sleeves of her t-shirt up her arms and runs a hand through her thick brown hair which is wild after a night of tossing and turning when we did finally sleep, me on the floor, her on the bed that pushes halfway into the wall to form a "couch."

             
"Well, I'm going to get in touch with Mr. Married Man just long enough to tell him what I think and that his wife knows and that if he ever tries anything like that again it will fall off, because I put a curse on it."

             
We dissolve into giggles.  "Think he's that stupid?"

             
"I hope so."

             
I nod thoughtfully.  "And what am I going to do?"

             
"You're going to root through Bruce's office when he's off with your mom and find out where Kellan's apartment is, then go demand he talk to you."

             
She says it so matter of factly, my mouth drops open.

             
"How am I going to get into Bruce's office?"

             
She rolls her eyes.  "Duh.  You live there."

             
I squint at her.  I do have a bit of a headache.  "What?"

             
She waves her hands.  "Not his office office.  His
home
office.  Where he probably has the checkbook from which he pays Kellan's rent."

* * *

             
So Emmy is a genius.

             
Who knew.

             
The rest of Thursday drifts by.  There's dinner, and a walk on the beach, and absolutely no texts or calls or emails or any other communication from Kellan.

             
There's also nothing from Kellan's stalker.  Does
she
know where he is?  The idea's enough to jack up my heart beat. 

             
Reed calls from Boston.  He's going to be in Charleston over the coming weekend and would Emmy and I like to come to a beach party?

             
It's the farthest thing from my mind, but maybe it will distract me from everything else that's happening.  We talk for a little while, nothing of any consequence, and after that I do some homework.

             
I can't get Kellan off my mind for more than a few minutes at a time and when I can, I worry about Reed Miller and the "slut" letter from Henry Tate Miller, and when I'm not worrying about that, I worry about the "I know what you did" letter that came to me, complete with photos.  Can't help but wonder if Miller didn't have something to do with that.  Insane, yes, but how many people are there out there not only sending letters but including photos, scanned or not?

             
Friday morning I get up, go for a run, check that everybody is still home.  They are.  Didn't they used to go out from time to time? 

             
There's the station, and school, and some work in the library because it allows me to stay on campus, and then on to the station again.

             
Tyler and Zach are preparing the proposals for the station, creating clips of the shows we've actually produced, and bullet point lists of what interns learn, OTJ work experience, and backing everything up so we can ask for a budget. 

             
"We do
have
a budget," I point out to Tabby, who laughs, and says, "One that actually
buys things
, Willow," in a way that's a tad nastier than she really needs to be. 

             
Whatever.  I don't have time to worry about mean girls.  Or even just plain jealous girls.  Right now I don't know why anyone would be jealous of me. I'm busy, I'm failing math, my boyfriend has apparently broken up with me by moving to an "undisclosed location," and my math tutor makes no sense.  At least I haven't heard anymore from whoever sent me the Seattle letter, though knowing the person is in South Carolina and not knowing what they're doing is anything but restful.