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And that was that. As he'd said, we were finished. Of course we were. We were beyond all repair.
I broke it off with Nate—he'd served his purpose. I wasn't kind about it. I didn't tell any pretty lies to soften the blow. I'd never loved him. I didn't want him. No, it had not been good for me. I'd only slept with him to hurt somebody else.
A week after I sent him from my sight I got a call from Nate's mother. He was in the hospital. He'd tried to kill himself with a bottle of pills. He'd live, but he was a mess.
She blamed me as much as I blamed myself and told me to stay the hell away from her son.
I was only too happy to comply. Relieved was an apt word for it.
And so it went. I became completely rootless for a very long time.
And I hated Dante with what little there was left of my heart.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
"Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."
~Rumi
PRESENT
SCARLETT
I should have never brought it up. Okay, I didn't. It wasn't like it was a choice.
Nate called me while I was in the bathroom. I'd left my phone out on the bed.
Dante saw. It was bad.
Worse than rage, though that was there. It hurt him, wounded him deeply that I was in contact with his old friend.
"You know what happened after I broke it off with him," I told him, attempting to explain myself. "I was on a warpath after we ended, and I wasn't just callous with him. I was cruel. I felt—feel bad for him. At Gram's funeral he said he wanted to start talking again—as friends—and so I agreed."
"What happened between me and him," I said falteringly. "You shouldn't take out on him. It was me. I'd have done anything back then just to get your attention, just to hurt you how I was hurting."
He was shaking his head, lip curled up in disgust. "No. Bullshit. Did you know I sent Nate to you to comfort you? He was supposed to help you, because I couldn't. Instead he took advantage. I'll never forgive him for that."
My God. I hadn't known that. Just when you think a thing can't be worse, some new evil is added into the mix just for panache.
Story of my life.
"I won't stand for it. You need to stop talking to him." His voice was clipped, curt to the point of rude, demanding to the point of ordering. "Cut off all contact. Immediately."
I opened my mouth to argue with him, just on principle I suppose, instinctual contrariness, but then I stopped myself. He was right. If we were going to work, there were some things you couldn't take back, people you couldn't have around, reminders that you couldn't keep close—not for any reason.
It took one insanely jealous person to be sensitive enough to understand another. "Fine," I said carefully.
I made the mistake of thinking that was the end of it, but it seemed fated to be one of those days. The phone call had started it, set the tone, and after that, we were just at each other's throats. Thin-skinned and feeling destructive.
It was some random dig he made over some silly thing that had me taking it a step too far, delving into things I wasn't ready for.
"God, can't you ever just say you're sorry? For anything?" I asked him heatedly, but more than temper, there was pain in it.
"You want apologies? I see. What exactly should I apologize for? Tell me, tiger, please. Where would I even begin?"
Hello, temper. Again. Because every sentence out of his mouth held something in it, some bit of appeal that was the apology in itself, that told me he was sorry for everything, that somehow he'd taken it all on himself, added it to his cursed martyrdom, and I was supposed to have known it.
"I'll apologize for anything you ask," he said quietly, "but that's not the issue. What you're missing is not my contrition, and I think you know it."
I waved him off. "You're blowing things out of proportion."
"You need to find your faith in us again," he said with quiet intensity.
And just like that, he had me. I'd gone from annoyed and argumentative to sad and desolate. "I don't know how," I said, voice raw with the helplessness of it.
His eyes softened, and just like that I was in his arms. We were out on the back porch, and he sat down in one of the loungers, cradling me on his lap.
He stroked a hand over my hair, then again. "Do you remember when my touch used to comfort you? Do you remember when it brought you peace?"
I couldn't even speak, my eyes closed. I remembered too much.
It filled my whole being, the remembering.
Eventually I nodded, but not before rogue tears were seeping past my eyelids.
"I can be ruthless." His voice was quiet but vehement. "I can be mean. I can be jealous, and wrathful. I have a hellish temper." Whisper soft, his fingers traced over my tears. "We both know this too well. There have been times where I was so angry with you that I didn't think I ever wanted to set eyes on you again."
He paused, just stroking and stroking my hair, his touch tender and steady, and it seemed he wanted some response from me.
Finally I nodded.
