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“That’s not your job,” I snap. Habit. I’m actually flattered by Nate’s concern.
“You’re right. You’re not my job,” he agrees, sounding perturbed. “You’re not my anything.”
I hold my breath and nod slowly, trying not to feel the sting of those words. Part of me has known all along I’m alone. Why should I expect Nate to be different?
I set my wineglass on the bar next to his. “What now? Are you going to try and bribe me or are you going to be a decent human being and keep my identity to yourself? I don’t have a lot of pull at the bureau, so I’m not sure I can help you. Daniel’s petty. He’ll watch me like a hawk once he knows I’m lying, if he doesn’t fire me first.”
“You changed your name legally. You’re not lying.”
That’s true, technically.
“You didn’t lie to me, either. The man who hurt you is dead. You were talking about your father.” He takes a breath. “I’m not interested in using this information against you, Vivian. I want you to know you’re safe with me. If anyone understands taking on a new identity and living a life a world away from where he came from, it’s me.”
Reassurance is a strange sensation. I haven’t been able to count on anyone for a long time.
“I lied to you though.” He spills a bit more wine into his glass. “My mother is alive. After my dad OD’d, my mom started using. I was fifteen and in juvie at the time. One of the counselors there had a brother who owned a shopping plaza built by the Owens. That counselor saw an opportunity for me to win the foster-kid lottery. I could have a new life with the Owens, who were looking to adopt a teenage boy. We’re the hardest kids to home.”
I stare at him, envisioning an angry fifteen-year-old Nate, and my heart squeezes. He’s suddenly a whole person, not only the object of my infatuation. The shift is jarring. I wanted what we had to stay on the surface, to be a release valve for the pressure building inside me like a dormant volcano for years. He’s just proven he’s more than that. I’m not prepared.
“I went to my mom and asked her to give up her parental rights. It wasn’t hard to convince her, especially after she was offered a hefty sum of money.” He looks away as he mumbles, “Hell, I guess she’s still alive. She was three years ago. I stopped checking on her. It hurt too much.”
His pain echoes in the caverns of my soul. I can relate to feeling rejected. To feeling like you don’t matter.
My thoughts circle to the sum of money he mentioned. I don’t have to wonder where that came from. The Owens. Obviously. Rich people pay to have their way, or to weasel out of any predicament that doesn’t serve them. I know all too well.
“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.
