Life could stop being a bastard.
I just wanted simple.
A job, some money, and freedom to keep my daughter happy.
If I could have O to fix my broken heart, then that would be a dream come true, but if I couldn’t, I’d always been satisfied to put my needs aside and focus on Olive’s.
“Answer me, Clark,” Justin muttered. “It’s the first and last time I’ll bring this up.”
Spinning to face him, I closed the distance between us so I could keep my voice as low as possible. Olive didn’t know about her mother.
I’d lied on that front.
Again.
I’d told her her mother had given her to me because she was sick and loved Olive far too much to put her at risk. That she’d moved to Japan to get treatment and could never come back.
In a roundabout way, it wasn’t a lie. Jane Tallup had been sick...in the head. And she had gone to Japan for treatment...teaching other kids. Who I hoped to fucking God she hadn’t molested.
“Fine, I’ll answer you. Yes, she took my virginity. What’s the problem?”
He shook his head, asking me another question. “And have you been with any other women since her?”
I froze.
Where was he going with this?
What was the point?
“Just answer it, douche-bag.” He raised an eyebrow. “Any other women between you being raped as a kid and then falling into bed with the love of your life?”
My hands balled.
There’d been one other girl.
Not that it could be classified as sex.
I’d been lonely.
Olive had been about three years old.
Her tiny hugs kept my pieces together, but one night, it wasn’t enough. I’d missed O with every fucking fibre. I’d gone to a bar. I’d watched men and women drink while I’d stayed stone-cold sober. A tipsy chick flirted with me. She touched me. She laughed with me. She asked me back to her place.
I went.
I tried to be with her.
I really fucking did.
But I just...couldn’t. It wasn’t the fact she was tipsy—by the time we fooled around she was coherent and fully aware of her choices. It wasn’t the fact that I didn’t trust my babysitter to keep Olive safe—I’d used my elderly neighbour before when I’d stayed up all night painting.
I just couldn’t move past being forced by Tallup.
I couldn’t stop thinking about O.
I sighed, my shoulders slouching. “What’s your fucking point, Miller?”
Justin smirked, the beer bottle dangling from his fingers as he took a smug sip. “My point, Gilbert Clark, is you’re fucked if you don’t go and at least try to talk to O. You fell in love with her before the bullshit with your teacher. You don’t associate her with forced assault. You trust her. You don’t stand a chance with anyone else but her.”
The stock started to boil, overflowing the pan.
Giving him the finger, I returned to my job as chef, doing my best to ignore his twisted logic. I didn’t necessarily believe in the phenomenon of soul-mates. But I did believe that O was the only woman who fixed me. The only woman I could ever adore with all my being.
But if I couldn’t have her, a life of celibacy and singledom was fine.
I had Olive.
I’d live through her.
She would grow, fall in love, and have a family of her own.
And I’d be there, on the outskirts, a desperate father begging for scraps of attention, pleading for them to come round for Christmases and holidays, slipping further alone as the years wedged us apart.
Or you’ll just be in jail.
A sad old convict with no one.
Goddammit.
Justin chuckled. “Once Olive’s in bed, I’ll stay and catch up on a bit of work while you go and see if you can fix at least one thing before you’re thrown in jail.”
He meant it as encouragement.
But it only made me hyperaware that even if I told O everything. Even if she forgave me. Even if we could somehow make it work, I would still let her down the moment I was sentenced and locked away.
The monitor bracelet around my ankle said I couldn’t leave the street where I lived.
The promise of fixing what I’d broken with O overrode the consequences.
I should ignore Justin’s advice.
I should let O continue to live without me.
But I’d never been very good at doing the right thing.
Chapter Seventeen
______________________________
Olin
TWO WEEKS HAD passed.
By day, I returned to work and kept to myself.
By night, I went home to an empty apartment and surfed the internet for news about the upcoming trial.
Justin had popped round a few times to check on me, delivering little notes and paintings that Olive had done. She still wanted me to move in with them. Her hints with her drawings of happy owl families made that totally obvious.
I missed her.
I missed Gil.
But he kept his distance.
He respected my need for space, even though I tormented myself each night with thoughts and dreams of him. It didn’t help that each day there was a new article or slur about him. A new claim that he’d killed a hundred women. That he’d killed puppies and kittens and even had his eye on children.
Two new GoFundMe campaigns had sprung up asking for money to hire a hitman to kill him before the justice system gave too soft a punishment.
The amount of hate was insane.
It sickened me.
It worried me.
Social media had so many positive applications, but where Gil was concerned, it was worse than a witch hunt. They didn’t care about the true story, only about blood. They didn’t want facts, only carnage.
Even Gil’s Facebook page dripped with venom. The hostility in the comments on his posts gave me nightmares that he truly might be hurt before he could face trial and the truth could protect him.
He needed to address it.
He needed to douse the flames of malevolence with honesty before it got dangerous.
I shivered and pulled the fake-mink blanket tighter around my shoulders. The TV mumbled in the background, and a library book of the best places to live in the world rested on my lap. The edition was from the 1990s so I was sceptical about some of the claims like Australia’s cheap housing and Thailand’s low taxes. If I had skills in finances or trades, I could’ve travelled and found it relatively easy to relocate overseas, but with nothing more than menial labour and a failed dancing career, I doubted I could settle anywhere long-term.
And I didn’t know if I had the gumption to waitress in foreign places or live in backpackers with travellers far younger than me.
Why couldn’t I make a decision?
Why couldn’t I just book something?
Why couldn’t I stop researching Gil and worrying about his future?
Because you’re a sucker, that’s why.
A spineless, stupid fool who still wants the boy she shouldn’t have.
A fist hammered on my door, wrenching my head up.
Who on earth?
I cuddled deeper into my blankets. I hated unannounced visitors, especially late at night. Justin had made a habit of popping by, and I’d grown used to it, but tonight, I wasn’t in the mood.
It might be those awful police again.