“Yeah, I can tell.” He gestured to his waiting Audi, gleaming black in the setting sun, but I shook my head.
“I’ll ruin it. My car’s parked around the corner, anyway. I need to drive it home.”
“Then I’ll walk you to it.” Seth fell into step beside me while I trudged, dripping oil and ranch and sorrow, the couple blocks to where I usually parked my car in front of the convenience store. People stared as we passed, probably wondering what the grease-streaked chick was doing with Mr. Well Put Together.
Seth wore a blue suit that screamed wealth, his cuff-links glinting each time he moved an arm, and his shoes so polished they reflected the purpling sky.
We arrived at my car, and I dropped my keys three times before he picked them up for me and unlocked the car.
“Thanks,” I said, watching him insert them into the ignition.
“No problem. Hazel, we need to talk.”
“OK. But I’m kind of having a rough day,” I said. “So, might not be the best time. Just saying.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I wanted to check how you were doing. I heard about Damien.”
“Oh yeah?” Have they been talking about me?
“Yeah. Listen, my father told Damien that you outed him basically. And that you were doing… porn. That was why Damien freaked out. Well, not that it’s an excuse or anything. He should’ve let you—”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care about Damien anymore. I don’t care whether he thought I betrayed him or that I’m a porn star. Or that I’m… fuck, I just don’t care. I am so done with being battered emotionally by that dude. Just when I start opening up to him… it’s my fault. I should never have said yes, but I was desperate.”
“You see, I think you should have opened up to him. Because Damien cares about you.”
“No, he doesn’t. Damien cares about himself.”
“That too, but that doesn’t change the fact that he really gives you shit about you, Hazel. He’s broken about this.”
I peeked around Seth, pretending to look for something. “Oh yeah, that explains why he’s the one who came out here to talk to me. Just save it. Forget it, Seth. It was all fake.” I knew that now. Tears assaulted me again, but I refused to cry for Damien. “I have more important stuff going on right now.”
“Like what?” Seth asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“My dad’s dying,” I said, verbalizing the excruciating agony. “The doctors say he has maybe a month left to live, and all my energy is going into work and him. I just… I just can’t let go of him, now. Not after everything else that I’ve let go of. Not after…” I shut my eyes and the tears spilled down my cheeks. “Not after mom. Not after Damien. Just—sorry.”
Seth drew me into a hug that literally squelched.
“Your suit.”
“I’ll buy another one.” He stroked my hair and let me cry it out. “Hazel, it’s going to be OK. Don’t give up, all right? I know it seems bleak, but people recover from that all the time. All the time. Don’t give up hope.”
I hugged him, the pain reaching a crescendo, my shoulders shaking, my ears hurting from it. “I’m not going to. Not until he’s gone,” I said. “But, yeah, I should go. I need to get to the hospital. Find another job. Big day tomorrow.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help. Money, I mean, anything.”
“No,” I said and pushed out the brotherly hug. “You’ve done enough already. More than enough. Thanks for helping me.” I got into the car and started it, tears drying up slowly, but the sorrow still stuck in my throat.
Seth stood in the parking lot and watched me drive off, hands tucked into the pockets of his ruined suit jacket.
35
Damien
I’d made my living room the new bedroom because who had time to sleep when there was a nonprofit to start and a business to build? Working on the charity was my passion, but building the business would have to come first. I’d use it to fund the charity.
I paced back and forth, talking on the phone to one contact and then another, calling in favors, getting businessmen on my side.
The minute I stopped, thoughts of Hazel came rushing in to fill the gap in movement. When I slept, she was in my dreams, either crying or coming, talking or walking away. And it drove me up the fucking wall.
I hadn’t had to get over someone since… well, ever. I hadn’t gotten over her the first time because I’d had other pains to obsess over. But now, there was nothing but me and the four walls of my SoHo apartment, and blinding agony.
Oh, and booze. There was booze too.
I got off the phone with a chef from one of the hottest restaurants in Manhattan, dreading the silence that would come after I set down my cellphone.
Right on cue, she was back.
Hazel McCutcheon crying. And then dancing. Singing came next. Humming under her breath while she fixed her father dinner. Cooing at her cat, Piddles. A beautiful smile and then rage, lips peeling back over white teeth and agony in her eyes.
I’d done that to her.
“Fuck.” I put the phone down and headed for the fridge. I came back with a beer, popped the lid with an opener, and swigged some of the liquid from the bottle. “Fuck.” Another sip did nothing to dampen my insistent urge to reach out again.
I eyed my phone, shook my head, took another sip.
Calling her was a waste of time. She’d betrayed me. She’d made her choices.
And she didn’t love you. She didn’t even like you, remember? The voice in my head sounded increasingly like my father as the days passed.
A knock came at my door, and I frowned, straightening. “What the fuck?” I wasn’t expecting anyone, and security
