Chapter Twenty-Three
I call Chad later that day to let him know that I am accepting the job offer and agree to start the following Monday. That weekend, Taylor and I agree to go to a local furniture store that sells vintage inspired, reasonably priced furniture. I also insist that I pay for the furniture. Of course, the vast majority of the money in my bank account is from Taylor, so it doesn’t take much convincing. The loft itself is more than I could hope for: reclaimed timber and hardwood floors, high ceilings and restored windows. The building is an old tannery and the rooms are huge. The living room is so large I had trouble deciding on how to arrange the space. I created a Pinterest board for inspiration and shared it with Taylor. He humored me as much he could, but soon confessed that he always uses an interior designer for furnishing and the only reason he did not in this case is because he knew that I would want to put my own touch on the place.
I settle on a slate grey velveteen sectional with very clean lines and deep seating -- the kind of couch you could just sink into. Canvas cream curtains adorn the tall windows. A reclaimed vintage teak table adorns the dining area. Pops of color in the form of throws and pillows pepper the furniture. The space is light, clean and simple, so different from the scattered stream of consciousness that now decorates my mind.
I find myself lying alone in my living room during my last jobless night. The place doesn’t feel like it’s mine, but that could change. Taylor is trying to give me space so that I will claim ownership. He insisted that I spend this night in the condo alone. I really wanted him to stay, but he thought I should get used to the idea of this place being mine and not just a loaner from him. The penthouse is lovely, my views of the city from my rooftop deck and balconies are priceless, but this all feels like an extension of Taylor. I didn’t earn this no matter how he tries to spin it. His arguments as to why I should accept his gifts without question are compelling and appeal to the basest part of me that wants to accumulate material possessions, but sitting here alone; it still doesn’t feel right. I don’t deserve any of this. The place is in my name, but if things between us came to an end, would I, could I, stay here?
A text:
Mr. Sexypants:
I really regret going home. OX
Things have been feeling strangely normal this weekend. Whatever was bothering him has subsided, at least temporarily. Besides the occasional exhibitionism and doling out of inappropriately large presents, I feel like we are a regular couple. The darkroom hasn’t been visited since my first time a few days ago, and Taylor made it clear to me I would have to initiate. I plan to give it another go, but my meekness about initiating that level of kinkiness has delayed me.
Shyla:
Same here. Your idea to leave me here alone was dumb, but I’ll let it slide. Nite. OX.
As I brush my teeth in my master bath, I hear my phone alert me to a new text. I grin wondering what Taylor has to say to me.
I was right about you.
As I stare at the message the apartment goes from cozy to arctic. The silence of the huge loft rings in my ears. This is the first time one of these mysterious texts scares me. The name calling in the past seemed like it could have been accidentally sent to the wrong person, but this statement feels personal. While vague, it stings right to the heart of what I am feeling. If this person thinks I am a gold digger, sitting in this loft is evidence to support his or her thesis. If this is a wrong number, I have to resolve it now.
Shyla:
You must have the wrong person. I do not know who you are. Pls stop messaging.
Unknown:
I have the right person.
Shyla:
Who are you?
No response comes and I anxiously look through every closet and crevice in the home to make sure I am alone. I want to call Taylor because he makes me feel safe, but I resist the urge. I want to take care of this myself. Who else can I talk to? The fleeting thought to call Rick passes, but it is inappropriate to insist on his help right now. Kristin. She’ll know what to do and I already told her about the condo, so I won’t have to explain that part to her.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with this shit, but something weird has been happening that I haven’t told anyone but it’s starting to freak me out.”
“Tell me!”
“Someone has been sending me threatening...well not threatening, but insulting text messages.”
“What are they saying?”
“Well, stuff like calling me a whore, a gold digger. The creepy thing was tonight, as I am sitting here alone, I got a text saying they were right about me. It’s as if they know about the gift from Taylor, at least that’s how I took it.”
“You don’t think it’s Rick, do you?”
“No! He would never do that. That is why I am at a loss. The thing is, Taylor has mentioned people have gone after him in the past because of his money. They have tried to steal from him, but this doesn’t feel like that. It feels personal.”
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
“Shyla!”
“Listen. Do not say anything to him. He has had a lot on his mind and unless I know this is really something, I don’t want to tell him. He’ll get me guards or something and I am not ready for that. What else can I do?”
“Save all of the messages. You never know when we’ll need them. Maybe you should look into hiring a PI. I have an older cousin who does PI work. He used to be a detective. I can talk to him and see if he can find out who is doing all of this.”
“Okay, that sounds like a plan.”
“Do you want me to come over? Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I feel like a five-year-old saying this, but yes. Only if you want to though!”
“We can have some fun and get your mind off of this. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. See you soon!”
***
It’s my first day at the office. I am immediately greeted by Chad, who takes me around to introduce everyone. I finally meet Laura, a portly woman with wire-rimmed glasses and short chestnut hair, whose child is feeling much better. He takes me to one of the break rooms where they set up a welcome breakfast of fruit, muffins, and bagels. The office attire is quite casual and while I am sure everyone works hard, the general atmosphere is laid back. There are very few offices as most of the work is done in open space to foster a collaborative environment. People appear very happy to work here. Chad shaved his face since the last time I saw him and I am now able to see his features more clearly. His baby face is on full display and he really is adorable.
Although I am hired to be the assistant director, I will work as a senior designer for the first four weeks to get a grasp on procedures. In addition, I will join Chad in meetings and help him with some of his day to day tasks so I can ease into the team management role. My first day is spent as most are, filling in paperwork, learning my way around the office, setting up my workspace and getting caught up on the first project I will be designing. I nearly hit the floor when I find out who the first client is: Bella’s Intimates.
Chad explains: “This is a very high-end lingerie boutique.” Don’t I know it. “She wants to redesign her website and all the accompanying marketing materials. This is a straightforward project and I thought you and Tonya could work on it together. You would lead the project. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great. It’s right up my ally. Frou-frou and lacy.” My personal experience with this place could come in handy.
Chad invites me to lunch at the cafeteria on the lower level of the building. Over salads, we briefly discuss work, but move into getting to know each other better. He is so easy to talk to; I don’t feel like he is my boss at all. He tells me about his dog, Stacy, who is the love of his life. He recently broke up with his girlfriend and I assured him that I knew what he was going through.
“So do you have a dog to make you feel better about being alone like I do?”
“Oh, no, a dog would be nice, but I am actually seeing someone.” Does that sound bad from the outside looking in? Here I am telling Chad about my longterm relationship recently ending and I am already in a new one.
“Lucky you,” he says sincerely.
“I definitely wasn’t looking for it. It fell in my lap. More like I fell into his. I spilled coffee on his suit at a coffee shop.”
“Sounds like a scene out of a romantic comedy. If he was able to look past that, he must be a keeper.”
“Time will tell.”
I get a text. My throat dries, a new conditioned response to texts thanks to my personal harasser. It’s Taylor. Thank god.
“Speak of the devil. He just texted me.” I make sure not to mention his name as I don’t want to reveal quite yet to Chad that I am seeing my former boss.
Mr. Sexypants:
Let’s grab dinner right after work doll. Your fav?
Shyla:
Not in the mood, let’s try another place.
My response was a white lie. I met that Eric guy at my favorite spot and want to buy a little time before Taylor and I go there again, just in case. After work, I freshen up and go to a little sushi place to meet Taylor who is running about 10 minutes late. I grab a table for us and order some wine to tide me over. I thumb through my phone to occupy the time.
“Well, what are the odds!”
One: people really need to stop coming up on me without warning. What ever happened to a gentle tap on the shoulder? Two: oh fuck, it’s Eric.
“Wow! Hi!” No reason to get nervous. He knows you have a boyfriend and Taylor doesn’t even remember him. Then why is it that I have a sinking feeling in my stomach?
“So how are you doing, new friend?” He motions to the empty seat across from me and I nod. He sits in Taylor’s seat.
“Great! I got the job.”
“Congrats! Let me get your next drink. Are you alone?”
“That’s fine, really. Taylor is coming in a few.”
“I’ll keep you company until he comes.”
“Sure...are you grabbing dinner?”
“Take out at the bar, then I spotted you. It must be fate!”
“Well, busy day at work today securing people?”
“The usual. Can’t complain. So did Taylor remember me?”
“What makes you so sure I asked?”
“Usually an honest person feels the need to somehow confess when they meet someone of the opposite sex that they have a connection with.”
The boldness of his statement leaves me blank for a moment.
“He doesn’t remember you,” I say stoically. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to defend Taylor’s honor, maybe because what he just said was true.
“I figured. It was a long time ago. Usually people remember meeting him, not the other way around.” That statement reminds me of my task at the Russian gala.
My eyes catch Taylor’s tall figure in a black fitted suit on the other side of the glass entry. I wave my hand in the air to get his attention and smile, trying to set an amicable tone for the introduction. His facial expression changes from neutrality to curiosity when he sees someone seated across from me. My wave incites Eric to turn and look in Taylor’s direction.
Taylor stops dead in his tracks. His face goes pale, his eyes and nostrils flare and then he marches towards me. What the hell is going on?
Eric stands. “Taylor, so good to see you!”
Taylor doesn’t even acknowledge him. He looks directly at me. “Let’s go Shy.”
“Taylor, what is going on here?” My eyes dart to Eric, who is coolly smiling.
“Shy, this is not the place. Just come.”
He grabs my elbow and I pull away and put my hand out towards him. “Okay...okay!” People are beginning to watch the scene unfold. I grab my things and rifle through my wallet to leave cash for the waiter.
“Don’t worry Shyla. I’ve got it,” Eric says in a low, sympathetic voice.
Taylor turns to acknowledge him for the first time. “Like hell you do.” He pulls out a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and throws it on the table.
Our waiter comes back over to and makes the mistake of placing a hand on Taylor as he asks if there is a problem. Taylor aggressively swats his hand off of him, triggering audible gasps from other restaurant goers.
“Let’s go,” he says firmly and storms out of the restaurant.
As we walk away, I mouth that I am so sorry to Eric. He nods in acknowledgment.
Once we hit the sidewalk I erupt. “What the hell was that Taylor? What is wrong with you? I was just talking to him, we bumped into each other again and I was going to introduce you two. Nothing was going on!”
“Shy, you don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Wha-What? You don’t get to determine that. I am not a child.”
“Let’s just get in the car.”
“No, absolutely not. That was so uncalled for. You made a huge scene. You don’t own me. I am not a child. I can talk to anyone I want.”
He begins to chuckle. “You think this is about jealousy? Like I said, you don’t know him.”
“And you do? You said you didn’t know anyone named Eric when I asked.”
“I didn’t think that was the Eric you were talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me!”
“This is not the place for this.”
“Oh and the restaurant was? You could have simply asked me aside like a normal person instead of humiliating me. I am not getting in the car with you. I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Please just get inside.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell that was all about.” He hesitates. I turn my back to him and tromp away boiling with anger and humiliation.
“Fine, I’ll tell you. Just please get in the car.”
We get in the car and I slam the door as hard as I can. Taylor looks at me with disapproval from the corner of his eye.
“So tell me now.”
He takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to drag you into this Shy.”
I shake my head and attempt to open the car door which is now locked. “Harrison, unlock please.” I see his eyes dart to Taylor in the rearview mirror. “Harrison, unlock it now!”
He does and I dash out of the vehicle. I hear Taylor’s footsteps behind me. “Shyla!”
I turn to face him. “I can’t do this anymore. You can’t just act however you want and keep the reasons away from me. That just doesn’t cut it. I know you think I am some fragile doll that can’t handle the truth, but I can. I have been through some shit in my life too.”
“It’s not you who I think can’t handle it. It’s me.”
“You have to move forward. You are stuck. I can’t be with parts of you. What if I shut you out of entire parts of my life? This is the only way you have a chance of getting better.”
Taylor pauses to think. “You have to promise you won’t judge or pity me.”
“Haven’t I proved that already?”
He nods.
“Now tell me the truth. How do you know Eric?”
Taylor remains silent for several seconds before finally uttering a response.
“Eric is my brother.”
My stillness is only interrupted by an angry cab driver honking at us for blocking the street.
“Please, Shy. Let’s go to your place. I’ll talk. I am tired of this too.”
All of my indignation melts away. I follow Taylor back to the car, trying to grasp this new knowledge. I now understand why he was so familiar. They share subtle traits that one might miss not knowing they are brothers: their crooked smiles, the shape of their jaws, their builds. Side by side, Taylor and Eric are nearly identical in stature. Taylor has dark hair and the slightest olive tone to his skin; his eyes are a blend of green and blues that change depending on what he wears, or the way the sun reflects off of his eyes. Eric is much lighter with a peachy hue, and small patches of freckles spot his nose and cheeks. His eyes are paler, grayer. While they share some features, it’s their expressions and mannerisms that link them as brothers. The way Eric delivered the line about my presumed honesty reminded me of the way Taylor told me he wanted me that morning in St. Petersburg. I see it now. They definitely are brothers.
The car ride is quiet. This is going to be a private conversation. I watch Taylor looking out of the window. He looks tense, yet void. I wonder what he is thinking about at that very second. I don’t understand why he didn’t just tell me when I first mentioned Eric and much of me is afraid to know. He is so tightly closed, every word he says is so calculated because he is afraid he will be exposed. I want to be the one person that he can just be with: No calculation, no equations, no fear of loss.
The ride up the elevator is silent. We kick off our shoes, I head to the kitchen and grab him a beer and myself a glass of wine. I sit with my legs crossed facing him as he sits on his side facing me.
“Taylor, just talk. Once you let it go, you will find it is so easy.”
He takes a deep breath like someone about to go underwater and slowly releases the air. “Shyla, no one knows everything about me. There are people that know some bits, but each person just has fragments of my life. That is intentional. No one has all of the pieces to put together and make the full picture of me. When no one matters, life is so much easier. When you care about someone, the fear that you will lose them is a constant undercurrent.”
“Taylor. I will always be here. Haven’t I showed you that I am willing to keep an open mind?”
“I think about what if you were to be hurt. When you told me he came up to you, that is why I snapped at you. If anything ever happened...”
“Why would Eric want to hurt me?”
“He doesn’t. He wants to hurt me, but if that means hurting you, then so be it. That is why I don’t want you talking to him or telling him about us.”
“But, why?”
“I’ll have to start from the very beginning. Take a swig.” His last statement lightens the mood just a bit and I offer him a toast, which he accepts. His tone quickly becomes somber again. “Okay, my father married my stepmother in his mid 20’s. From what I can gather, their marriage was good, but he met my mother a few years later. She was young, 16 years old.”
“How did they meet?”
“She was the daughter of a business associate and friend, she was a beautiful tall blonde and my dad was instantly in love when he saw her. She worked in my dad’s office one summer and that’s when the affair started. Obviously, she became pregnant with me. She wanted my dad to leave his family and be with her. He refused. She threatened to tell my stepmother and he said he would do so himself, but that he would not respond to threats. Apparently, he loved my stepmother more than he realized. Now, I don’t have my mother’s word, only what I know from my father, but he offered to help raise me. If word was going to get out, he planned to tell my stepmother and pray she would forgive him and he hoped he could either be a part of my life or take me in.”
“That was assuming that his entire life didn’t fall apart once he told your stepmom.”
“Yes, but he didn’t have to. My mother ran away. He thinks it was a way to punish him, to know he had a son out there he would never see. He wasn’t wealthy yet. H.I. was in its infancy and in those days between the lack of technology and father’s rights not being appreciated, it was very hard to find us.”
“And her dad? What did he do?”
“She told him it was a boy her age and her dad very much wanted to keep it hidden. Her family was conservative and wanted her to hide the pregnancy and give me up for adoption, which she refused.”
“So she protected your dad by not telling anyone he was the father?”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it. When she did that, my dad saw an opportunity to cover up his biological connection with me while still raising me. See, my dad, who was a close friend of her father, offered to adopt me, saying he and his wife desperately wanted another child. This was a lie of course. My dad only told his wife that my mother was pregnant and he wanted to help by adopting the baby. He failed to mention the child was his. My mother was given an ultimatum by her family: hide the pregnancy and give me up for adoption, or leave. She left. They gave her just enough money to barely start over and she ran.”
“Wow. This is like a soap opera.”
“I know. I know,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I have never really repeated the story to anyone, it sounds even more bizarre saying it aloud.”
“So where did she go?”
“Not much is known as far as details about what happened next because she vanished for years. Most of this comes from my recollection and what my father was able to find out after her death.” The way he says the word “death” weighs so heavy on my heart. I know he is trying to say it like it’s any other word, as if he doesn’t care, but it is because of this that the word holds so much more weight than the others.
“So the story goes, she took a train all the way to the west coast. She being vulnerable, maybe bitter and alone, made her an easy target. She joined a cult called Children of the Stars. Seven years later she was part of a mass suicide. When her next of kin was notified, my father found out and was able to track me down. He told my stepmother everything. She was livid, but he persuaded her to do the right thing and they took me home.”
“I am so sorry about your mother.”
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t understand why you seem to hate her so much. I mean, don’t you see her as the victim in this? She was only 16.”
“She is no victim.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She brought me into a world of hell. She let those vile people control her.”
“You mean the cult?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what it was like?”
“Every day.”
I watch him in silence. After all of this time wanting to know, I am afraid. Afraid to know what happened to him. Those years with the cult have to be what has been haunting him.
“What did they do to you Taylor?”
“Everything.” The unmitigated finality of that word makes me sick to my stomach. He swallows, doing his very best to keep any emotion from the surface. I can’t bring myself to ask what that means.
“You’ve never told anyone?”
“They think I don’t remember. They took me to therapists and I never told them anything. She let those bastards do whatever they wanted. They were her god and I was the lamb to the slaughter. I was always just a pawn to her.”
“Do you think she was that evil? That she would intentionally inflict harm on you? She killed herself. Something had to have been haunting her.”
“She killed herself and left me there surrounded by death. Everything she did was for the cult or to get back at my father. She could have delivered me to my father, or even her family, but she just left me there. I was collateral damage.”
“You mean, you were there?”
“Yes, the police found me after a week, hungry and dehydrated. The corpses were already starting to rot.”
“Oh my god. Did anyone else survive?”
“I was the only one left that I know of. The other parents took their kids with them.”
“So she spared you?”
“Much too late. I don’t understand why you’re defending her.”
“Taylor, I am not defending her. It’s just that I can feel the hatred you have for her and it’s hurting you.”
“I’ve done fine thus far.”
“Have you?”
He ponders my last question in silence, the words he spoke begin to become a reality. I imagine a little boy, abused and alone, surrounded by demented, sick people. I imagine how scared he must have been, sitting amongst the dead bodies of all the people he ever knew, the smell of their rotting corpses in the air. Then I see him before me and he is still that boy, so full of rage. He hides it well, but it permeates through the cracks: his anxiety, his detachment, his wavering moods. He works so hard to deliver the appearance of control because he is still scared, scared to become a victim again. The tears pour out of me. This is worse than I ever thought. This cannot be fixed. He is damaged.
“Please don’t cry.”
“Taylor, how can I not? What have they done to you?”
“I’m okay. I’m okay, Shy.” He cups my face in his hands and raises it too look into my eyes. “I’m okay. As long as I have you, I’m okay.”
“I just feel for you. You were just a child.”
We sit in silence for a while. I know this is not the entire story, but is draining to both tell and receive. I break the silence.
“So is this why you don’t allow people to touch you? Why you must dominate them?”
“I guess it’s psychology 101. I had no control in my early years and I don’t want to lose that ever again. No one ever touched me out of tenderness. The only time I was touched was to be disciplined or controlled in some fashion.”
“Even your mother didn’t hug you?”
“Not that I can recall. I was only there until I was seven so there is a lot I can't remember. Certain memories seem to take up all the space.”
“Then why me? Why can we sit here like this, together?”
“I don’t know. That is not something I am hiding from you. I truly have no idea. It boggles my mind.”
“You really should see someone about this. I want to help, but I think this beyond anything I can help with.”
“Shy, you are helping me more than you can understand.”
“So things are making a lot more sense, but this still doesn’t answer your issue with Eric. Your new family took you in. They treated you good, didn’t they?”
“Yea...yeah. By the time I was reunited with my father, H.I. was growing and he was wealthy. He desperately tried for me to have a normal life. He also took a lot of flack from friends after revealing that he was my father, but never took it out on me. My stepmother tolerated me. I don’t blame her, she was asked to raise the product of her husband’s affair. Any veiled resentment from her was a treat compared to what I had come from.”
“So your relationship with your stepmother was not great?”
“It was okay. It just wasn’t motherly. By the time they got me, I had already become who I am. I also remember fearing my new surroundings. I had no reason to believe my new family would be any different. I didn’t really speak much at all the first year until I finally started to trust that my new family was not like the cult. It would have been very difficult for her to become attached even if she wanted to.”
“Understandable.”
“The real issue was Eric. Eric hated me from the moment I entered that house. He was the only child, the apple of my father’s eye. My father was convinced he would never see me again. Then I came and took all the attention. My father thought I needed him more than Eric did. I think my father felt a lot of guilt about what happened to me, so he doted over me. Eric’s aggression started small, the things little kids do when they’re jealous. He would throw food at me, pull on my hair, call me names...We never bonded the way normal brothers do. If he tried to pick on me physically, because of my issues, I would bite him or claw at him. We were just incompatible. Hell, that instinct hasn’t really changed much in me to this day. We lived under the same roof, but there were very few times we enjoyed each other. I was a handful that first year, and Eric hated me for it.”
“Your parents didn’t try to make you get along?”
“The situation was impossible for them. I’ll admit, taking me in threw their household off balance. I was fucked up, which in turn, made Eric fucked up too.
After the first year or so, I quickly learned that if I excelled in school and acted normal, people would get off of my back and they wouldn’t keep sending me to therapists. So that’s what I did, I worked hard in school and sports and was rewarded with personal space and approval. Eric on the other hand, continued to rebel, out of anger I presume, which only put a bigger wedge between him and our father. We would fight all the time; when we got into our teenage years, it got really bad. We would have vicious fist fights. I didn’t want to fight him, but I wasn’t going to take his shit either. He would get dirty, call me Charles Manson, Jim Jones, a bastard, son of a whore, shit like that.”
“What about your anxiety about touch? They just let it go?”
“My father understood and respected that. He hoped the therapy would cure it, but he gave up after a while.”
“Your stepmother? What did she think about Eric?”
“She defended Eric, but eventually he got so out of control he wasn’t defensible. Especially when he started experimenting with drugs. So they sent him to military school. We didn’t talk once he left. I didn’t miss him at all. Then we both went to college. It was as if we didn’t exist to each other. That is, until my father got sick and had to retire. Eric expected to inherit the company because he was older, even though he really is only six months older. Yes, my philandering dad got my mother pregnant while Nan, my stepmom, was pregnant with Eric. My dad thought I was better prepared to handle the load of H.I.; Eric was...is...too emotional.”
“Oh wow. What was your mom’s name?”
“Lyla.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember her?”
“Yes. I have some vague memories of what she looked like. My father stuck a picture on the mirror in my bedroom. I left it up there.”
“You said she was tall and blond?”
“Yeah...very thin, long wavy blond hair, tanned. She kind of looked like a hippy, always wore flowers in her hair. From what I am told, I have her eyes. The rest of me is a spitting image of my father.”
“So you hate each other? You and Eric.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I understand you hate each other, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hurt us. He was a teenager, maybe he is trying to reach out to you.”
“I wasn’t finished about him.”
“Oh lord, the plot thickens.”
“I have reason to believe he wanted to have me killed.” I jump up off the couch onto my feet and pull on my hair. I can’t believe what I am hearing.
“Reason to believe? Why is he not in jail?”
“Someone approached me telling me that my brother propositioned him to kill me for a fee. He thought with me gone, he would be the only person in line for H.I.”
“Then what happened?”
“I went nuts. I went to my dad’s house, where he was, and I beat the shit out of him. My father, wracked with guilt about how he turned out, begged me not to press charges. He would’ve gotten Eric the best lawyers. In all honesty, all I had was hearsay. The guy who told me was a shady character, but Eric didn’t deny it. He had multiple opportunities to look me in the eyes and say the guy was a liar, but he never did. I agreed not to go to the police only under the condition that I would never see him again. I did it because of my father. He was a mess about it.”
“I just can’t reconcile this with the guy I met. He was so nice and friendly.”
“Most sociopaths are.”
“Why do you think he’s back?”
“I don’t know, probably to fuck with me or maybe because he wants to come back home.”
“Does he really work in security?”
“It’s possible, I heard he was in the military for a while and my dad gave him plenty of money to play with. He could have opened up a security firm. Here’s the thing: I don’t know if he met you by coincidence or if he set up all of that on purpose. The latter is entirely possible with him, especially if he is a security specialist. He is calculated and yet he is capable of being very charming. How did you get to talking to him anyway?”
“I was eating at the bar and he came up to me.”
“So he tried to pick you up?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“And you entertained him? Interesting...”
“Taylor, it wasn’t like that! Like you said, he can be friendly. There was no clear way to shoot him down without looking like a bitch. Honestly, we had some nice conversation. That is why I just can’t wrap my mind around this.”
“Do not believe a word he says. He is up to something. I’m concerned about your safety.”
“If he wanted to do something, wouldn’t he have done so by now?”
“I don’t know. I only know he cannot be trusted. He tried to have me killed. Do you understand? He tried to have me killed.”
“So what now?”
“We watch our backs. Other than running into him a couple of times, has anything else unusual happened?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, just anything out of the ordinary?”
The texts.
“No, nothing I can recall.” I’m not ready to bring them up. I know he will be upset I didn’t mention them earlier.
“We should really get you security.”
“I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
“It would make me feel better.”
“If anything fishy happens again, fine. Let’s just meet before and after work. I’ll be safe at the office.”
“I’ll have Harrison wait outside of your office instead of mine.”
“Fine, but only Harrison. Taylor, thank you for sharing this with me. Whenever you are having a bad night, whenever you think about those times, just talk to me.”
***
We lay in bed, lying on our sides, looking into each other’s eyes.
“You have beautiful brown eyes.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What is it like to be in love?”
The implication of the question jolts me. My pride won’t let him know how much it hurts to hear it. Not only am I stunned from the pain of the inquiry, but for the first time, I truly see how stunted he has been by his early emotional experiences. “True love? You can’t understand it until it really happens to you. I guess this is how I would define it: You don’t know how you could have ever walked the earth without that person because once they appear into your life, if you ever lose them, you too would be lost forever.”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods in recognition. My train of thought takes me to a related question for him. “Have you ever loved anyone? I don’t mean been in love. You’ve already told me that. Have you ever loved another person at all?”
He takes a second to contemplate the question as if it is something he has never thought to ask himself. “I don’t think so.”
“Even your father?”
“I feel a sense of gratitude and responsibility. I care for him, but I don’t think I love him. I don’t think so.”
“And your mother? You don’t ever remember loving her?”
“No. I have a hard time feeling, Shyla. I think as a child I had to turn it off to get through everything, and then I was never able to turn it back on. It’s broken.”
“The world must be such a lonely place for you then.” He gives me a puzzled look. “Taylor, love is the most powerful thing you can feel. It starts wars, it ends them, people kill for it, they create because of it, they die for it, and they live for it. You can’t truly have lived unless you have experienced it. There are so many kinds, and each one makes you feel a different kind of warmth. I want you to have that someday.”
“Thank you.”
The weight in my chest feels so heavy. I now know why he didn’t say he loved me when I told him how I felt: I am not sure he is capable of that emotion.