Hard As Rock (10 page)

“Kaitlyn, whatever you want to tell me, I want to listen to.”

So I told him just about everything, minus the more intimate details.

And my heart gradually began to heal because of it.

As I began to heal, I was able to listen to Derek’s voicemails and not get plunged into despair or rage. Depression and anger, yes – but not their soul-shattering extremes. Finally I could read his texts and not have my heart break into pieces all over again. I would get sad, yes, and sometimes cry – but I wouldn’t feel like I wanted to curl up into a little ball on the floor and never move again because it hurt too much.

I got a lot of practice, because the one thing Derek
didn’t
do was let up on the voicemails and texts. He was freaking obsessed. A minimum of eight voicemails a day, and at least twice as many texts.

Once I wasn’t entirely a slave to my emotions, I began to listen to what was under his angry words and self-pitying diatribes: hurt. A lot of pain. And bewilderment. Like he couldn’t understand why I was acting this way. Or how I even
could
act this way. I’m sure he’d never been like this with any other woman in his life – trying relentlessly but futilely to get her back – and it was driving him insane. Other women would have come crawling if he beckoned with his finger, and here I was, cutting off all communication whatsoever.

I started to feel bad about the anguish I was putting him through.

Not that the bastard doesn’t deserve it,
I thought savagely, but then I would remind myself that my goal was to get free of him, not twist the knife in his back.

I thought about calling him… I thought about texting him… but something always kept me from doing it: the fear that if I did, he would charm his way back into my life.

It wasn’t such a farfetched notion. No matter how many times he had called me a bitch, every time he pleaded with me in a voicemail to forgive him, my resolve melted a little bit more. I could just imagine what he might be able to do if he actually got me on the phone.

And then one day his voicemails and texts changed completely – from
Why won’t you call me back?
to
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!

Twelve days after my abrupt departure from Vegas, he had apparently flown to New York. (
About time, jackass,
I thought bitterly.) Except I wasn’t there.

His first voicemail was wary.

“Uh, Kaitlyn… look… I was going to surprise you, but… I’ve been standing outside your apartment building for three hours, and I haven’t seen any sign of you. Please – please, I’m begging you – just talk to me. Don’t run away. I promise I won’t pressure you or anything. Even if you won’t see me face-to-face, at least just talk to me… I came all this way…
please,
Kaitlyn… just call me.”

For the first time, the truth dawned on me:

He doesn’t know where I am.

He doesn’t know I’m in South Dakota with Ryan.

Which should have been obvious in retrospect, because he never once mentioned Ryan or South Dakota… but when you’re in the depths of grief and heartbreak, you tend to skip over an obvious detail here and there.

The fact that he didn’t know where I was made me feel… weird.

Guilty, actually.

Like I was doing something wrong.

Even though I wasn’t! Doing anything wrong, I mean.

I wanted to run out and corner Ryan immediately and ask him why he hadn’t told Derek, but I couldn’t stop listening to the voicemails.

The second one was upset.

“Kaitlyn, what the fuck?! I just talked to the manager, and he said you haven’t been in your apartment for almost two weeks! Where ARE you?! Are you even in New York?!”

The third voicemail was frantic.

“Holy shit, Kaitlyn… please… if you’re listening to this, PLEASE let me know you’re alive… I just called Shanna and she doesn’t know where you are, either… babe, please, PLEASE, I’m scared… look, I know you probably can’t stand the sound of my voice – ”

Not true, unfortunately.

“ – but I’m fucking imagining you dead in a ditch somewhere, or in a hospital in a coma, or some serial killer… Jesus Christ, I can’t even talk about it… please, PLEASE just let me know you’re okay – PLEASE. That’s all I ask. Just let me know you’re okay.”

My heart was breaking all over again – but for another reason this time.

He was terrified.

He really did love me, and he was terrified that I was dead or injured or in danger.

And I was hurting him with my silence.

I was about to text him, but I had to hear Shanna’s voicemail first.

“Oh my God, you guys – DRAMAAAA! Where the fuck are you, journa-slut? Your rock star boyfriend just called me all freaking out. I have to tell you this first, though: nicely played. I figured HE’D be the one breaking YOUR heart, not vice versa. He wouldn’t tell me why you split, but I’m betting he was an asshole in some way, shape, or form, since you’re not smart enough to listen to my advice and just up and leave. But seriously, he’s fucking losing it. I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but you miiiiight want to consider having pity on him and just letting him know you’re alive. Fuck it, let ME know you’re alive while you’re at it. And damn, Gina, why you holding out on the juicy details? Do I mean THAT little to you? Jesus – your life is finally way more exciting than mine, and you decide to go all radio silence! Call me, bitch! Stat!”

I rolled my eyes. Trust Shanna to make this all about her. (Although in a very funny way.)

But what she’d said about Derek was alarming me even more. He’d waited three hours for me… he’d talked to my building manager… and then he’d tracked down Shanna. And nobody knew where I was.

No wonder he was envisioning ditches and comas and serial killers.

I was about to text him back, just to let him know I was alive… but I remembered how this had all started.

Somebody had been keeping secrets.

I stomped through the house and stormed into Ryan’s studio without knocking.

He looked around in surprise and pulled off his headphones. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Derek doesn’t know where I am, does he.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.

Once he realized that a battalion of cougars wasn’t attacking the ranch, Ryan relaxed for about one second – and then his face became very neutrally composed.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?!”

“For one thing, he hasn’t called me since Vegas.”

“You could have called
him!”

“And told him what? ‘Oh, by the way, your girlfriend is here, but she doesn’t want to see you or talk to you.’ What do you think he would have done?”

I stopped short. I’d never even considered that.

And I knew exactly what he would have done, because he’d just done it with New York (although it took him twelve days to swallow his pride and get around to it).

He would have come out here to South Dakota.

Ryan saw the dawning comprehension in my eyes. “Yeah. And since he’s aware of my… past feelings for you, I can assure you, it wouldn’t have gone over very well. No matter how innocent my intentions might be.”

Past feelings for you.

I wondered how much in the ‘past’ those feelings really were.

And just how innocent his intentions might be.

I had a sudden urge to pull out that ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and throw it in his face.

“I’m going to text him,” I announced.

“No one’s stopping you,” Ryan said. He didn’t say it in a punk-ass way – just very calmly and matter-of-factly. Which, in my current state, pissed me off. “But I can tell you this: one text isn’t going to be enough for him. It’s going to set off a chain reaction of crazy on his part like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You know him so well, huh.”

“I do, actually. Can I ask you a favor?”

“What,” I said belligerently. I wasn’t being nearly as graceful as he was about the whole situation.

“Don’t tell him you’re here. Not yet. If you want to tell him tomorrow, fine. But let it sit for 24 hours. I know Derek. If you tell him you’re here, he’s going to freak out. He’s going to immediately think we’re having a non-stop orgy, and when he gets here, he’s going to be out for blood. So just… don’t tell him. Not yet.”

I gritted my teeth. Ryan made it all sound so… logical. Rational.

But it felt dishonest. And sleazy.

Like something Derek might do?
a vicious little voice in my head asked.

“Fine. I’ll just let him know I’m okay.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said. He sounded genuine when he said it, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

The same couldn’t be said for me.

“You’re welcome,” I snapped, and slammed the studio door behind me.

I paced back and forth in the main room for almost twenty minutes, biting my thumbnail, trying to figure out what I was going to say.

In the end, I just decided to keep it simple.

I’m okay,
I texted back.
Don’t worry, I’m fine. I just don’t want to talk right now.

I pressed ‘Send.’

Within sixty seconds, the barrage started.

Kaitlyn, PLEASE, you HAVE to talk to me!

Where are you?!

Just talk to me!

Why are you doing this to me?!

This is the first time you’ve texted or talked to me in two weeks, and that’s all you have to say?! That you ‘don’t want to talk right now’?! You disappear on me, and that’s it?! You get total fucking say-so on what happens?!

Of course, I’m cleaning up the spelling and grammar. I think he was pretty sloshed when he sent most of the texts, which rendered a good deal of them nearly unintelligible.

Three hours, 157 text messages, and fifteen angry / desperate / heartbroken / drunken voicemails from Derek later, I sat down to dinner with Ryan. He had fixed chicken piccata with lemon and capers, plus potatoes au gratin and roasted asparagus. A blueberry cobbler from Mrs. MacCruder sat cooling in the oven.

“So,” he asked, “did you text him?”

“Yes,” I said sheepishly. “You were right.”

He raised an eyebrow. “About him going crazy?”

“Yeah. Over a hundred and fifty text messages and counting.”

Ryan whistled. “Wow. You didn’t tell him where you are, did you?”

“No. And I don’t think I’m going to.”

He nodded. “That’s probably for the best.”

“You were right.”

“I’m just sorry it didn’t go better.”

He sounded one hundred percent sincere, which made me feel ashamed.

“I’m… sorry about how I acted earlier,” I said. “I apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“No, I… I wasn’t very nice.”

“You were under a lot of stress.”

“Well,
you
were nice to
me
.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t under as much stress.”

I laughed. He had that way of sneaking past my defenses and lightening the mood.

“Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry… and thank you.”

“Again, no need to be sorry – but ‘thank you’ for what?”

“For keeping a level head in all of this.”

He smiled and raised his wine glass in a toast. “To level heads – may they always prevail.”

“Hear, hear,” I said, and drank in agreement.

His words came back to me in the days that followed, almost like an ironic foreshadowing.

To level heads – may they always prevail.

Unfortunately, they didn’t.

Not by a long shot.

Everything started to unravel the day Ryan talked to Riley.

We were in the main room eating lunch, discussing how far to ride into the hills that afternoon, when the Skype song buzzed from Ryan’s laptop. He looked at the screen and cautioned me, “It’s Riley, so… maybe just hang back and don’t say anything.”

I almost said,
She actually WANTS me to ditch Derek for you,
but I kept it a bit milder than that. “I don’t think she would tell Derek.”

“I don’t think so either, but Derek might be there with her.”

Oh shit – he was right: Riley was in New York, and so was Derek.

“Okay,” I nodded, now totally freaked out.

He winked at me, positioned the laptop so there was no way I could be seen on camera, and clicked a button.

“Hey, Riley.”

“What up, farm boy!”
the familiar voice erupted from the speaker.
“How’s South Dakota? Tired of fuckin’ cows ‘n sheep yet?”

Ryan smiled. “I knew I was missing something, but I didn’t know what, exactly, until I heard your sweet, foul-mouthed little voice. How’s it going?”

“Awesome. I been drunker’n shit and gettin’ poon like a fuckin’ baBOON.”

Another voice, disapproving and motherly, spoke up.
“Riley!”

Riley started protesting like a five-year-old kid saying ‘But Mo
oooom
, all the other kids are doing it!’

“It’s just Ryan!”
she complained.

“I don’t care, don’t be so crude.”

Riley sighed, and even though I couldn’t see her, I could tell she was addressing Ryan again.
“I lied. I been livin’ with Mother Superior here for a week, and I been stone-cold sober and gettin’ about as much action as a butt-fugly nun.”

“Riley!”
came the voice again.

“I didn’t cuss, I said ‘fugly’!”

“Whatever. And I would hardly call three six-packs a day ‘sober.’”

“It is for ME!”

“Is that Megan I hear?” Ryan asked.

Riley’s sister,
I realized.

“Yeah,”
Riley said affectionately.
“Come over here, Meg!”

There was a few seconds’ pause, and a shy voice said,
“Hi, Ryan.”

“Hey, Megan! How’re you doing?”