Over the Fence (40 page)

The next few days, I strove to show Kourtney how I felt about her. Our evenings were spent together, always touching. Now that I knew all of Kourtney’s fears, her insecurities and the level of neglect she had experienced, I realized what had been missing all her life and I was determined to rectify it. For so long she had been denied the simplest of all things: touch and acceptance. She had been taught she wasn’t worthy of hugs and kind words. All her life she had been made to feel ashamed of her own body so she had learned to hold herself back.

At every opportunity, I held her, caressed, and kissed her, trying to convey with my touch how much I cared for her. We started going for walks at night, holding hands as we explored the neighborhood together. We often stopped and chatted with Mrs. Webster, and I smirked at her side-long, knowing looks.

There were long kisses goodbye in the morning and even longer, deeper ones when we reunited at night. Every chance I found, I praised her, enjoying the fact my words could cause her smile to blossom. The words “I love you” left my lips several times a day, my own smile breaking through when I heard them returned from her mouth. Every night I made love to her, groaning deep with the intense sensations brought forth from being joined with her intimately. Each day, we grew closer and each day the thought of ever leaving her grew more abhorrent to me. When I was with her, I felt complete.

I was grateful to see the end of Thursday. It had been a long, hard day, with problems all over the building. I was late coming home, bringing a laptop with me to work on. Kourtney was across from me, folding laundry, her low laughter making me look up from the keyboard. “What?”

“Four of your five pair of socks have holes in them. You need new ones.”

“I have a new package in my drawer next door. I’ll get them after I get this started.”

“I’ll go.”

“I have to get the box of discs from the drawer in the desk.”

“I can get them for you.”

I held out my keys. “Okay. Look in the right top drawer of the dresser for the socks. Left drawer, blue box of discs from the desk in the main room.”

“Got it.”

I went back to work, realizing after a little while, she hadn’t come back. About to go and look for her, I heard the front door open and I glanced up, ready to tease her about finding my hidden porn and being shocked when I saw the look on her face.

Her pale, upset face.

“Kourtney?”

She stared at me, holding up a thick envelope. “I searched the wrong drawer.”

Fear, like icy water, ran down my spine, making me shudder. She held the large envelope containing all my letters to my mother and sister, and my legal documents.

I’d waited too long to tell her, and now she found out about my past the wrong way.

“You . . . you were in prison, Nathan?”

“Yes.”

“You lied to me—all this time?” Her voice quivered with repressed emotion. “Did you lie to me about everything? Has this all been a . . . diversion?”

I stood up, reaching for her, already feeling her rejection when she stepped back from my touch. “No, Kourtney! The way I feel about you is honest and real—I love you. You mean everything to me!”

“Still, you lied.”

“I did,” I admitted. “I was afraid.”

“Why?”

“I was too scared to tell you the truth—I was terrified you’d walk away from me.”

“Why were you in prison?”

“Will you listen? Will you hear my story?”

She hesitated, looking distraught, and making my heart ache.

“Please let me tell you.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “If you want me to leave after, I will.”

It felt like an eternity before she nodded. “Okay, Nathan. I’ll listen.”

After she sat down, I sat beside her; not touching, but close.

“I went to prison for manslaughter.”

Her gaze widened; her expression wary. “You killed someone?”

Slowly, my hands tightened into fists. “Yes.”

She stared at me, her eyes filled with fear. “On purpose?”

“No! Don’t look at me like that, baby, please. Don’t look at me as if you’re now afraid of me. It was an accident—I swear.”

“Tell me,” she demanded, whisper-soft.

“I was in prison for involuntary manslaughter and reckless driving. I went in when I was eighteen and got out on early parole just after my twenty-second birthday.” I inhaled a deep rush of air for courage. “I was driving my car and lost control, killing one passenger and injuring another.”

“Nathan,” she breathed.

“I killed my little brother.” I had to stop for a moment. “And my sister Sophie was injured, but she survived.”

She gasped, her hand covering her mouth. I took the chance and inched closer, wanting to feel her closeness.

“If it was an accident, why did you go to jail?”

“I need to tell you the whole story so you can understand.”

“All right.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m listening, Nathan.”

I captured her hand, kissing the tender palm, then releasing it. “Thank you.”

I stood up and walked around the room, a place that wasn’t mine, yet felt so much like home because of the woman who lived there. The one I desperately prayed I hadn’t lost because of my cowardice. Every nerve in my body felt as if it was on the outside of my skin—burning and snapping—not allowing me to remain in one spot.

“I grew up on the East Coast in Nova Scotia. My dad died when I was ten. My mom remarried not long afterward, and the man she married, Ryan, had a young son—Trevor. He was six years younger than me, three years younger than Sophie.”

“Did you get along with him? Ryan, I mean?”

I shrugged. “Mostly—at first anyway—things went downhill pretty fast. My mom doted on Trevor—we all kind of did—he was at that age, you know? He was a cute little bugger—easy to love. People thought I resented him, but I didn’t. I didn’t show it the way my mom and sister did, but he was my little buddy, and I never thought of him as Ryan’s son, but my little brother.”

“What happened?”

“I became a teenager. Ryan and I butted heads a lot. He was on my case all the time and I rebelled. I rebelled often.” I laughed dryly. “I was grounded a great deal of the time.”

“What about your mom?”

“She sided with Ryan most of the time. I’m not saying she was wrong, but sometimes I felt as if she could have stuck up for me a little more. I know I gave her a hard time, though.”

“And Sophie?”

I smiled a genuine smile. “My little sister was a hippie from a bygone era. She believed in love and peace. She wore these flowy dresses, her hair was this wild mass of blonde curls, and she was one of the sweetest souls I’d ever known. I called her ‘Gypsy-girl’ because she reminded me of a free spirit. She always stuck up for me.” I met Kourtney’s unique, cautious gaze. “Until I met you I didn’t think anyone like that existed anymore.”

“Don’t.” She looked away, and I cleared my throat of the emotion I felt building. I needed to stick to telling my story and save my apologies for afterward. If she’d let me apologize.

Trying to loosen some of the tension, I rolled my shoulders, and continued. “When I was sixteen, my mom gave me my dad’s old Mustang. She’d kept it all those years for me. I don’t think Ryan was too happy about it, but by that point, I didn’t really care.”

I looked down at my feet, gathering my thoughts. My fingers flexed and relaxed in a constant rhythm—a nervous habit I’d picked up in prison when I needed some sort of physical release. “The car needed a lot of work. I got a part-time job to pay for the parts, my friends helped with labor, but it still took almost eighteen months to get it done. I was so fucking proud of that car. I heard Ryan telling my mom I’d get bored with it and abandon the project—but he had no idea what it meant to me. It belonged to my dad—my real dad—and I could remember driving around in it with him. I knew how much he loved it. It was like having a piece of him.”

“What happened?”

I stared out the window, silent. “I was young and stupid, Kourtney. Not long after my eighteenth birthday, I was home with Trevor and Sophie—I was grounded again, I think. Mom and Ryan were out. I was restless—I’d had another argument with Ryan earlier, and I was stewing in my room, thinking it was time for me to move out and be done with him. Trevor and Sophie came to my room, wanting to go for ice cream. And in a moment of weakness, or rebellion maybe, I said okay.”

“Why a moment of weakness?”

“Ryan wouldn’t allow them in my car.”

“Oh.”

“It was perfect—my own way to get back at Ryan with him never knowing. They promised not to tell, so I drove us to the local ice cream shop and we had cones. On the way home, they both begged for a longer ride and I was stupid enough to agree—after all, what could go wrong?”

“But something did?”

I sucked in a deep breath. “It had rained earlier in the day and the back road I went down was muddy. We were having such a good time—we were laughing, the windows were down, the music blaring and we were just driving. Trevor begged to go faster and I did.” A long shudder ran down my spine. “I misjudged my speed and how fast I could take the bend in the road.”

Emotion overwhelmed me and I leaned on the window sill, gripping the wood hard. “I lost control. The car rolled and we ended up ramming into a tree.”

From behind me I could hear Kourtney’s murmured words of sympathy. My words came out faster—now I had started telling her, I wanted the whole story out.

“The car caught fire. I woke up; the car was filled with smoke and I was upside down. I was disoriented, panicked, and I had a terrible searing pain in my leg. My seat belt was still in place and it took me a bit to get it undone and get out of the car. I pulled Sophie out of the back—she was unconscious and bleeding, but she was alive. I raced to the other side of the car to get Trevor out.” I shut my eyes as the memory of his limp, blood-spattered body sliding from the upside down car into my arms washed over me. “He was dead.”

“Oh, Nathan. How awful.”

I didn’t want to talk about the accident anymore. If I did, I was going to lose it—big time. I could feel the emotions bearing down on me, making me tremble with their intensity. I plunged my clenched fists into my pockets to hide the shaking.

“I was brought up on manslaughter and reckless driving charges. I didn’t fight it—I pled guilty and I went to prison here in Ontario.”

“Why didn’t you fight it? Why didn’t your parents try and stop you?”

A bitter laugh escaped my throat and I turned to meet her gaze. “My parents, especially Ryan, blamed me for the accident and Trevor’s death, and they were right. I wasn’t supposed to take them in the car. I shouldn’t have been driving so fast. It was my fault—I killed him and I hurt Sophie. I walked away with some contusions, broken ribs, and a few scars on my leg. But I was alive. Why would I put them through a trial and try to duck the blame?” I shook my head. “I was considered an adult and it was my decision. The only thing I argued about was the reason. Ryan told everyone I always disliked Trevor—I was jealous of the attention he got and he thought I did it on purpose, but I didn’t. I was irresponsible and stupid—yes. But I didn’t do it on purpose.” My voice broke. “I—I loved that kid.”

“You went to jail.”

“Yes.”

“And your family—they didn’t come see you?”

“My stepfather came to see me the first week I was in prison. He told me they wanted nothing to do with me anymore. I didn’t believe him. I started writing to my mother, begging her to listen, to know I didn’t do it on purpose—I would never hurt Trevor or Sophie intentionally. I never got a response. I tried to call her, but the number was changed and unlisted. The number the prison had for emergencies was Ryan’s private cell phone. Eventually some of the letters came back marked undeliverable. I found out later they had moved.”

“You kept all the letters?”

“I did.” I shrugged, unsure how to explain it. “It was all I had.”

Her hands clutched her knees so hard, the knuckles were white. She regarded me sadly. “So you were all alone?”

“Yes. All my friends were back east so I had no visitors. I was too ashamed of what I’d done to try and stay in contact with anyone. I convinced myself it was better for everyone that way. Grant tried to tell me differently . . . but I didn’t listen.”

“Grant? The friend you had coffee with?”

I nodded. “He was the mandated counselor I was assigned when I was in prison. I wasn’t exactly a model patient at first, but gradually I started to trust him. He became a friend—he left the prison not long before I was released. It was his testimony at the parole hearing that got me out early. He and his wife, Claire, took me in for a while until I got on my feet. They co-signed my loan so I could buy my car and again for my house. They live up north and I go see him every month or so.” I sighed. “If it hadn’t been for their kindness when I got out, I’m not sure what would have happened to me.”

“Why?”

“Ryan was waiting for me when I walked out of prison. He gave me the first of the letters I had written, and said none of them wanted anything to do with me. He told me to leave them alone—to forget they existed because they had already forgotten me. He was there to make sure I got the message.”

“Are you sure he was telling the truth?”

“The letters are marked
return to sender
in my mother’s writing. There was also a note saying to leave them alone. I got the message. I had to beg him to tell me if Sophie was okay—if she had recovered. He said she had, but she didn’t want to see me.”

“Have you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I looked when I first got out of prison. I know they moved away from the East Coast, but I’ve never searched for them past that—I couldn’t handle more rejection. I thought I found Sophie once on Facebook, but it wasn’t her. Grant offered to help find them, but I didn’t see the point. Ryan and my mother made themselves very clear. I wasn’t welcome. They had their life, and I had to go and find mine.”

“But, you’re her son. And your sister—”

I shrugged. “Sometimes, you can’t forgive, Kourtney. They couldn’t.”

“Why did you keep this a secret from me?”