Heart's Surrender (14 page)

Gillian was almost light-headed from relief. Just to make sure that Sam was really all right and didn’t need anything Gillian stayed in the room, leaning against the door’s wooden frame. Her gaze wandered through the room. A framed poster of Georgia O’Keeffe’s
White Rose with Larkspur
hung over the bed. Gillian had spent a long time in front of the original during her last visit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The painting was an exquisite capture of the infinite beauty of flowers and one of Gillian’s favorites. She would have never expected to see something so fragile in Sam’s bedroom.
At the best I would have expected a black and white photo of a naked woman.
She shook her head at the assumptions she had made.
There’s so much I don’t know about her.

She surveyed the rest of the bedroom. Three walls were painted in ivory, the fourth indigo blue, which contrasted nicely with the wardrobe whose front consisted of white glass and mirrors. If the living room was proof of Sam’s more practical side, the bedroom seemed to reflect the softer side she hid so well most of the time.

Only when she heard Sam’s soft snoring did Gillian leave the room.
Coffee. I need coffee and then something to eat.
She made her way back to the small kitchen.

The coffee machine was a simple apparatus that she hadn’t seen in years. Most of Gillian’s acquaintances had shiny, high-tech tools in their kitchens, impossible to operate without reading a tome-sized manual. Derrick had been adamant that they buy one of those digital, super-automatic espresso machines, not because it made good coffee—which it did—but because it was a status symbol, like his BMW roadster or the swimming pool or whatever could be used to show off. All of these things had been important to her as well—once. So much had changed over these past months. Sometimes she couldn’t believe how snotty she had been, how limited her whole life and her worldview was.

Gillian opened the refrigerator in search of milk. She couldn’t help chuckling.
Now
,
this is what I call a wasteland.
Three different brands of beer, a bottle of milk, and Chinese leftovers, which she didn’t want to investigate too closely, as well as a jar of pickles, were the refrigerator’s only contents. Preparing a meal was going to be a bit more challenging than she thought. In a cupboard to her right stood an opened box of Froot Loops. Her children would have had a field day if they ever learned about her eating something like this. Food with artificial flavor was banned from their home. They bought vegetables, fruit, and bread at the farmer’s market.
Well, there is no need to tell the children that Mommy had chemicals for lunch. Maybe I should find a supermarket and stock up the fridge.

What the fuck?
Sam’s mouth and lips were dry. Her eyes felt as if they were glued shut. She forced them open, only to notice a wet spot on the pillow below her.
Ugh.
She rubbed her cheek to get rid of any hints of drool.

The sounds of honking cars and howling police sirens invaded her bedroom. Through the fog in her brain, she pondered what had woken her up. The outside noises, as pesky as they were, she was used to. She moved her head a bit, then let it fall back on the pillow as her throbbing skull threatened to explode.
Ow!
Her body felt as if a steamroller had run her over. Twice. Every nerve ending hurt, including the few brain cells that had survived. And, if that wasn’t enough, her tongue tasted as if something furry had curled up and died there.

Oh my God.
She tried to focus on her breathing when an unfamiliar sound filtered into her dizzy brain.
Someone’s moving around in my living room?
Sam strained her ears, her stomach lurching.
Oh, Gillian. Right.
Vague memories rushed back at Sam: Her flirting heavily with Roxanne, Gillian showing up and dragging her out of The Labrys and into the apartment, her vomiting, the promise that they would talk later.
Shit.
The pounding in her head intensified. With a groan, Sam dragged her body toward the edge of the bed. She slowly sat up, relieved that she was dizzy but didn’t feel the urge to throw up. She hated vomiting. The feeling of helplessness that came with losing the fight against her body, the taste in her mouth, the smell... If she remembered correctly she had not only puked like a teenager after having been served her first drink, if she remembered correctly, Gillian had witnessed all of it. Sam’s face grew hot.

Gillian had said that she wanted to talk. What exactly did that mean? Did she want to ask for forgiveness? Her stomach fluttered at the thought that maybe Gillian felt bad about her fucked-up behavior at the coffee shop.

Sam snorted, angry for even allowing herself that kind of hope. Reaching over to the nightstand was like reaching through molasses, but she persisted until she found the aspirin bottle in her drawer. She took two pills, forcing herself to swallow them with the half-empty glass of water on her nightstand.

With careful movements, Sam propped her back against the headboard and closed her eyes. She needed time to let the aspirin do its job before she could face Gillian.
How did I get into this mess?
What had made her believe that Gillian cared for her? That she wouldn’t cheat on her with a classier woman? Or did Gillian cheat on the classier woman with Sam? A bitter taste spread in Sam’s mouth.
Who cares anyhow? I’m over her.
Sam let out a small bitter laugh.
Liar!
She wasn’t really over Gillian. Not by a long shot. Sam’s fists tightened on the duvet. Unable to lie still any longer, she ignored her body’s protests and swung her legs out of bed. A wave of dizziness crashed into her.
Okay, take it easy is the goal for the rest of the day. On the other hand…
there was no way she could talk to Gillian while lying on her back, feeling sick. Lying down and feeling sorry for herself was an option as soon as Gillian left. And she would leave. Soon. There was no doubt about that.

Somehow Sam managed to make it into the shower. At first the water kind of hurt on her sensitive skin but she forced herself to stay put and after a while the sluice of water down her back had the same effect a skillful massage had on good days. Sam groaned. That was so good. She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry. For the first time after waking up she felt like a human being and almost ready to face Gillian again. Sam swiped the cold mist from the mirror and grimaced.
Well, that face has seen better days.
There were dark rings under her eyes and a pallor to her skin that was testament of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. She sighed. Alcohol really wasn’t her friend.

After brushing her teeth Sam dressed herself in her most comfortable jeans and a sweater. Determined to get it over with, she opened the door to the living room and stared.

Gillian sat on the sofa, an old
National Geographic
magazine in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Her bare feet were drawn up beneath her, her dress as short and form-fitting as could possible be.

A jumble of anger, longing, and hurt pulsed through Sam. Gillian’s short, black dress accentuated her porcelain skin and blonde hair.
Damn.
No one should be allowed to look so beautiful
.

Gillian’s gaze met hers.

“Don’t you look cozy?” The words came out as harshly as Sam had intended.

A flash of hurt whisked over Gillian’s face. She slowly laid the magazine on the coffee table and sat up straight. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Sam needed to take control of the situation and put some distance between them. How could just seeing Gillian hurt so much and make everything that had been so clear, so black and white, so difficult and various shades of grey again? Sam straightened her shoulders and stepped into the kitchen. She gaped at the kitchen counter. A whole array of water bottles stood next to a packet of herb tea, two jars of jelly, and some white bread.

“I didn’t know what you might like to eat or drink. Herbal tea is usually a good choice.” Gillian’s soft voice came from behind her.

A bubble of anger burst inside Sam. Gillian acting as if she cared was too much. She swung around. “What do you want, Gillian? Why are you here?”

Gillian paled and took a step back. “I... I wanted to talk. You said we could talk.”

The pounding in Sam’s skull increased, the pressure so great she wished she had stayed in bed. “What about?”

“I’m…I’m sorry about my behavior. I really am. I want to explain what happened. Back in the coffee shop.”

Sam snorted. “Why should I even listen to you?”

“Because I wanted to ask your forgiveness for what I’ve done and for what I should have said and…I’m so sorry, Sam.” Gillian rubbed a spot across her heart, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

To Sam, the ticking of the wall clock sounded like a bomb counting down. She opened one of the water bottles and drank straight from it. The cool liquid was balm to her scratchy throat.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you.” Gillian took a shaky breath. “I would give anything to undo what I’ve done. I should have told Rachel who you are. I should have stood up for you. I should have behaved differently. But I can’t go back and undo my shitty behavior.”

Sam’s fingers closed tighter around the bottle in her hand until the plastic made crinkly noises. “You denied that we knew each other and then you let them humiliate me. You humiliated me. Hurt me.”

“I know.” Gillian didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

“I trusted you. And you cut me.”

“I know.” Gillian’s shoulders slumped.

“I…I…” Sam didn’t know what to say. All she wanted to do was throw the plastic bottle against the kitchen wall.

“Can you forgive me?” The words were a mere whisper.

Sam’s breath caught. She had expected to hear Gillian justify her actions, maybe beg her not to reveal their secret—not to ask her for forgiveness. That she hadn’t anticipated. Sam blew out a frustrated breath and ran her hand through her hair. “Forgive you?”

“You have every right to be mad, Sam. I behaved like an absolute asshole.” There were tears in Gillian’s eyes.

Sam rubbed her temples. “It’s not that easy, Gillian. You can’t just come here, say you’re sorry, and expect everything to be okay again.”

“I know, Sam. I can’t tell you how much I―”

“Stop.” Sam held up her hand. “Why did you do it?” That question had kept her awake, night after night. Over and over the scene in the café had played before her eyes, a living nightmare that wouldn’t go away. “Why did you pretend not to know me? And who was,” she nearly choked on her next words, “the other woman?”

Gillian looked down at her feet. “I panicked. And the other woman was Rachel. She’s an old acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance? I saw you coming out of an apartment early one morning. Before we met in the club. Before you asked me to fuck you.” Sam shook her head. “She’s no acquaintance. She’s a fuck buddy, right?”

Gillian shook her head. “No. She’s not a friend. Not really. Her husband and mine worked together. They were lawyers in the same firm. That’s how I know her. Well, and from playing tennis. And meeting for coffee and doing whatever wives do. The morning you saw us together... I picked her up for a breakfast meeting we’ve been invited to.” Gillian took a step closer toward Sam. “I did not sleep with her.” Gillian swallowed. “And I would never cheat on you. Never.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

The blood drained from Gillian’s already pale face. “I know that my behavior is inexcusable. I panicked. I... I’m trying to turn my life around and I’m learning who I really am and that is good…but this is also hard. There are Derrick’s parents, my old friends…though they are not really friends but...” Gillian’s bottom lip quivered, “There are my children to consider. They have no idea.” Gillian’s voice was raw, her expression ghastly. “Sam, I made a mistake. A mistake that I regret more than I can express. The truth is…I’m scared.” Gillian stared down at her hands. “Scared because I care about you. Very much. And I am so afraid that you won’t give me a second chance and that I just blew what we could have had together.”

Sam had a hard time absorbing Gillian’s words. Anger and hope were fighting with each other inside her while she pondered how to respond. She had two options. She could cut Gillian out of her life. Right here and now. She could be cruel, hard, and unyielding to Gillian before she threw her out—a few well placed words were all that would be needed to make Gillian feel as shitty as Sam had felt in the coffee shop and for days afterward. The other option was to forgive her.
Forgive her. And then?
Sam’s thoughts raced. “Gillian, I don’t know what to say.” She took another gulp of water from the bottle. “And I have a hard time believing that,” she took a deep breath, “Rachel is just an acquaintance. But even if I do forgive you…I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

“Maybe it is better if I―” Gillian’s voice cracked. “I can call a taxi, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

A lump formed in Sam’s throat. Was that what she wanted? She stared at the half-empty bottle in her hand. Did she really want Gillian to leave? She didn’t know what to feel, what to think, but the idea of losing Gillian once and for all hurt more than the pain she had felt about the betrayal and was even stronger than her anger. What did that mean? Fact was that Gillian had gone to The Labrys to find her. She had apologized and asked for forgiveness. That had to count for something, right? Sam slammed the bottle down on the counter and followed a retreating Gillian to the living room. Just in time to see Gillian wiping tears from her face.
She’s hurting.
They were both hurting.