Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 2) Page 15

  He turned his face toward me. “That’s what Lydia said, too.”

  The sound of her name made me seethe. “Don’t compare us.”

  “It’s not a comparison, it’s a pattern,” he said. Even in the dark, I could see his anguished expression. “I don’t know why you won’t give me more time. I’ll keep things under control.”

  After everything I’d said, he still thought that was what I wanted. “I’m sure you will. That’s what scares me.”

  We stared at each other. Down the hall, the grandfather clock struck four.

  I stroked a finger down the side of his face, trying to memorize his skin, his smell, the sound of his voice. “You want this as much as I do, Marc. Someday I hope you figure that out.”

  The ride to the airport was much too short, and so long I thought it would never end.

  Neither of us had slept or eaten. Our voices were hoarse from circular arguments that had all ended in the same conclusion. Nothing we’d said or done had stopped this moment.

  Even with the airport in sight, I didn’t believe I’d never see Marc again. There was so much to dread – the first meal without him, the first night in my bed at home. If only I could force time to move faster, I could get through the pain of losing him without enduring every agonizing moment.

  I looked at the faint lines around his eyes and the broad angle of his shoulders. Hard as I would try to remember, I’d begin to forget things about him as the weeks went on. I had forgotten things about my parents that I didn’t even know I’d forgotten, and the same would happen with Marc.

  I could stop it by telling him everything. Eleanor be damned, I could do what he’d always asked me to do – keep no secrets. Even now, with nothing left of our relationship but regrets, I wanted to please him. My submissiveness could save him from a lifetime of burying desires that had nothing to do with his family, and never had.

  Unless Eleanor was right. Instead of feeling unburdened, he might be angry at me, his father, the world. I imagined him calling her from the car, the one-sided conversation peppered with words like “dishonesty” and “betrayal.”

  The last thing he’d think about was his future with me. I’d be the woman who’d wreaked havoc in his life, who’d ripped his family apart and pushed him to be someone he despised.

  He pulled up to the curb at my terminal, and we got out. We stood behind the car looking at each other.

  “I won’t let you go,” he said.

  “You have to, Marc.”

  “Do I? Why do I have a feeling there’s more to this than you’re telling me?”

  I turned away so he wouldn’t me flushing. “I need to get home, that’s all.”

  A plane roared into the sky over our heads, sun glinting off its wings. I would always remember this moment – a brisk wind in my face, a woman’s voice blaring in French over a loudspeaker. “I should check in,” I said.

  He stalled, lightly kicking the pavement with the toe of his boot. “What are you going to do when you get home?”

  “Work. Deal with the charges against Trevor, if there are any.”

  “Please let me know what happens. I’ll fly to New York to testify. I already gave the police a statement over the phone.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thank you. You have my address and phone number if you need to reach me.”

  “Yeah.” The wind whipped a short lock of my hair across my cheek. He pushed it gently behind my ear with his index finger. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  A hot tear spilled down my cheek. “I’m doing it for you. So you can get on with your life.”

  He grabbed my hands, clenching them so tightly it hurt. “If you want to do something for me, Sophie, stay. I know it won’t be easy but we can figure it out together.”

  “You’re right, Marc. It wouldn’t be easy. It’s hard work to be someone you’re not.”

  He reached out and gently wiped a teardrop from my chin. “I’d rather be someone I’m not than a man who destroys the woman he cares about.”

  It took a huge physical effort to stop crying, take my suitcase, and step onto the curb. He had no idea how close I was to staying, how weak I was for him. If he pulled me against him, there was no telling what I might do.

  He shook his head, his expression dark and broken. “If you need me for any reason,” he said, “whatever it is…”

  Before I could change my mind I walked away, letting those words be the last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’d been back in New York almost three weeks when I got a call from the prosecutor in charge of the case against Trevor.

  As soon as she said hello, I stopped breathing. I could tell from her voice that something was wrong. “I’ll be direct,” she said. “We think the case is too weak to prosecute.”

  Legs teetery, I sank into my living room chair and closed my eyes. “Why?”

  Her answer only reiterated what I already knew: there were no witnesses, no significant forensic evidence, and the presence of whips and ropes in Marc’s apartment supported Trevor’s claim that I’d asked him to tie me up and then accused him of attempted rape to get revenge for his infidelity. I’d let him inside and made him coffee. I had marks from previous episodes of rough sex, making my accusations even harder to believe.

  The case would have been difficult to prosecute if the crime had happened in New York, let alone thousands of miles away in France.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you,” she said. “Some cases can’t make it past a grand jury. This is one of those cases.”

  “There’s nothing I can do?”

  “You can try filing in civil court and asking for damages,” she said. “It’s something you could discuss with a lawyer.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. But I knew I’d never pursue it. I wouldn’t initiate a connection with Trevor, or spend any more time on him, no matter what small measure of justice it might bring me.

  I considered calling Marc to give him the news, but couldn’t do it. In nineteen days I hadn’t heard a word from him. It was as if our time together had meant nothing, or maybe it had meant too much. A call or email would feel pathetic, such a sad contrast to what we’d shared that neither of us had the heart for it.

  Time was going by, just as I’d hoped. I was moving forward – decorating my apartment, starting my travel blog with posts about Amsterdam, and going out with friends who knew nothing about Marc and wouldn’t ask questions. I’d joined a gym and signed up for an Asian cooking class.

  But no matter how many days vanished into a black hole of work and social engagements, my feelings never changed. Every moment without him was the first, every conversation meaningless, every smile forced.

  This was my new normal. I had no choice but to get through it.

  In mid-January, after I’d gone to Montreal and Philadelphia and written two articles for the February edition of Wanderlust, I started to see Marc everywhere.

  I’d gone through the phases of crying over him, dreaming about him, and talking out loud to him when I was in my apartment. I’d combed through everything he’d bought for me, then boxed it back up and buried it in my closet. I’d talked endlessly about him to my new therapist, a box of tissues beside me on the leather sofa.

  I hardly slept anymore. It wasn’t just the stress of losing Marc. It was what Trevor had done to me.

  Lately I’d wondered if I would ever feel safe again. I bought pepper spray and had an extra lock put on the door. Some nights I had the urge to call one of my friends and tell her everything, but couldn’t face the inevitable questions. Where did Trevor get the rope? You never knew what kind of person he was? He’s really going to get away with it?

  My article on Sade was the most popular piece I’d ever written, the traffic to my blog had exploded as soon as it was published, and I could hardly bring myself to care. I was more worried about making it through each day, each afternoon, each moment.

  My therapist was urging me to
talk more about what Trevor had done, but I always led the conversation back to Marc. Talking about someone was a link to them, and I wanted a link to Marc, no matter how thin and imaginary.

  Everything else I wanted only to forget.

  Early in February, my cell phone rang as I was walking into my apartment with grocery bags.

  I’d just finished a series of blog posts about New York City doughnut shops, and I was trying to detoxify after days of coconut cream and cinnamon sugar by eating lots of fish and vegetables. I put the bags down on the kitchen counter and groped around in my purse.

  I answered on the fourth ring. There was silence on the other end.

  “Hello?” I said again.

  “Sophie, this is Trevor.”

  I felt a short, painful surge of adrenaline.

  “Please don’t hang up,” he said hastily.

  I would have cut him off but I was frozen in place with the phone to my ear. I could hardly breathe.

  “I uh…just called to see how you’re doing.”

  “Fine. Is that all?” My voice sounded dull and emotionless.

  “Well – no, actually. I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I mean it. I can’t stop thinking about what I did. It was unforgivable. It wasn’t who I am.”

  A month of pent-up fury roared through me. “That’s funny,” I said, “because it was you who did it.”

  “I know. And I’ll have to live with that the rest of my life.”

  Live with that. As if he were the one who’d been assaulted and terrified.

  He waited for me to speak but I said nothing. “Um, Julia really values your friendship, you know,” he said. “She wants to talk to you, patch things up.”

  “That is so not happening,” I muttered.

  “Anyway…I know it’s none of my business, but are you still with that same guy?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s none of your business.”

  He let out a short sigh. “Okay, well, I understand why you don’t want to talk. But you won’t have to worry about running into me in New York because I’m moving on Friday. I got transferred to the office in Singapore.”

  It took several seconds for his words to register. “Singapore.”

  “My boss gave me no choice. The guy who runs the show over there is a real dick, I guess, but it was either go or lose my job. I’ve put eight years into this company and I have debts to pay off. I can’t start from the bottom somewhere else.”

  Suddenly my hands felt very clammy. I yanked off my gloves and dropped them to the floor. “Excuse me, why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know, the timing of this whole thing’s pretty weird.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Did you – did you call my boss, Sophie?”

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “I guess I wouldn’t blame you. After what I did, you deserve to have me far away.”

  I wasn’t sure what to feel – disgust, relief, rage. In four days he was gone, exiled to a distant country.

  “I didn’t call your boss, all right? And you know nothing about what I deserve. Not the first goddamn thing.”

  “A lot of people found out what happened, if it makes you feel any better. I made the mistake of telling Julia because I needed to unload, and she didn’t exactly keep it confidential. I’ve gotten a lot of shit for it. I’ve lost some good friends. Girls, I mean.”

  “Poor you. I’m surprised you have any friends left at all.”

  He let out a snicker of frustration. “I’m not saying that so you’ll feel sorry for me. I know who’s at fault here. I have a lot of shit to figure out.” He sounded cowed, embarrassed, not at all like the man he’d been in Paris.

  “Good for you for realizing it too late,” I said. “I hope the next woman you meet has better luck than I did.”

  “I don’t expect you to let me off the hook, but…can’t you even acknowledge that I’m trying?”

  “You’re trying?” I laughed harshly. “Have you told your parents what you did?”

  There was a long pause. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why not? I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear what kind of son they raised.”

  “Now, listen,” Trevor said, “I know I fucked up, but if you drag my parents into –”

  “Stay away from me,” I broke in. “Don’t ever call me again.”

  I hung up. I was wet under the arms and trembling, barely able to catch a breath. For almost an hour I sat on the couch racked by wrenching sobs, my arms folded over my stomach. I wanted to jump out the window, tear my studio apart, scream until the neighbors called the cops.

  Nothing in my life had worked out the way I wanted. No one was who I thought they were. My parents were gone forever and so was Marc, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  After a while, I exhausted myself and the tears stopped. My apartment was dark except for the light from a streetlamp. I felt weak and wrung out, but very calm.

  Trevor was leaving the city. I no longer had to be afraid of him or anything else. This wasn’t just a platitude anymore – for the first time since coming home, I believed it.

  I got up and put the groceries away. I made dinner and ate without music or television, listening to the soothing swish of tires on the wet street below. That night, I got into bed and fell immediately to sleep, certain that I’d never been so tired in my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A week after Valentine’s Day, when all of the cards and heart-shaped candy had finally vanished from sales shelves, I went on my first date.

  Nothing else had succeeded in driving Marc from my mind. I’d tried meditation, spin classes, and a large red vibrator I dubbed “Henry.” Finally, I gave myself a deadline. If I wasn’t at least semi back-to-myself by the middle of February, I would take drastic measures. And nothing was more drastic than a blind date.

  His name was Dean, he was twenty-eight, and he worked with my high school friend Jennifer at one of the top ad agencies in Midtown. She was the only person I’d told about Marc and Trevor, and the only person I trusted to set me up with someone halfway normal. Obviously I couldn’t choose a man who was right for me, so it was time to rely on somebody else.

  To give myself an easy escape, I asked Dean to meet me at a new Italian restaurant half a block from my apartment. He didn’t have to know how close I lived, and I didn’t have to do anything but show up, eat a quick plate of pasta, and walk home.

  When I arrived at seven that night, he was already sitting at an excruciatingly romantic curved booth by the window. “Shit,” I said under my breath as I handed my coat to the hostess. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  Though his Facebook picture had made him look semi-attractive, I was already disappointed. I’d known it since first meeting Marc: for the rest of my life, every other man would fall short.

  “Are you Sophie?”

  “Hi,” I said. “Dean?”

  Instead of the suit and clean-shaven face from his picture, he sported an ironed plaid shirt and a carefully weed-whacked hipster beard. I’d told Jennifer I was open to anyone with a job and a pulse, but hadn’t expected her to take it literally.

  “Hey,” he said, and frowned at my elegant wrap dress as if I’d worn a ball gown.

  I slid into the booth, kicking myself for not meeting him for a drink instead. Now I was committed, with an entire dinner to suffer through before I could be alone again. Determined to put on a happy face, I threw back half my drink when the waitress put it down and immediately ordered another.

  Minutes dragged on. I heard myself asking inane questions like, “Been in the same job long?” Jennifer had said that Dean could talk knowledgeably about almost anything, but so far the only subject he seemed interested in was himself.

  I’d forgotten how shitty dating could be, what a colossally depressing waste of time. Suddenly, extreme loneliness seemed like a good alternative. If I ate fast and told him I had an early meeting I
could be home in no time, clutching a pint of ice cream and watching a stupefying reality show.

  Just after our appetizers arrived, it started to snow. I looked out, struck by the beauty of it, watching people walk along the street with their heads bowed. The snow was thick, with large, sparkling flakes that vanished as soon as they hit the ground. I stared longingly at my own dark kitchen window, halfway down the street and five floors up. I could see someone standing at the door of my building, pressing one of the buzzers. He waited and pressed again. I watched him absently, a smile stuck to my face as Dean talked endlessly about learning to play the banjo.

  Down the street, the figure turned away from the door. My heart contracted with a hard thump. I leaned toward the window, putting my hand to the glass.

  “Um, Sophie?” Dean said, sounding annoyed.

  Of course the man in front of my building wasn’t Marc, but I could enjoy the hope, the not knowing.

  Please don’t walk away. Please don’t walk away.

  As if he could hear me, he started in the direction of the restaurant. I tried to tear my eyes from him but I couldn’t.

  As soon as he stepped into the bright pool of light from the store across the street, I got up. “Excuse me a minute,” I muttered, my napkin dropping to the carpet.

  “Are you leaving?” Dean asked.

  “Your coat, ma’am?” said the hostess as I went out the door, but I didn’t answer. Dimly aware that it was frigidly cold, I walked into the snow, my heels slipping on the sidewalk.

  “Marc,” I called.

  He looked up. At first, he hardly seemed to recognize me.

  Just when I’d stopped seeing him behind the wheel of every car, here he was crossing the street toward me. Looking stunned, he smiled. He stood a foot away, snowflakes settling on the shoulders of his black overcoat. Somehow he was even more gorgeous than the last time I’d seen him.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. I’d forgotten how intensely he could look at me, as if something inside him were smoldering.

  “Hi? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I just rang up to your apartment. You weren’t home, obviously.”