The Beginning of Always (57 page)

That raw, wrenching horrible guilt, it defined and validated every suspicion about how I was my mother—distant, cold, and unfeeling.

I had failed our daughter. I had failed Alistair. I had failed everybody. Abandoned them, run away, leaving them all behind.

Alistair’s hands mirrored mine, cupping my knuckles. His touch was gentle. Our explosive moment had passed, our hearts bloodied, shattered, and shared. “You didn’t do anything. She was a stillbirth; you didn’t get an abortion, you didn’t hurt yourself or her. It just happened that way. It was all just a mistake of fate we had no control over,” he said.

“We were the mistake. You’ve always been the mistake,” I whispered into my hands. Tears clouded my vision, but I slowly dragged my fingers down my face and raised my eyes to meet Alistair’s. “You’re my worst mistake.”

Alistair’s expression flashed with hurt.

“I wish I’d never met you,” my mouth said. I was no longer processing what my mind and heart wanted, nor did I understand how my flurry of emotions were being communicated. I didn’t know if I really believed that or if I just wanted to speak to hurt him.

Alistair’s large palms gripped the sides of my head, not hard, but tension reverberated from every fingertip. He leaned his forehead against mine and I stopped resisting, stopped pushing him away.

This moment would haunt me for the rest of my life. I knew that it was all over, that some things could not be remedied or amended, and that this was our goodbye.

So if I finally walked away, I wanted this final moment.

I was still greedy.

I was still weak.

Alistair’s fingers stroked back through my hair as he murmuring in tortured tones. “I know, I know, believe me I know,” he said. Tears pooled at the corner of my eyes and slid freely down, no longer censored. “I can’t say sorry, I can’t tell you why,” he continued. “I just had to do something. Every minute of every day, I couldn’t stop missing you, couldn’t stop thinking of you, and loving you. Thinking of us and wanting to redo our past, to start over.”

He grazed his lips against my damp cheek.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

“I know. And I’m not even sorry.” Alistair kissed down my neck, his words condensing hot dew against my skin. “Hate me.” His fingers wound into my hair, tightening its grip possessively. “Hate me desperately, entirely. At the very least, I still had you.”

His face dipped lower, hovering at the base of my neck. “For a moment, I had you. Even if it was just for a short while, even if it was all based on a lie. Isn't that what money brings? The privilege of escapism?” I began trembling at his words, each syllable piercing me as completely as a dagger to the flesh.

Alistair whispered, “With all this worthless wealth, I could fabricate a fool's fiction of love. A fantasy of us.” He gave a single fluttering kiss against my collarbone and then pulled back.

I couldn’t even force a glare, couldn’t muster up any more anger. Because within me, my heart was disintegrating to dust and the grief was more crippling than any fury I could ever produce.

For I was no longer sweet. I was no longer her. My love for him, the love of the naive girl I used to be and the love of the broken woman I had become, it was so strong. It was ever present and all-encompassing; it had tore into my nerves and had invaded my being. It was burrowed deep within me. It had become me. And now, it had to die. It shattered beyond repair, already fragile unto itself, and all that remained was the ghost of the past.

We as an us, that had to die. And the grief of that loss forced my soul into mourning.

“I can’t forgive you,” I finally choked out.

At that, he kissed me. He leaned down, his gaze dipped down and our lips touched, and after a fraction of a second, where all I knew was the gentle caress of his mouth against mine, my mind blanked. We breathed in each other, intermingling our essence. Alistair pulled me close to his body and I linked my arms behind his neck.

The kiss was soft.

Sweet.

Lingering.

Longing.

Then, everything snapped. Both Alistair and I broke at that precise moment. My hands shot up to seize his hair and I pulled as hard as I could, wanting to inflict pain, needing him to hurt as I hurt. Alistair crushed his lips against mine, forcing his tongue into me, and I pushed back harder, fighting him right back.

I tore at his shirt, pulled away at the front until the buttons snapped and flew off.

His rough palms seized my pants and forced them down my hips, his nails scratching skin in his haste.

We didn’t talk. Only the ragged ends of our breaths mingled together, the sounds of ripping fabric, and our desperate embrace. All I could process were the primal senses taking over me.

The roughness of his cheek against my shoulder as he raked his teeth over my skin.

The bruising way he forced my waist against the wall with both of his hands.

The hardness of his erection digging against me when he pulled me towards him.

The emptiness of my heart because I knew my love was draining away once more. My body, my soul, was sinking into survival mode because the mind told itself this was something unforgivable. Self-preservation. I needed to exercise that, but perhaps not right now, not today. What I needed now was the feel of Alistair, the touch of him, the knowledge that for moments, I could pretend everything was okay.

I had gotten really good at pretending.

I swallowed a gasp as Alistair entered me, my cheeks still damp with tears.

I clung onto Alistair as he pounded into me. I dug my fingernails into his back, relishing the slick sweat gliding across his taut muscles. That building, that heat that went from a flame to a conflagration, swirled through my body, and soon I was panting desperately, pleading with Alistair to never stop, to keep going, telling him that I was almost there, almost there.

Alistair responded with heavy breaths, the rough sounds of our bodies falling together.

And afterwards, we both slid onto the wooden floor, Alistair twisting around so he sat on the cold surface while cradling me in his lap. He held me as I sobbed, as I cried as I hadn’t cried in years. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t offer up anything either.

He knew. He knew the depth of the betrayal, the pain and the hurt. But also, he knew about the conflict I had in my soul at finding a lost love and then losing him again.

We only get one shot at love in this lifetime. I had found mine, he had found his. We just couldn’t ever be together.

We made love again in the shower, except this time it was softer. We both went slower and our motions for each other gentled. When Alistair pressed me against the tile and entered me, a whimper broke free from my lips and a look of such indescribable pain flashed across his face.

My expression mirrored his. I kissed him, not to take away the hurt, but to let him know I felt it too. We both were aware of reality, both recognized the fact that forgiveness wasn’t a possibility.

He knew me better than that. It was wasted breath. All we could do now was cling to each other as we both fell into the abyss.

After the shower, I curled up in his bed and Alistair brought me against his naked chest. I pressed up against him, needing his skin against mine. We held each other, listening to the rain and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. He kissed me sweetly and I responded. His hands ran up and down my curves and I arched into him, wanting the physical release, that lie of a connection sex could bring.

For we were liars. With each other, with ourselves, with the world.

We were the worst kind of liars, those who promised the truth and gave everything but.

Alistair took me again and again that night. The hours blended together and I lost track of everything. All I could do was to wipe my mind clean and allow my brain to just process the physical.

His lips.

His touch.

The pull of his grip on my hair.

The resistance as I scratched down his back.

The building and breaking of my orgasms.

Our breaths and moans intermingling, so words were unnecessary.

Finally, I was spent. I collapsed into his arms. He pulled me close and as I stared into the inky sky outside, Alistair said those two words—“I’m sorry.”

My emotions crumbled within and I buried my face in my hands. I refused to answer and Alistair didn’t speak anymore, doing nothing but holding me. And soon, even I fell into a restless slumber, dreaming of nothing.

I woke slowly, plodding my way uphill from the dreamscape into the waking world. I watched the ceiling as time slid by, as I counted Alistair’s steady breaths in sleep.

Life had shifted. Reality had changed. It was in the air, the crush of the past chasing up to the present and stifling everything.

Hope. Love. Possibilities.

I wouldn’t cry.

And in the morning, when I knew Alistair was still deep within his own personal nightmares, I slipped out of his warm embrace. I padded slowly to the door where my clothes had been discarded and dressed quietly as the sun’s rays began to peek from the horizon and flood the room. And with a final glance back at him, I left.

I knew it was over. Alistair would not chase after me. And I had said my goodbyes.

A girl could only take so much pain.

A girl could only be a fool for so long.

Chapter 32

I
stood, alone, in the kitchen, watching the fog gather above the trees of Central Park. The rain had stopped long ago, but even in the waning afternoon light, an insistent mist clung to the sky.

There was no sun. Everything was soft and quiet, only the sound of the coffeepot’s gurgling breaking across the expansive room.

I knew she was gone before I even woke up. I felt her leave in my dreams. I had no illusions—when the article came out, I knew I had lost her.

Florence wouldn’t forgive me.

Yesterday, after the news had hit, when I’d asked Lucas to go get her, I had planned on explaining myself. I’d wanted Florence to come, and I’d wanted to apologize, and I’d desperately wished she would believe me. I’d rehearsed my lines as I paced the apartment, trying to word the truth so it was framed into something she could see past, something we could move past.

Had it only been a little over thirty-six hours since I’d left her apartment, grinning like a fool?

It was just a business deal. Nothing to do with you.

I was going to tell you eventually.

This is good for your career, can’t you see that?

But the second I saw her, soaked to the bone from the rain with an expression of deepest pain on her beautiful face, all my worthless justifications dissolved. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be selfish and plead.

I allowed her to hit me, to rage, to blame me.

Because that’s what she should do—she should blame me. She needed to regard me as the villain. I’d always drag her down. I was never good enough for her. Even now.

I was a fool in thinking I could give her the world. I was an idiot in my machinations, bringing her to me, testing my resolve with the ultimate in temptation.

I’d just wanted to see her again, just wanted to hear her laugh and to bask in that warm glow of her essence.

That’s all I wanted, at least that’s what I told myself.

Just a taste.

But I knew, I knew she was the one I could never turn down, the one that I couldn’t live with. I was weak, I fell for her again. If possible, even faster, even deeper, even harder. More completely. I tried to fight it, but once again I learned the truth—she was the only good I’d ever come across in my life.

Things were so good when she was in my life.

And then, I’d screwed it all up again. Likewise, even beyond my worst nightmares. More completely.

It was worse because it had started off wrong, under the pretense of lies and subterfuge. Since the beginning I had messed with her, played her like a puppet in this show of my life. I knew it would be the point of no return once she found out. What was I hoping? That she’d repulse me? Drive me away? That my memories weren’t as good as the reality?

They were even better. She challenged me, turned me, soothed me. All the rage, the anger, it dulled to a whisper with her around. All I could do was focus on her laugh, her smile, the fire of her being that she had built and stoked over the years. I was fascinated.

I was in love.

You’re my worst mistake.

I wish I’d never met you.

I hate you.

I rubbed my temples.

“Fuck!” I swept my arm across the counter and cups crashed onto the ground, the coffeepot soaring up, spilling hot liquid on my hands and then shattering onto the floor in a glorious burst of a hundred glass shards.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I bellowed in rage, crushing my fist into the tiled wall again and again and again.

I couldn’t feel the pain. Nothing compared to the tearing in my chest, the crushing blow of misery in my soul.

Lucas carefully wrapped up my torn knuckles. Miraculously, nothing was broken, although there could be a hairline fracture or two. The pain was refreshing. It drained what I was feeling internally and manifested itself as a physical throb on which I could focus my attention.