Taken (18 page)
Despite the faint scent of lemon polish, the house smells stale, like a forgotten pack of crackers left open on the counter. It’s too hot. Mom always turns the A.C. off when we go on vacations. The hum of the refrigerator is reassuring—the house hasn’t died and withered while we were gone.
I flip on the A.C., open the blinds and plop down on the old plaid couch to watch mindless T.V. for a while. I can’t stop my mind from running in an endless loop of circles, but maybe I can trick it into thinking of something other than you for two minutes.
There’s a picture of my dad on the mantle. He’s laughing at something beyond the camera’s lens. He was an extreme man. He could love, and he could hate in equal capacity. Sometimes he’d flip from one to the other—hot, cold, happy, miserable, laughing, yelling. It was hard to keep up.
When I was young, he and Mom fought a lot. I don’t know what they fought about, seems like it could have been anything. He’d yell, and she’d retreat. I’d see her expression change, her eyes darken, like she was closing the shades and barring the windows, turning in on herself until the storm passed. I know she had a hard time being married to him for all those years, but she loved him and they got through the hard times. I wonder if she’d go back and do it all over again, or if she’d take a different path if given the chance.
Nobody’s perfect.
That’s what Mom told me when Lance and I broke up.
Nobody’s perfect.
I guess she’s right, but how imperfect is acceptable? Someone who thinks he’s making things right by bringing another woman into bed with you? How can I forget that, or forgive it?
It’s over now. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see you again.
The thought makes my stomach clench and my chest heave, sending tears flowing down my cheeks.
I’ll never see you again.
My time with you was a nightmare, then a dream, then a nightmare again. How can you make mistake after mistake? Why does it have to be that way with you? If I want the good, do I have to suffer through the bad? Forgive and forget over and over again?
So much for the distraction of mindless T.V. I was fooling myself to think there was any way to distract myself from thoughts of you, from having this breakdown that’s been building for days. The push and pull of my attraction to you, my body battling my brain—something had to give.
Exhausted, with puffy, gritty eyes, all I want to do is sleep forever. I scoot down on the couch, pull an afghan from the back over my legs and let myself drift.
I wake to my phone chiming. It’s dark. The T.V.’s chattering away to nobody.
The e-mail icon on my cell’s screen shows two new e-mail messages. Shannon would text or call. It’s probably junk or spam. I click my inbox anyway, too curious not to look.
The first e-mail is from my internship advisor asking where I’ve been. I ignore it, not sure how to answer or if I even want to. Hello, opportunity missed. Maybe you didn’t think it was a good opportunity, but it’s better than what I’m left with—nothing.
The second email address makes me gasp, close my eyes and grit my teeth to suppress the whimper threatening to explode from my throat.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Turtle Tear Project Going Forward
Ms. DeSalvo,
I’ve instructed all contractors to reach you via email and your cell number as you have chosen to work remotely on this project.
If you do not wish to have contact with me professionally, please direct communication through Joan, and she’ll relay any necessary information between us. I believe you have her email address from when she set up your interview with me.
Regards,
M. Rocha
Regards? Are you kidding me? Why would contractors contact me? I’ve chosen to work remotely? No. I’ve chosen to walk away. Why are you so thick headed?
I hit reply intending to nail you against the wall with razor sharp words.
From: [email protected]
RE: Turtle Tear Project Going Forward—YOU’RE DELUSIONAL
Mr. Rocha,
You misunderstand me. I’ve left on all terms—personal AND professional. The job is all yours. Emails and phone calls from contractors will be forwarded back to you.
Regards (Regards? You must regard me as a fool.),
R. DeSalvo
My thumb jams down on the send button. How dare you send contractors my way. I know you’re not that stupid. This is your attempt at keeping tabs on me without stalking me like last time.
I toss my phone beside my wristlet and storm into the kitchen to look for chocolate. Then my mind makes the connection between you and chocolate and it’s the last thing I want to eat—
ever again.
I grab a can of Coke from the fridge and slam it shut. Regards. Who uses regards to sign an email? Why does one word make me so angry? Because you had no regard for my feelings last night? Or because you thought you were regarding my feelings but were totally clueless? What a hypocritical word for you to use. Did you select it on purpose to piss me off?
I stuff a handful of potato chips into my mouth and crunch down angrily. With my snack and Coke in hand, I storm back to the couch. It’s got to be late. I pick up my phone to check the time. Quarter after eleven. I have a new email message.
After swallowing too quickly, the jagged chips scratching my throat, and taking a gulp of pop, I groan and open your email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Fool
Ms. DeSalvo,
I’ve never thought you a fool. I’m guilty only of thinking of you as a bright, beautiful woman.
You left me, not the hotel. Don’t do yourself and Turtle Tear the disservice of walking away from the renovation. You’re the only one for the job. We both know that.
Yours,
Merrick
“Very often, say what you will, a knave is only a fool.”—Voltaire
Yours. That word makes me even crazier. I was never yours. I couldn’t let myself be yours. I couldn’t give myself over to you. Who am I angrier with, you or me? I don’t know anymore.
If I would’ve let myself take a risk, last night would have never happened. But it did, and even if it hadn’t, you’d do something equally stupid in the future. To be with you is to know hurt and heartache lay in wait ready to ambush and assault my heart.
From: [email protected]
RE: Fool
I never thought of you as a knave, only an impulsive, misguided man.
I’ll think about staying with the project remotely and give you my answer in the morning.
Goodnight,
Rachael
Any contact with you ambushes my heart. A few minutes later, another email pops into my inbox.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Lonely
I’m a lonely, irrational, misguided man now that you’re gone.
Sweet Dreams,
Merrick
I hold my phone to my chest and sob. I don’t know where all these tears are coming from. I should be dehydrated by now. My head throbs, and my heart aches. I’m weak and mentally exhausted. Lance and I were together for two years, and I wasn’t this devastated when we broke up. You affect me like I’ve never been affected by another man. It’s like I lost part of myself when I left you. You understand me. You said we were alike. We are. We think alike. I just wish we could love alike.
It’s seven in the morning, and I’ve slept like crap. I have no idea if I want to stay on the project or not. Okay, I know I want to, but I don’t know if it’s because of the project or because of you. Maybe both and that scares me. I need to stay away from you and clear my head.
Talking this through with someone would help, but Shannon would tell me I should go for it, that I was stupid not to sleep with you on day one, and have a plane ticket in my hand before I could object.
My mom—not an option. She can’t be unbiased when it comes to me, or unselfish. She’d have me living in my old bedroom already if I gave in to her constant badgering.
Aunt Jan would be good to talk to, but how do I get her on the phone without Mom knowing and butting in?
I dial her number and when she picks up, I cut her off before she can speak. “Don’t say who’s on the phone. Did you tell Mom already when you saw the number?”
“Uh…no.”
“Good. I need to talk to you, but I don’t want her knowing about it. Can you find a time to call me when she’s not around?”
“She’s in the shower right now, Rachael. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
I let out a sigh of relief and lean back in my chair at the kitchen table. “I’m fine. I have…man problems and need someone to talk to.”
She laughs. “All men are problems. What’s this one done? And let me guess, Merrick?”
“Yes. How’d you know? I thought I threw you off that trail.” I smile. My aunt has always had a way of knowing what’s going on with me.
“A man does not shell out the cash Mr. Rocha did to send a girl’s mother and aunt on a cruise to get her alone unless he intends to make a move. I’m guessing it’s that move that you’re having second thoughts about?” I hear the amusement in her voice.
I pound my fist on the oak table. “He’s so frustrating. You can’t imagine. I didn’t even agree to run this project—not really, not that I remember saying in so many words—but somehow he got me to do it. I find myself going along with him and then wondering what happened, like I was in some kind of haze or something.”
“Love does that to you,” she says, laughing. “Or lust. You can be the judge of which you’re feeling.”
“Maybe a little of both. Or a lot of one and some of the other. I don’t know. That’s just it. I can’t come to terms with how I feel about him.” For reasons I can’t divulge to anyone.
“Well, there are obviously reasons why you can’t come to terms with how you feel. Do you know what those reasons are?”
I knock on the table with my knuckles. “Yes.”
“Are they valid, or based on irrational fear?”
“Irrational fear?” I lean forward.
“Yes, irrational fear. Nobody falls in love without running the risk of getting hurt. It’s irrational though if you trust the other person not to hurt you. Do you trust him?”
“No. Not yet. I don’t know if I ever could.”
“Then your fear is valid. Don’t give your heart away to someone you can’t trust, Rachael.”
I close my eyes and lean back again. “I know. I wish…I wish I could trust him. He doesn’t hurt me intentionally. He’s just so
stupid
when it comes to feelings. He does things that he thinks will make me happy, but destroy me instead. He doesn’t get it.”
“Sounds like a lack of communication, not so much that he’s intentionally hurting you. Can you teach him to communicate?”
“I was going to try, but I left.”
“You left? You’re home?”
“Who’s home?” my Mom’s voice shrills over the line from somewhere in the room.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Jan whispers. “Rachael’s home. She’s not sure how long though.”
“Did something happen?” Mom’s panicked.
“No, she--”
“Let me talk to her.” There’s scrambling with the phone. “Rachael?” Mom says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. No need to worry.” I rub my aching forehead. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.
“Did something happen with Mr. Rocha?”
“No, Mom. I just came home to get some clothes.” Why am I saying this? I’m not going back.
“How long are you staying?”
“I fly back tomorrow.” I cringe. I hate lying to her.
“Oh. Well, have a safe trip. Call when you get there.”
