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“Like I pushedher,” she breathes out. “I pushed her, Nick. I pushed her until she was dead like my father.” She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs, but in another instant, she’s pushing away and swiping at her cheeks. “I think I’m going to keep crying. I need to go…”
“No,” I say, cupping her face. “No. You do not.” I thumb the tears from her cheeks. “You’re right where you belong, Faith.With me.”
Her lashes lower. “You don’t understand.”
“Make me understand.”
“Not now, or I’ll cry, and that is weak and confusing.” Her fingers curl around my shirt.
“Why is it confusing or wrong to cry?” I ask, my hands moving to her shoulders.
Her lashes open, her eyes meeting mine. “You haven’t cried for your father.”
“I didn’t see my father for years before he died, sweetheart. It’s different.”
“I was with her. When she died. We were fighting, and then she just dropped dead. And the guilt—Oh God.” Her hand goes to her forehead. “I told you. I can’t keep talking now.” Tears pool in her eyes again. “I can’t keep talking…now.” She leans into me and buries her face in my chest, her body quaking with silent tears that she clearly struggles to control. I don’t want her to stop crying, to hide anything from me, and bastard that I am, I all but created that need in her.
I scoop her up, carry her to the sitting area to our left, and set her down on the couch, framed by a table and two chairs, her legs over my lap. But she doesn’t let go of my shirt, her face still buried in my shoulder. And she hasn’t stopped trembling, trying to pull herself into check, and still she says, “I’m okay.” She pushes away from me, swiping her cheeks and sitting up. “I’m fine.”
Guilt, plus my intense need to control every damn thing around me, is now my enemy. I went at her. I pushed when she didn’t need to be pushed. But saying that to her won’t make her believe me now. I have to show her she can trust me again. I cup her head and pull her to me, giving her a quick kiss and saying it anyway. “It’s okay to not be okay with me, Faith. I’m an asshole, but this asshole is crazy about you and on your side.” I don’t force her to reply. She doesn’t need to do that. “I’ll be right back.” I kiss her again and release her, standing up and walking into the house.
I cross the living room, kicking myself for my reaction to Faith’s confession. She baited me, and I let her, though I’m not certain she even realizes she did it. She’s punishing herself. Maybe testing me at the same time. Trying to decide if she really can trust me. Fuck. I need her to know she can. And I failed whatever that was. Worse, I failed because I let that note of my father’s mess with my head when I meant what I said to Faith. I know her in ways I’m not sure I’ve ever known another human being. I know she is not a killer, and yet I reacted as if I thought she was just that.
Entering the kitchen, I stop at the corner built-in bar, pressing my hand to the edge of the counter. “You’re an asshole,” I murmur. “Such a fucking asshole, just like she said.” And why, I think? Because I felt, for just a moment, like control was lost, and I had to grab it and hold on to it.
I push off the counter and grab a glass, needing the drink I came in here to get for Faith. Scanning my many choices, I opt for my most expensive Macallan, pour three fingers, and down it. Smooth. Rich. Almost sweet in its perfection. I open the mini freezer under the counter, add ice to the glass, and refill it. Then, with the bottle in hand, I return to the balcony, where I find Faith standing at the railing again. Seeming to hear or sense my approach, she rotates and meets me back on the couch, her tears gone. Her hands steady. She sits down, and I go down on a knee in front of her. “Drink this,” I order, offering her the glass.
“I’d argue,” she says, accepting the whiskey, “but I never allow myself to be numb like I was a bit ago, and as it turns out, I’d like to feel that again.” She sips, testing it, and then downs it before handing me back the glass. “Thank you. That was smooth and, I suspect, quite expensive.”
“You’re worth it, and I vote we sit here and down the entire bottle.” I move to the cushion beside her and refill the glass, down the contents, and refill it again, offering it to Faith. “I know you didn’t kill her.”
She studies me a moment, takes the glass, downs the whiskey, and sets the glass on the table. “Do you? Because I don’t. I think that’s why your reaction got to me so much.”
“I told you—”
“It’s okay,” she says, grabbing my leg. “In fact, I should apologize, because when you walked into the house, I realized something. I set you up. Not on purpose. But come on, Nick. I dropped the ‘I killed her’ bomb.”
I’m stunned that she’s self-analytical enough to come to the same conclusion I did, and in the same timeline I did. “Why, Faith?”
“Some part of me feels so much guilt that I wanted you to come at me. I wanted you to punish me.” She gives an uncomfortable laugh. “I think I’m pretty fucked up and you should run, Nick.” She tries to pull her hand from my leg.
I cover it with mine, holding it in place. “I’m not going anywhere, Faith, and I’m not letting you, either. Not without a fight. One hell of a fight. And as for being fucked up. We’re all fucked up. Anyone who claims they aren’t is lying.”
“You don’t seem fucked up at all. You’re successful. You know yourself. You seem to know me.”
“I do know you, but obviously you don’t quite know me, yet, and I need to fix that. Starting with your current misconception of me. Of course I’m fucked up. My mother left my father for slutting around and then died and left me with that man. I blame her. I blame him. I blame me. I fear the fuck out of being just like that man.”
“You aren’t.”
“I am, Faith. I’m calculated. I’m cold with everyone but you, and yet I say that after the way I just treated you. I’m a bastard made by a bastard, and he was a damn good attorney. I drive myself to be better than he was. And I am.”
“Your version of being a bastard is a man who demanded to know everything from me. Not a man who assumed he did. Once I came to the realization that I’d pushed your buttons, I realized that, too, even if you did not.”
“I pushed you.”
“I pushed you, too. And for the record, it’s pretty impressive that your version of ‘fucked up’ is to be amazing at your job.”
“I’ve seen your art, Faith. Your version of fucked up makes you amazing at your job, too, and obviously, from your recent success, I’m not the only one who shares that opinion. But there’s a difference between the two of us. I know I’m amazing at my job. You don’t.”
