I do.
He’s standing in his doorway, his face full of so much pain, I feel my heart crack. “I fucked up,” he says. “I’m sorry. I can’t make you understand what I’ve done without a chance to explain. A chance to tell you everything.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I practically spit out at him, pushing down the curiosity that fills me. I unlock and open my car door, about to slide inside when I hear him say one more thing.
“I never, ever meant to hurt you, Katie. I hope you know that. That’s the last thing I ever want to do to you. I’ve thought about you every day for years. Wondered if you were okay, hoped that you were healing. When I saw you on TV . . .”
My heart sinks. It was the interview that caused him to find me. I should never have done it. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say wearily. “What’s done is done. You had your fun. I hope this was all worth it.”
I climb into the car and shut the door behind me, starting up the engine and backing out of his driveway. He watches me the entire time, his hands clutching the doorframe, his expression one of complete and utter pain.
He looks the way I feel.
The tears flow freely during the entire hour-long drive home. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this.
I do know that I’ll never be the same.
Rage fuels me. Makes me do stupid things.
I destroyed my bedroom, specifically the bed. I tore off the comforter and the sheets, threw the pillows so hard against the wall they knocked down the painting I had hanging there, some stupid abstract bullshit art I bought from a client as a goodwill gesture.
Always hated that stupid fucking painting.
Found my phone on the floor, discarded by Katie. Lisa Swanson’s message still flashed and I went into the conversation, typed off a message, and hit send.
FUCK OFF BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Didn’t make me feel any better, though, sending that message.
I run my hands over my face, through my hair. The one good thing in my life, the one girl who made me feel worthy of something, and I hurt her. Ruined our relationship as quickly as we formed it. Why the fuck did I do it? Why did I keep such a big secret from her? What did I really think I’d gain out of this, by lying to her?
Instead of being cautious and keeping my distance, I dived right in. Reached out to her, contacted her, spent time with her, grew to care for her all over again, fell a little in love with her . . .
And fucked it all up.
My heart hurts. It fucking aches. I rub a hand over my chest as I survey the damage, ready to do more damage when my phone rings. I grab it, see that the number has been blocked, and for some strange reason I think it might be Katie, so I answer it.
It’s not Katie.
“Is this William Monroe?”
Lisa Swanson’s voice is unmistakable.
“What do you want?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Just to talk,” she says hurriedly. Like she’s afraid I might end the call. She’s right. I’m ready to. “Your father . . . he said he was still in contact with you.”
I close my eyes, letting the misery and dread course over me. Great. Given up by my father. Not a surprise. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Did you see the interview with Katherine Watts? I’ll let you tell your side of the story, just like she did. The interview will be completely unbiased, just you talking. Nothing else,” Lisa explains.
“You attacked Katie,” I say. “You threw a few surprises at her—don’t deny it.”
Lisa sighs. “I had to. I won’t do the same to you.”
“I don’t buy it. Not for a minute.” I end the call before she can get another word in. I already said too much, revealed too much. She knows who I am. She knows how to get in contact with me.
My father didn’t have this number; he doesn’t even know my new name. I made sure of that. So how did he find out? Or did he? Was this all Lisa’s doing? And if so, will she run off and tell him my new identity?
I press my hands against my face and scrub them over my cheeks before I run them up over my head, tugging on my hair. Fuck. This is bad. Worse than bad. Not only have I ruined everything with Katie, I’ve put myself at risk for the media finding me. Hell, the media has found me. The chance my father could find me, too?
Pretty much guaranteed.
After everyone went to bed I sneaked into the family room and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. It was almost eleven thirty. The show would start soon. I was anxious; my palms were sweaty and my heart was racing.
I would see him soon. Hear his testimony. Hear his voice. I hadn’t heard him speak in so long and I missed it. Missed him.