“She loves you like a daddy, Michael,” I assure him, as we walk slowly back toward the house. “Anyone can see that.”
“Yeah, I do know that’s true,” he agrees. “But she has so much anger toward me. Can’t let it go no matter what.”
I turn toward him and don’t bother keeping a distance; I reach for his hand and pull it close against my face. He smells like the earth and everything that’s natural, as his long fingers mesh together with mine. It’s almost like some kind of invisible tension that’s been holding him tight ruptures. He even sighs in relief as my hand closes around his.
“She has to blame someone, Michael,” I whisper, pressing his hand against my cheek. “And it’s a lot easier to blame you.”
“Why? Why not blame Robert Bridges, that son of a bitch who was driving the SUV?”
“Oh, Michael, don’t you understand?” I ask. “If she doesn’t blame you, then it gets a whole lot harder.”
“Why?”
“Because she has to blame Alex,” I explain softly. “For dying.”
Nothing prepares me for the pained, wounded cry that he makes, a keening noise that echoes down the whole street, as he pulls his hand from mine. Or for the way he bolts from me, gone before I can blink, like a deer into the night, back up the street.
Chapter Eighteen: Michael
Out in my driveway, Rebecca and I sit on the tailgate of my truck, holding hands, really quiet. She doesn’t push me, doesn’t ask why I bolted, and I’m thankful for that. ’Cause if she did, I’d have to admit that I’m not so different from my daughter. That all this roiling anger inside of me keeps searching out a target, and not all of it’s reserved for Robert Bridges.
Alex really did a number on me—no chance for goodbye, no final kiss. No last moment to tell him how damn much he meant to me. Not even a visit in my nightly dreams, like everybody else seems to get. Oh, he’s in my dreams, all right, but never to touch me or even talk to me. Forgotten memories, fragmented hopes: I have those in abundance. But never Alex Richardson himself.
Rebecca’s the only woman I’ve ever been around who doesn’t try and push me too hard. Alex understood that in me—that he could take me to the edge, but there came a point to back down. Somehow, without any need for translation, she seems to realize how to give me that same amount of room. Where Alex was all firestorm and energy and bluster, she’s my calm center. She draws me inside of herself, without so much as a word.
“I still have to file his taxes,” I say, after we’ve lingered in silence for a while. “His income tax for last year, the estate tax, it never seems to end. And it just pisses me off, that he left me to deal with all that shit.” I turn to her, expecting her disapproval or judgment, but she smiles—an open, honest smile, nothing hidden from me. “You think he knows what a prick I am?”
She laughs. “I don’t think he’s worrying about that, Michael.”
“You think he knows what a jerk I’ve been to you?” I demand, and she withdraws her hand from mine. “That was lousy, the way I set you up tonight, Rebecca. I’m really sorry.”
“You used me with Laurel. To get at her.” Her voice is quiet, but edged with raw emotion. She understands exactly the game I was playing; no wonder her anger has surfaced. “To shock her, I suppose.”
“Yeah, some way to treat the woman I…” Love. The woman I love? The emerald eyes fix on me, expectant. I have to be sure, before I tell her for real—after all that she’s been through, I owe her that much. “I should never have brought you here tonight without more preparation.”
Her face flames hot; I can see it even by the dim street light above us. “Michael, being honest is important to me. Jake lied to me in dozens of ways, and I swore I’d never go back to that again. I need you to be truthful, even when it’s not pretty.”
“What you see is what you get with me. You know that.” I pause, wondering how I can rationalize the secrets about Andrea. “Protecting my daughter, though, you got to know how tough that is.”
“I understand that,” she says, nodding her head adamantly. “I do. I just wish you’d told me about Laurel before, that’s all.”
“Me too.” I run my hand down the length of her hair, wanting her to know how damn much she means to me. None of this is about her. I want her to know that, too.
“And it makes me uncomfortable, when people figure out who I am,” she continues, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “Figure out what happened. I mean, of course people know. The world knows, but when I go into something like this, and then someone remembers or recognizes me—well, Andie told her, but you get my point.”
She’s rambling like she does when she’s nervous and self-conscious, and I hate that I made her feel this way. “Baby, it’s just that people find you interesting, your acting career and all,” I try, knowing it sounds lame. “That’s good.”