My head was swimming. I gave it a brief shake. She’d made it seem as if . . . “She hated me,” I murmured.
Zakai glanced at me and then away as if in thought. “She was jealous of you. She still is, I think.” He shrugged. “She knows how I feel about you. I’ve always been clear on that subject.”
I took a moment to let the dust of his revelations settle, a terrible clarity descending. But it wasn’t only Giselle who’d insinuated she and Zakai were together. “You allowed me to believe you were with her.”
He was silent for a moment. “At first, it was easier that way. The last time I saw you . . . you were getting married. I was sick with jealousy.” He paused again. “Would it have mattered?”
I thought about that. Not then, but maybe later. Oh God. This was all such a colossal mess. “Probably not,” I murmured.
I’d begun writing after what, to me, was a tragic breakdown. Would I give up my success for whatever might or might not have happened between Zakai and me had we been available during that time?
Regardless of Dawson or Giselle, I’d still been trying to figure out who I was, and Zakai had been drinking his troubles away. I reached up, massaging my temple. All the questions swirling in my head felt too big to answer, especially here and now, sitting with Zakai in the middle of an art museum.
“Do you want to walk?” he asked after a minute. I nodded, grateful for the chance to move my muscles and distract my mind.
We both stood, walking side by side, our gazes lingering on the art pieces we passed. I stopped momentarily in front of an impressionist piece that hung down the hall from where we’d sat. “I bumped into Cody Rutland several years ago,” I told Zakai.
He looked over at me, surprised. “Yeah? How was he?”
“He was good. We had dinner. He introduced me to pointillism.” I smiled softly. “Each painting is made up of thousands of tiny dots. If you’re up close, it’s all jumbled, but if you step away, it becomes clear.” And maybe, somehow, some impossible way, the same was true of us.
“Hmm,” he hummed, looking at the painting, tilting his head. I watched him as he studied it, remembering the disappointing answer Dawson had once given me when we spoke on the subject.
“If you step back,” I instructed, “you can get a better view. It won’t appear such a mess.”
But Zakai looked at me, his smile soft. “I’m learning to like the mess,” he said, tilting his head. “I think it’s the heart of the story.”
I released a smile on a breath of air, charmed by his insight. “Is it?”
Our gazes held. “Yes.”
We both looked away, beginning to walk again. “And you, Zakai?” I asked after a moment, my emotions finally settling. I’d think about the things he’d divulged to me later, the ramifications . . . “Do you find satisfaction in your work?”
He glanced at me, a nervous edge to his expression. “You’ll be surprised, but for the most part, I stopped modeling last year.”
I gave him a curious look. “I’ve seen you recently though. There’s a full-page ad in the latest issue of—”
“All of that stuff has a lag time.”
“Oh. Why? What are you doing now?”
Zakai stopped walking and I did too, turning toward each other. “Actually, Karys, I met this guy when I was on a shoot in Cincinnati. His name is Jake Madsen and he runs a foundation for foster children.”
My forehead lowered. “Oh. Okay. You’re working with . . . foster children?”
“No. I mean, sort of.” He pressed his lips together, looking away. “I never told you, but that house I was sent to when we first moved here. The group home? It was hell on earth.”
My chest felt tight. I glanced away. “I’m so sorry,” I said softly.
“Don’t be sorry. I didn’t confide in you. I wanted you to love your new life, to embrace it. I knew you wouldn’t if you knew how miserable I was.”
“Oh, Zakai,” I breathed, the sorrow I felt clear in my voice. “I saw the bruises on your face. I should have known.” I shook my head, feeling shame, recognizing my tendency to be blind to the severity of a negative situation.
“Please don’t blame yourself. I was secretive when maybe I shouldn’t have been. But the truth is . . . the guy I was fighting.” He blew out a breath and I sensed his hesitance in telling me about this, even now. “I’d wake up and he’d be on me.” He looked away. “Trying to undress me. I fought him off. But we both knew I wouldn’t be successful in fighting him off forever. I didn’t feel safe being awake there, much less asleep.”
I cringed. After everything we’d been through, that Zakai should have to endure something like that after being “rescued” seemed a particular cruelty and so deeply unfair. I’d come to understand why I’d felt so betrayed by my uncle and it was for just that reason. Zakai had been fighting not to be victimized—again—and I hadn’t even seen it. “God, I’m so sorry,” I repeated. There didn’t seem much else to say.
“I think . . . I think it resulted in something positive however.” He gave a short laugh. “I mean, if I can make things work. I’d like to tell you about it. I was hoping you might agree to dinner at my place. I’m not a great cook.” He gave me a wry smile, lifting his brows. “But there’s this great Chinese food place right around the block. We could do takeout.”
I felt like I was standing between two bridges, both of them swaying precariously beneath me. The last hour spent with Zakai had been anything but predictable. And again, I’d put off giving him the information I knew—now even more than I had before—he deserved to know. Although, the time with him today had provided a soothing balm I hadn’t expected. He wasn’t in turmoil anymore. He could recognize the chaos but also see the calm. He had found his own form of healing too. So I nodded. “Yes,” I said softly. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Zakai pulled the door to his apartment open, smiling as he stood back, gorgeous in jeans and a long-sleeved gray pullover. “Hi,” he said, and I detected a note of nervousness in his voice. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” I said as he closed the door behind me. We both turned toward each other, staring awkwardly for several seconds. His lip quirked and then so did mine as we both laughed.
Zakai’s laughter faded and with it came a small wince. “Am I the only one who doesn’t exactly know how to start over?”
“Is that what we’re doing? Starting over?”
“I hope so.”
I opened my mouth to respond but didn’t know what to say. Truthfully, I wasn’t completely certain what he meant and wasn’t even sure I wanted to find out right then. But whatever form of starting over he was referring to, I couldn’t deny that it was necessary. For the sake of the son he didn’t know we shared.
I turned, taking in his open-concept apartment. There were windows on the two walls that showcased the city and exposed piping overhead. The kitchen to the left was small and extremely modern with white marble countertops and dark wood slab cabinets. The living and dining room areas were furnished simply yet comfortably. I wandered forward, taking in the books that were piled on so many of the surfaces—the console table near the door, the coffee table, and several side tables. I glanced at the title of the book on the top of one of the stacks, tilting my head to see the spines of the ones beneath it, looking up at Zakai who was watching me explore his space. “History books,” I said, surprised by the subjects such as Ancient Rome, the Crusades, and what appeared to be titles related to wars and government.