“How very lucky for you.” My voice is hard. Nate’s one of them and he knows the truth about me. I have to maintain my guard, for my own safety. Why else would he tell me what he knew if he didn’t want something from me? I doubt he’s merely commiserating.
“You’re running from yourself,” he says. “I recognize the tactic. Thing is, you can’t escape yourself. Wherever you go, there you are. I’m still a street kid from Chicago who’s had his nose broken three and a half times. You’re still a wealthy woman from the same city who believes she has to suffer for the sins of her father.”
“My father stole from good people.”
“Yes, but you didn’t.”
“I worked for him.”
There’s a pause while he soaks this in. “Did he share his plans with you? Did he tell you what he was doing?”
I shake my head. “No, but I didn’t notice, either.”
“You were twenty-three years old.”
Same thing my therapist told me. I sensed disdain in her voice. I don’t think Marissa blamed me, but she had a hard time looking me in the eye knowing what my dad did.
“You deserve a life not defined by Walter Steele, Senior. Making thirty thou a year in a city building isn’t going to right the scales.”
“What about you building live-works to house and employ others when you couldn’t keep a roof over your own family’s head? I’m not the only one attempting to right my family’s wrongs.”
He drinks his wine instead of commenting.
I gesture around at the house I’m standing in. “How is this you being true to your roots?”
“My having has nothing to do with others not having. I’m not your father. I didn’t steal to gain. I earned my wealth. I worked for it. I’m hustling my ass off, and in case you haven’t noticed, I work for the good guys.”
“The Owens, who paid your mother to go away? Are they ‘good guys’?” I’m lashing out, and a ping in the center of my chest warns I’m being unfair. I don’t think I care. Anger feels better than fear.
His eyes darken. Pointing at the floor to make his point, he steps closer to me. “The Owens paid my mother’s rent for a year, stocked her up with groceries. She took it like a severance package and had no problem saying goodbye to her son.” Pain ekes into his voice. “There are good guys in this world.”
The Owens sound like good guys. I’ve never known a rich person not out to build his own portfolio. Which says a lot about the people my parents consorted with.
“I care about you.” Nate’s proclamation is simple. He doesn’t wait for me to respond or act like he’s expecting one. “You can trust me. No matter what happens. I wanted you to know.”
The finality of his statement hints the ball is in my court. I can stay, basking in the company of one of the few people in my life who knows the truth and doesn’t hate me for it, or I can walk away and leave the most exciting, intriguing man I’ve ever met.
Funny, both sound like arguments to stay.
Nate
Vivian talks between bites during dinner. Once I blew up the dam, she had a lot to say about the Steeles. About the trial. About her position at the company that eventually folded under a mountain of falsified financials.
I listen, rapt, while eating the finest piece of beef I’ve had in a long time. Could be the quality of the meat, could be the company. This woman is under my skin, and I can’t say I don’t like it.
And yes, I hear you accusing me of saving Vivian for my own selfish needs. That my savior complex is a beast and it needs regularly fed. Proving there is good in the world is my mission as much as housing people. I refuse to believe the world is shit. I like to think the people who selfishly take and take until they die in prison are the exception, not the rule.
I want Vivian to know there are good people. That I am one. Hell, maybe that is my savior complex talking. But is it bad if we both stand to gain from it? Insight. Sex. Connection.
“I held a few jobs as Vivian Steele,” she’s saying, “but inevitably my character came into question when my coworkers and higher-ups figured out whose daughter I was and stopped trusting me instantly. I didn’t have a choice but to start over.”
“Why here?”
“It isn’t Chicago, where everyone knows the Steele name. And Clear Ridge isn’t so small that everyone gossips.” She chews a bite of steak and swallows, her delicate throat working. “Why do you live here?”
I set down my fork and reach for my wine. “The Owens are here. I always wanted a real family.”
“So did I.”
We share a tender moment. The walls hiding her have fallen, briefly. Like me, she was once a scared kid who wanted to be loved. Instead she was disregarded. Used. Slotted as a cog in the machine fueled by her parents’ betrayal.
Also like me. Just in a totally different income bracket. Interesting how the tables have turned.
Walt, her brother, was a cog too, but he’s not as strong as Vivian. He cracked under the pressure while his sister achieved her way through a rebirth.
“What now?” I ask.
“You mean now that you know who I am?”
“Yeah. It seems like you to run.” I don’t like the idea of her leaving without a goodbye—a probability.
She laughs, maybe at my audacity. “Running is an interesting word. I call it survival.”
“Same thing.”
Her smile is tight. The shutters fall and her expression blanks. “I have to go.”
She stands and tosses the cloth napkin onto her plate. I wondered how hard I could push before she left. Now I know.
“Dinner was lovely,” she says. “I appreciate your discretion.”
She walks to the living room and I follow, catching her as she pulls her car keys from her purse. Rather than saying goodbye and fleeing, or “fuck you” and fleeing, she stares at me for a beat. Then two.
“I’m trying, you know.” Her jaw stiffens but her voice shakes. “I’ve fought for years to become strong. It’s harder than it looks. I wasn’t looking for anything, for anyone. I was fine on my own. Then you gave me those damn shoes and I was reminded of my mom. You treated me like I mattered.”
My brow bends in sympathy. Of course she matters. And there should have been a line of people around the block telling her every day for the last six years how much she matters.
“My past is attacking. Walt is back. He seems okay and that’s even harder to trust. I’m so goddamn worried I can’t…” An exhale stutters from her lips and she finishes on a whispered, “I can’t hold everything together indefinitely.”
“I know.” My simple agreement causes her facade to crack. It’s a slow deterioration.
First her arm drops, then her shoulder. Her purse strap slips. She makes a grab for it and misses. By the time it hits the floor upside down, her face has crumbled with it. She lowers to her knees and I’m right there with her.
A quiet, but heart-wrenching sob ekes from her throat. I want her to know she doesn’t have to be strong all the time. It’s impossible to be strong all the time. As a tough kid with a thrice broken nose and an eyebrow full of stitches, I learned anger only masks pain. Everyone has their breaking point.