Sweet Forgiveness (28 page)

My vision blurs. He's walking out on me? But I'm no closer to having answers than I ever was.

“Go back downstairs, Abby,” I say.

Abby wheels around, her head cocked. “Excuse me?”

I step in front of Michael and move to the door. “Go. Please,” I repeat, my heart thumping as I open the door. “Your dad and I need to finish our conversation.”

She looks at her dad for a rebuttal—or maybe protection. He pauses for a moment, then plants a hand on Abby's shoulder. “Now is not the time,” he tells me, his voice but a feather. “I said I will call you later.”

He nods to Abby, and she starts for the door.

“Now
is
the time,” I say, my voice strong and fierce, foreign to me. It's as if someone has taken over my body. Someone capable and determined and confident. “Will you marry me, Michael?”

Abby snorts, mumbling something about having no pride. Michael glares at me, his face a portrait of disgust. He pats Abby's shoulder. “C'mon, sweetie. Let's go.”

They pass in front of me as they walk out my door. I should let them go. I've said enough. But I can't. This arrow has left the bow. I'm hot on their heels, my voice louder, higher-pitched now. “What's wrong, Michael? Why can't you answer me?”

He doesn't look back. From somewhere behind me, I hear a door open. It's either Mrs. Peterson or Jade, and I picture two very different responses. Old Lady Peterson will be shaking her head, tut-tutting my outburst. But Jade? She'll be cheering me on, doing a little happy dance. I channel her energy and trail Michael toward the elevator.

“A simple yes or no,” I say. “Just tell me.”

Abby jabs at the elevator button. “Someone needs her meds.”

“Be quiet, Abby.”

She reaches for her phone, no doubt to text this scenario to her friends. In a split second I decide to go for the Hail Mary.

“You want something to text about, darling? I'll give you something text-worthy.” I grab her father's coat sleeve. “Are you ever going to marry me, Michael? Or do you just enjoy the sex?”

Abby gasps. Michael's eyes cut to mine, steel-blue dry ice. The muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The elevator doors open. Abby and Michael step inside.

I stand before the open elevator, my breath jerky and ragged. What the hell have I done? Should I get on with them? Should I try to backtrack? Beg for forgiveness? Play it off as a joke?

Michael punches the button.

“That's it? You're leaving?”

He stares right through me, as if I'm invisible. The doors begin to slide shut.

“You fucking coward,” I say. “Good riddance.”

Just before the doors meet, I catch sight of Abby's face. She's smirking, as if she's won this contest. My anger peaks, reaching its crescendo. I let it flow, loud and strong, the final, climactic scene in an opera. “And that goes for you, too, you little bitch!”

“O
kay, doll, spill it. I need details.” Jade perches on my kitchen counter while I walk in circles, hammering my forehead with my fist.

“Oh, damn! Oh, shit! I can't believe I did that. In the course of forty-eight hours, I've blown through two jobs and a boyfriend. Good-bye, hot commodity. Hello, hot mess.”

I grab the open bottle of wine from my counter and drag another glass from the cupboard.

“It's like I was . . . out of control. I just kept pummeling and jabbing.”

“I know. I heard. I couldn't believe that was you, Hannabelle. I had to sneak a peek, witness it with my own two eyes. You were brilliant!”

I feel my anger dissipating, humiliation and self-loathing quickly taking its place. I bury my head in my hands.

“What have I done, Jade? I blew it. Michael's never going to talk to me again.” At once, I'm seized with panic. I grab my cell phone and frantically type a message to Michael. Before I have time to hit send, Jade leaps from the counter and snatches the phone from my clutches.

“Stop! Girl, you followed your instincts, and your instincts were right. You've been frustrated for months now. Trust me, if he wants you, he'll be back.”

“No. I was out of line. I need to explain. I owe him an apology. Abby, too. How could I have said those things in front of Abby?” I close my eyes, allowing a wave of nausea to pass.

Jade grabs me by my shoulders. “You're blaming the victim, just like you accuse me of doing. Get ahold of yourself, Hannah. It was high time you had this conversation. You had every right to demand answers.”

“But the way I did it. It was totally wrong. You should have heard the way I talked to Abby.”

“Oh, I heard, all right. That little bitch was long overdue for a slap-down, and so was her daddy. So stop with the guilt.”

I reach for the phone, but she drops it down the front of her sweatshirt. “I will not let you relapse. So you weren't the most eloquent. I'll give you that. Point is, you finally had your
come-to-Jesus
talk. You had the guts to ask him what you've been dying to know.”

I let out a sigh. “And got the very answer I feared.”

She smiles and whispers, “You burned down the house, doll.”

“I did what?”

“You burned down the house,” she repeats. “You went all-out, like a serial killer who sets the house on fire before turning the gun on himself. You passed the point of no return.”

“Great. So now I'm being compared to a serial killer.” I lean against my refrigerator and rub the bridge of my nose. “But you got one thing straight. I turned the gun on myself, all right.”

She steps over to me, her blue-black pupils laser-focused. “People burn the house down for a reason, Hannabelle. It's a calculated move. They want to make sure there's no going back.”

My back stiffens. Sure, I was frustrated in the relationship, but I wasn't ready to cut the cord, was I? “You think I
wanted
to ruin my relationship?”

The corners of Jade's mouth turn up. “Ever since you came back from Michigan, you're different.” She lifts a lock of my hair. “I mean, look at you. It's like you've taken a holiday from Perfectionville.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Um, now might not be the best time to tell me that I look like hell.”

“It's all good,” she says. “You've got a mama now, and she loves you.” Jade smiles at me. “And that vineyard guy . . . JR . . . RJ . . . whatever the hell his name is. Your eyes are happy when you tell me about him.”

I shake my head. “That's never going to happen. Sure, he seemed like a great guy. But I barely know him. And he doesn't know me. He'd be just as repelled as everyone else if he knew what a fraud I was.”

“
Was
. That's the operative word. But you aren't anymore. And if he's as decent as you claim he is, he's not going to give a shit what the thirteen-year-old Hannah did.”

“It's no use. He's a thousand miles away.”

She lifts her hands and looks around. “A thousand miles away from what?”

I
t's 3:00 a.m. when I bolt from bed, my heart thrumming in my chest. I throw open the French doors, colliding with a wall of eighty-degree heat and 90 percent humidity. I stumble onto my balcony and suck in the air, but it's like breathing pudding. My nightshirt clings to my chest, and I grip the balcony rails, trying to steady the erratic pounding of my heart. I'm having a heart attack. I can't breathe! God, help me.

This will pass. It always does.

It's been six days since my show aired, and I haven't slept through the night since. Fiona and her damn stones! I took off my armor, and instead of the acceptance she promised, I've been rejected. By Michael. By my viewers. By my employers.

I want to go back to the life I had a week ago. I know it wasn't perfect, but it was so much easier than this lonely place of uncertainty. I'm in denial, I realize that. In my fantasies, I imagine Michael calling—or better yet, showing up at my door—to apologize. He tells me he was wrong, and that he respects my decision to confess. Or, in a very private version tucked far into the recesses of my consciousness, he tells me he's thought about it. He loves me and he wants to make me his wife.

But then I remember: I burned down the house.

I think of Dorothy and the mess I've made of her life. Damn these stones!

Without a moment to reconsider, I fly into the condo and grab my phone. I plow through my desk drawer until I find the business card I'm looking for.

My hands shake as I punch in the numbers. I don't care that it's the middle of the night. She's on her fancy tour, raking in millions.

You've reached Fiona Knowles. Please leave a message.

All the pent-up anger and sadness comes bearing down on me, and once again I'm that young girl at Bloomfield Academy. Except this time, I've found my voice. I grip the phone so tightly my fingernails bite into my palm.

“It's Hannah Farr. I'm wondering, Fiona, do you even believe in these stones? Because I think they're a load of crap. I lost my job, my boyfriend, my fans. My dear friend has lost her lifelong pal. And you're out there promoting this apology chain like it's some magic charm that'll wipe out all our sins and sadness. And that's bullshit. You don't get it. Sometimes ‘I'm sorry' isn't enough.” I clutch the phone, fully aware that I'm burning down yet another house. “What you did to me back in middle school? Well, it wasn't just me you hurt.”

I close my eyes. “You broke up my family.”

She won't know what the hell I'm talking about, but it's true. Fiona Knowles ransacked my world. Twice.

I lie on the wrought-iron chaise staring up at the heavens, until the first hint of blush colors the east. Then I pick up the phone and call my mother.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

My throat seizes up momentarily, the way it always does when I talk to her now. “Hello, Mom. How's everything?”

“That cold I told you about? Bob can't seem to shake it. But he's in good spirits. He done real good at elder care yesterday. And last night he ate an entire hot dog.”

“I'm glad he's getting better.” I silently scold myself. I don't want to give her false hope. He may recover from his cold, but he's only going to deteriorate mentally.

“How about you, hon? Are things looking up?”

I close my eyes. “No. Last night I called Fiona Knowles and left a rant on her voice mail. I feel awful now.”

“You got a lot on your mind. You're not yourself.”

“You know, the sad thing is, I think I finally am myself. And still I disappoint.”

“Oh, honey, you'll feel better when you get back to work. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before WNO calls you back from your leave.”

Right. And Michael will leave politics and marry me and we'll have a dozen kids. I sigh, remembering that that's her way, always trying to be positive. “Thanks, Mom, but that's not going to happen. Remember I told you they're only calling it a leave. I've basically been canned.”

“Do you need money until you find a new job? I can—”

“No. Absolutely not. But thank you.” A knot of guilt tightens in my chest. My mother, who cleans houses, is offering me money. She doesn't know that I could be unemployed for a decade or more before I'd run out of money, thanks to my father's inheritance . . . and his savvy divorce settlement years ago where he left his ex-wife penniless.

“I want you to remember,” she says, “if things don't work out, you can always come home.”

Home. Her home. The offer is spoken softly, as if she's asking a boy for a date and fears he'll say no. I pinch my nose and nod.

“Thank you, Mom.”

“I'd love it,” she says. “But I know how you feel about this place.”

I picture her now, in her spotless kitchen with its handcrafted oak cabinets. In the next room, Bob sits in his recliner, working his puzzle. The place smells of wood and lemon polish and morning coffee. She's probably looking out the kitchen window at a pair of geese drifting on the lake. Maybe she sees Tracy next door, hanging sheets on the clothesline. They wave to each other, and later Tracy will walk over with the baby to sit and gab.

I compare it to my little world, here in this beautiful condo that won't grant me a night's sleep, where the only family photo is of my father, who's no longer alive.

How arrogant I'd been to judge her life.

“I was wrong,” I say. “You've got a nice place, Mom, a nice life.”

“I think so. I thank my lucky stars, especially now that I got you.”

What a lesson she is. I rub my throat. “I need to let you get to work. Thanks for . . .” I start to say
advice
, but unlike my father, she hasn't offered any. “Thanks for being there. Truly.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. Day or night.”

I hang up the phone. I go to my desk and retrieve my calendar. With the exception of a dentist appointment in three weeks, every square is empty. As Jade implied that night, what's keeping me here?