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“And you’re upset about it?” I inquire, needing to find the source of his angst since he’s not giving it up easy.
“I don’t know,” he answers, turning his head to look at me. “I’m relieved it’s getting done and also doubtful this is the right move at the same time.”
“Confusing,” I say.
“Guess it’s made me introspective.”
“It’s made you a dick,” I correct, and that elicits a slight smile. “But I understand it.”
He holds my gaze a moment before letting his eyes drift back out over the yard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were building the art studio to give free lessons?”
I’m not surprised by the question but by the accusation I hear in his tone. “Why should I have told you? It wouldn’t have changed your position on the trees.”
“No, it wouldn’t have,” he says dully.
It shouldn’t hurt to hear that, but it does. It means there really isn’t anything between us at all.
And I thought I could handle that—a no-strings, short-term fling. But that was when we were having fun and I was getting smiles and spending time with him made me giddy.
Now I just feel wary.
“I think I’m going to go.”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t twitch a muscle.
Sadness sweeps through me, but it doesn’t compel me to stay. It motivates me to leave, and I turn once again for the door.
“I used to be the type of person who could overcome anything,” he says with enough volume that shows he wants me to not only hear him but understand him.
I turn back. “What do you mean?”
Coen turns toward me, leaning one elbow on the rail. “I used to be the type who could overcome adversity, and that’s going back to my youngest days,” he says.
I move beside him and mimic his body position. “Did you grow up in a bad environment?”
Coen’s laugh is mirthless. “I don’t know. Some would say not since my parents are incredibly wealthy and well connected. I had everything I could ever dream of.”
His words hang in the air, so I prompt, “Except…”
“Except my parents’ love,” he says. “I was raised by nannies who were as cold and distant as my parents. They felt that raising a son meant giving him the best clothing, the finest food, and the most expensive education. The fanciest car when he turned sixteen, the exclusive sports prep schools. But that’s all they ever gave me.”
I reach out and lay my hand over his. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that. It’s the complete opposite of what I had. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents showered me with love and devotion.”
“I’d have given anything to have your life,” he says. “Back when I was a kid. As an adult, what’s done is done. But the point is, despite such a cold environment growing up, I didn’t let that make me into the image of my parents. I was inclusive, had a strong group of friends in the youth hockey world, and plenty of my friends’ moms became my surrogate moms. I think I turned into a good man, despite not having good role models at home.”
I think about all the articles I’ve read about Coen, and it tracks. By all accounts, he was a great guy, and he could’ve been something vastly different based on his upbringing.
“Youarea good man,” I say.
Coen’s expression turns bitter and haunted. “No, I’m not. I’m the worst kind of person, and if you knew what was best for you, you’d walk away right now.”
“Maybe I will walk away,” I say, lifting my chin. “But not until I really understand what’s going on. The crash… that’s when things changed for you. At least from what I’ve been able to glean.”
“Yes, the crash was horrific, and I lost friends. It’s the single-most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to me.” His words sound ominous, and a chill runs up my back. “I felt guilty for not being on that plane. I felt guilty for living. I feel guilty for being grateful that I’m still alive. But those are things I can look at rationally and understand that circumstances beyond my control made it so I wasn’t on the plane.”
“Something else happened?”
“When I tell you I’m not a good man, I’m not being dramatic. I’m telling you that I’ve been disloyal. I betrayed someone close to me. I’m the type who will hurt you and anyone who tries to get close me. There is nothing redeemable—”
