When It's Love (17 page)

“Why don’t you trust me?” he asks with a pleading look in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as I nuzzle my nose against the coarse, stubbly skin on his jaw.” I pray he won’t ask me about my past. I just spent a fairytale night with Henry. I don’t want to start thinking about my childhood and how I spent most of it feeling unloved and unwanted. How can I tell this man who looks at me with undeniable adoration that I come from a mother who barely tolerates me, and with good reason? I’m the spawn of sin.

But, I feel a tinge of guilt for keeping the truth from Henry. It dawns on me that he deserves to know who I really am. I lived in a lie until I was seventeen and because of it I suffered throughout my childhood. No one knows the necessity of honesty better than I do. This revelation emboldens me.

“Sydney,” Henry says tenderly. “We’ve been best friends for so long. I’ve been so patient with you. Please have faith in me. Whatever you’re hiding won’t change the way I want you. I’ve been aching for you since freshman year. For years I’ve fallen asleep night after night dreaming of your lips, your smile, your breasts, the curve of your hips, your long, lean legs and how they’d feel wrapped around me …”

Tiny chooses this potent moment to pounce onto the futon and stick his little nose into the mess of us, as we lie with our legs tangled together like wind-blown locks of hair. The damn cat is purring double time, and both of us laugh. “Shoo, kitty,” I say. “Outta here.”

Henry gives Tiny a gentle nudge and the cat scampers off. “Have faith in me,” he says again, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“I do. I just don’t know what you want to know.”

“Tell me about that essay Professor Sparling said was extraordinary. I want to know why you haven’t let me read it. What made you shut down for so many years? Who stole the light out of your eyes? Just please talk to me.”

My heart despairs, but I know it’s time to be true to Henry. I have to tell him about the past and I have to tell him the truth about the car I saw last night (unless, of course, I imagined it). I pull the blanket over us tightly as a chill runs through me, and take a deep breath trying to hold back the tears stinging my eyes. “Growing up, I didn’t know who my father was. I tried to ask my mother about him, but she ended any conversation I struck up before it even started. My mother wasn’t close to me. Sometimes it felt like she could barely stand to see my face.”

It’s so painful to talk about this because saying it out loud brings all the agony I’ve suppressed to the forefront, and in a sense, it’s like reliving it. As I’m talking to Henry I recall a morning when I was in second grade, and I watched my mother at her vanity table, brushing her beautiful blonde hair. I was hiding in the corner of the room because I knew she didn’t want me around. But when I saw how lovely she was, I wanted to be close to her. I wanted to touch her hair and feel her skin that looked so smooth and soft. I yearned for contact with her so strongly that I crept up behind her, thinking I might be able to touch her hair without upsetting her. As I got close enough to reflect in her mirror, she saw me. Her eyes met mine in the reflection, her face paled and her gaze deadened. She looked spooked, as if she’d just seen the face of someone who’d been haunting her. I recognized the expression on her face. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, and it wouldn’t be the last. At that moment I knew better than to try to touch my mother. I turned around as fast as I could, and ran out of the room.

Henry keeps a steady gaze on me. A single tear makes its way down my cheek and he wipes it away with his thumb. “Your sadness twists my heart,” he says.

“I thought I was unworthy,” I say quietly.

“You’re anything but, beautiful girl,” Henry says.

I summon all of my courage and begin to tell Henry the story of the car that followed me. I describe the violent encounter at Lake Pleasant, and as I begin to talk about what ensued after Abraham Rudd announced he was my grandfather, I become frantic. My breath quickens and my head spins.

“Sydney, you don’t have to talk if you can’t. It’s OK.” Henry pulls me closer and kisses my forehead. “Wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I say. “But I’m afraid that if I tell you, you won’t want me, or you’ll feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be pitied.”

In a low voice Henry tells me that nothing would make him stop wanting me. “My whole life I’ve had everything I’ve ever wanted,” he says. “You were the only thing I couldn’t get. You are my one and only desire. I could never, ever stop wanting you. And I won’t pity you, Sydney, but you have to allow me to be compassionate.”

I nod, chocking back a sob. Henry’s kindness is almost unbearable. I feel like my story will dirty him by association. He squeezes my hand encouragingly. I can’t look into Henry’s eyes, so I stare down when I say shakily, “My father is a rapist.”

I have never before said those words out loud.

Henry swallows. I look up at him and see an earnest, but not worried, look on his face. “It’s OK,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”

“He raped my mother when she was eighteen. I was born nine months later.”

I gag when I finish my sentence, nearly choking on my words. Tears begin to pour out of my eyes and Henry kisses them as they roll down my cheeks. He strokes my hair reassuringly, and neither of us says a word for a very long time. Henry just holds me in his arms and doesn’t let go.

Henry has gone back to Ottawa Estate to help his mother organize things for Christmas dinner, and I’ve set out to find gifts for Henry and Dr. and Mrs. Hart. Trying to buy gifts in tiny downtown Addison on the day before Christmas is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Most of the stores are closed, and the few that are open have sold out of practically everything. I can’t even find a freaking Hallmark card. The air is frigid and the weather reports say snowfall is imminent. My first Christmas with Henry is going to be a White Christmas, and that thought warms me better than my sweatshirt, parka, and scarf.

I realize that my only hope for finding gifts is Shelby’s Liquor Store, which has a big sign on its window announcing that it will be open until 8:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. I know Mrs. Hart is a big fan of Chardonnay, so it should be a perfect stop. As I open the door to Shelby’s an iron bell ding-dongs loudly. The store is rather crowded with shoppers. And the line to pay is surprisingly long. I guess I’m not the only one rushing to buy last minute Christmas gifts.

I make my way over to the aisle of Michigan wines because Mrs. Hart likes to buy local. I have no idea which bottle is a good wine so I just study the price tags. I know I have to splurge on this, not because the Harts expect something expensive from me, but because I’ll feel like crap if I don’t. The prices range from $12 - $160. I think that something over $30 will do the trick. That seems fancy enough.

I select a bottle that looks good, based on the label, but I don’t want to screw this up so I walk around, scanning the aisles of Shelby’s for a sales clerk who can give me a recommendation. In the Italian wines aisle I see a familiar face, and it takes me a second to register that Professor Sparling in his brown coat is standing five feet away from me, looking down at a red wine label. I feel shocked, as if I’ve just seen an alien. Before I know what’s happening, the voice that blurted out of me during my last class with him rises again. It’s as though I have no control over my mouth. “I thought you were out of town,” I say a little too loudly.

Professor Sparling startles and looks up. We’re looking directly at one another and despite all that has happened with Henry, I’m still a complete sucker for his profound green eyes. He’s gorgeous, what can I say? But what the hell is he doing here when he’s supposed to be somewhere else?

Professor Sparling breaks the awkwardness of our stare. “Sydney, hello,” he says. He takes a step towards me and I step back hastily, squeezing my hands tightly around the bottle I’m holding because I’m afraid I’ll drop it. “It’s great to see you,” Professor Sparling says. “Merry Christmas.”

I stand frozen in place, my mouth wide open. Finally, I wrap my brain around what’s happening. I am standing face-to-face with Professor Sparling. A few days ago this would have been my dream come true. But now, after everything that’s happened with Henry, and the horribly embarrassing picture I emailed, it is definitely the worst possible moment to meet him. “What are you doing here?” I ask accusingly.

“Am I not allowed to shop for wine?” Professor Sparling says looking a touch taken aback.

I try to read his eyes, but they don’t tell me anything. He is oddly calm while I’m flushing furiously as I think about our email exchange. This was not how I expected it to be when we met in person. We are not supposed to find each other in a liquor store under the pasty glare of florescent lights. I am not supposed to be squirming in my parka and threatening to drop a wine bottle. And Professor Sparling is not supposed to be up to his neck in a big, fat lie.

“Is everything all right?” Professor Sparling asks me with concern.

My blood turns cold. I shake my head and stare up at him, hurt and confused.

“You said you were out of town,” I say in a low voice.

Professor Sparling cocks his head and furrows his brow. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember an exchange with you about my Christmas plans. But never mind. I am indeed here in little ole’ Addison for the holidays. And it looks like you are, too.”

Is this the same man who begged to see a picture of my tits, now casually talking to me as though nothing has happened between us? The very same man who told me not to be shy? Holy fuck.

I’m so thrown that I don’t know how to respond. I search his eyes for some hint of knowing or acknowledgment. Has he read the “break up” email I sent? Is he ignoring my plea for his help at the sighting of the car outside my building? Is he angry? Professor Sparling doesn’t look angry in the least. He looks utterly confused.

“Well,” I stammer, struggling for words, “I guess you didn’t get my last email.”

“Apparently not,” Professor Sparling says, looking at me curiously. “I’m really not sure what you’re referring to.”

“Oh, I get it,” I say. “We’re going to pretend like nothing ever happened? Is this because of the breakup message?”

“Sydney,” Professor Sparling says, “Is everything all right? You seem rather out of sorts.”

What a dickhead! He’s really going to act like our emails never happened. I feel like such an idiot, splat in the middle between mortified and horrified. I’m freaking out and scrambling to think of something to say that will get me out of this conversation with some saving grace.

“My friend Henry is from Addison, and he invited me for Christmas dinner,” I announce, my voice riddled with indignation.

“How lovely,” Professor Sparling replies calmly.

“Henry is sort of more than a friend,” I mention, hoping to discern a flicker of something like jealousy in his eyes.

Professor Sparling raises his eyebrows and flashes a wry grin. “Then your Christmas should be spectacular,” he says. He takes a step forward, taps me on the shoulder in a friendly manner, and says, “See you around campus, Sydney. Happy holidays.”

I set the wine bottle in my hands down on the nearest empty shelf and scramble out of the store. My body shakes and my stomach heaves. I know I am about to vomit. I lean against the brick wall to my left, hold my hair back and empty my gut onto the icy sidewalk. When the heaving is over, I clutch my arms around my middle and stay doubled-over. I’m replaying the scene with Professor Sparling in my mind, and his lie makes me furious. Either he read the break-up message and he’s pissed, or he can’t show any affection for me in public because he fears being found out. But neither of those things justifies a lie, especially over a trite matter. If he didn’t want to meet in person, all he had to do was say he’s too busy, or that our exchange had to remain virtual because he’s a professor and I’m a student. He didn’t have to pretend to be somewhere else. My head is pounding. I sway and lean myself against the cold brick wall beside me to keep myself from toppling over. I feel my fingertips freezing.

As my nausea eases, I look up at the white car parked across the street from me and recognize the very beautiful face in the passenger seat. It’s Melanie, and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. I surmise that she’s waiting for Professor Sparling and that there’s a good chance she just watched me vomit. I feel stinging humiliation. But I also feel sorry for Melanie. If she had any idea how Professor Sparling was behaving with me online, she probably wouldn’t be too happy about being involved with him. Poor perfect Melanie. We young college girls are no match for such an accomplished liar.

I take a deep breath of the freezing air and head back into Shelby’s, hoping I don’t cross paths with Professor Sparling again. I’ve resolved to buy the wine and hurry home to get ready for Christmas dinner at the Harts’. Now is not the time to dwell on the fact that all evidence suggests Professor Sparling is indeed having a relationship with Melanie. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. At least I’ve already broken up with Professor Sparling. It makes me feel like I scored one meager point in our game. At least it wasn’t a shut out.