Page 9 of Sin of Love
“Are you sure that’s possible?” I ask, eyeing the difference in our sizes.
If I were more sober, I’d also note the sallowness of his complexion, the circles under his dark blue eyes, the age spots prominent on his balding head, and the fact he’s wearing a sweater and slacks instead of his customary three-piece suit.
But I’m not sober.
I’m full of hate and despair. Twelve years old again watching the body bag with my mother in it being carried into the garage and placed in a trunk.
Suddenly, I can’t remember why I called him in the first place. I think I was going to ask for his help—was desperate and broken enough for a minute to yearn for what we never had. A father-son relationship where I might lean on him.
“Five seconds.”
I shake my head and slump into the seat. “Just take me home.”
There’s no answer, but moments later the car shifts gears and off we go.
I’m daydreaming about bourbon and weed when the man beside me says, “This is about that woman, isn’t it? Your publicist?”
I say nothing, likely in shock from the revelation that Frank Masters noticed a goddamn thing about my life. Besides my fuckups, that is.
“She seemed lovely at the gala,” continues the bane of my existence. “More importantly, you looked happy. I honestly hadn’t seen you that way since… God, since before your mother died. Lucy certainly never made you look that way.”
Every muscle in my body is stiff. Coiled tight. My fists twitch, needing contact with his fucking face. Ten seconds of slow, measured breathing later, I open my eyes.
“How would you know?” My voice is devoid of emotion—just like his.
He looks away, out the window at the palm trees zipping by. “You may have made it clear you didn’t want me in your life, but I’ve kept tabs on you nonetheless. You’re my son, Gideon. My only child. You should be thanking me—my investigator was the anonymous source who outed your philandering wife to the public.”
I laugh. Loudly.
“Oh, that’s fucking rich! You dragged us through the media gutter for nothing.”
“What are you talking about?” he snaps.
“Not that you give a shit, but she’d already come clean. We were going to try to work it out. But when every detail of our private lives was suddenly splashed on trashy magazines and pulp television, she couldn’t handle how the public viewed her. People yelled at her in public. Someone threw a moldy cabbage at her. So she left me.”
“But you—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Didn’t love her.”
My harsh laughter fills the car. Even the driver flinches, concerned eyes flickering to the rearview mirror.
I sound deranged.
“Stop the car,” I growl.
My father’s sigh is nails on a chalkboard. Teenager me would have been screaming by now and looking for something to throw or destroy. Either my coping mechanisms have matured, or I’m just drunk enough not to break my own father’s nose.
Five minutes later, we’re off the freeway and pulling into a gas station. My door is open before the car’s fully stopped.
“Gideon, please—”
Unable to help myself, I lean back into the car. “Yes, this was about the woman. Her name is Deirdre. I love her and she’s gone. And there’s a chance I could have stopped her, or helped her, or something, but I was so wrapped up in not being you that I missed out on the opportunity to do the right thing. So instead of convincing her to stay, I let her go. And I don’t know where she is or if she’s okay.”
His face crumbles with emotion. “Son—”
“Good talk, Dad.”
I slam the door and head across the little lot to the sign spelling my favorite word: LIQUOR.
Tomorrow, I’ll think about how to find all the shards of my shattered heart. Tomorrow, I’ll stop calling her dead phone just to hear her voice on the message.
Maybe I’ll shower. Eat some vegetables. Pretend I’m not a thirty-five-year-old man falling apart because the strangest, briefest, most intense relationship of my life ended abruptly. Tomorrow, I’ll think about giving up. Letting go. Moving the fuck on.
Tomorrow.
