CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sometimes life has a way of putting things in perspective.
Annie’s gone. I can’t leave Pierce. At least, not now.
By the time he walked out of her room, his emotions were completely in check. I don’t know how he did it. I’m still trembling. It’s like going from drunk off your butt to stone cold sober in five minutes. It just doesn’t happen.
But here we are in his house, his bedroom, and he’s in perfect control. It’s driving me nuts. “You should eat something,” he says. “What sounds good? I’ll go downstairs and bring it up to you.”
I’m not hungry, but I know he needs to feel in control, so I’ll give him this little win. I’ve got a bigger fight ahead of me. A woman’s work is never done, and that goes double when the man you love is locked up tighter than your Spanx after an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Telling him anything is fine, he disappears through his bedroom door. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how I’ll handle being in this room again, but a couple things I am sure of. First, I will not have sex with him tonight, even though I know he’ll try. When he feels out of control, or is having a bad day, sex is what he wants. What he demands. How he copes. And second, I won’t leave him like this. I can’t.
I close my eyes, a vision of Annie floating into my mind. I’m not like Pierce. I can’t just lock it all away, so I let the tears come. To me, tears are a sign of strength, of honor to the person you cry over. No one gets through life without shedding a few, so why is our first instinct to always tell people not to cry?
Because it’s hard to see someone we love in pain. But what we really should say is go ahead and cry—I won’t leave you. We have to honor their pain, not be afraid of it. That’s what I’m going to do with Pierce, and I have a feeling that Annie’s death is just the beginning.
“How about dinner in the bathtub?” Pierce asks, his lips turning up just slightly.
“Not tonight,” I say.
“I never slept with Annie,” he says softly.
“Not once?” His head shakes. “But she said your story was . . .”
“Our story was that she was my first.”
“But she wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Why make up something like that? And why continue the lie all these years? Teenage girls’ reputations are very important to them. Why would she let you say that?”
“It was her idea.”
“This is making my head hurt,” I say, wondering if he’s just lying to me again.
His fingers lightly caress my face, and his other hand finds my belly. I watch his eyes, studying my stomach. He’s always been possessive about my body, but this is deeper. He falls to his knees, resting his head on my belly, his arms wrapped around my waist. This is devotion—to me, to our child.
He turns his head up to me. “Did you make an appointment to see your OB?”
Nodding my head, I say, “A few weeks.”
We suddenly hear Tawny’s voice calling for Pierce, both of us heading toward the bedroom door, and Pierce captures my hand. We meet Tawny at the bottom of the stairs. She takes one look at him and dissolves into tears.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says, pointing to a duffle bag on the floor. “Mom and I got in a huge fight.”
He wraps his arms around her. “You did the right thing coming here. What was the fight about?” Pierce asks.
“Annie,” Tawny says, crying harder. “Mom tried to use her death as some sort of teaching moment not to do drugs. I just had to get out of there.”
“Okay,” Pierce says, stroking her hair. “It’s going to be okay.”
Tawny pulls back slightly, wiping her face and giving me an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. I’m interrupting you guys.”
Brushing her hair off her shoulder, I say, “Not at all.”
Her smile widens. “Mom told me about . . . you know . . . the baby.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I wish she wouldn’t have,” Pierce says. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
Tawny rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she tried to use that as a teaching moment, too.”
“We should call Vicki,” I say. “She’s probably worried where you are, Tawny.”
“I’ll handle it,” Pierce says, pulling out his phone and stepping away.
Sitting down on the sofa with Tawny, my eyes stay glued on Pierce, the vein bulging out of his forehead, the red creeping up his neck. He’s keeping his voice low, but as usual, his conversation with Vicki isn’t pleasant. He hangs up, catching me watching him, then stuffs his phone back in his pocket and sits down beside me.
“I hope the baby’s a girl,” Tawny says, wiggling a little bit. “Oh, do you think it’s twins?”
Pierce starts laughing. “I think it’s a baby. One baby.”
“If it’s a girl,” Tawny says, tearing up again, “you should name her Annie.”
Pierce glances at me. I’m sure he likes that idea, but I can’t think about any of that right now. I can only think about the sick feeling in my stomach, the unanswered questions, whatever he’s hiding from me.
He turns back to Tawny, saying, “I was wondering if you’d like to play something at the funeral. I think Annie would like that.”
Tawny nods and says, “We should have Annie’s art at the funeral, too.”
“I think that’s a beautiful idea,” I say.
“I know where she has everything stored,” Pierce says quietly. “I’ll go pick something out tomorrow.”
I hear Annie’s voice in my head, like she’s whispering to me. “I’ll go with you,” I say.
*
I wake up cold and alone in his bed, missing the warmth of his body. Why are men always warm? You never hear a guy complaining about being cold. Glancing at his side of the bed, the sheets are still smooth and untouched. I know he wasn’t giving me space. He’s restless, and without sex, he’s got nowhere to focus his energy.
Throwing my feet off the side of the bed, I cover my mouth. This morning sickness stuff has to be in my head. I only just found out I’m pregnant. I wait for it to pass then head out into the hallway. Tawny’s asleep in the music room. Her choice. I think the mere presence of instruments comforts her.
Walking down the hallway, I smell fumes, which is not helping my phantom morning sickness. I follow the smell and, pinching my nose, peek into a room where Pierce has the floor and furniture draped in old sheets, several paint color samples on the wall.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice coming out weird through my pinched nose.
“Sorry about the smell,” he says. “I have the fan on and a window open. You shouldn’t smell this with the baby.”
He drops his paintbrush, placing his hand at the small of my back to lead me out. I look back at the walls, a rainbow of blues, pinks, whites, grays, yellows, greens. “I thought this room should belong to the baby,” he says.
“I thought we were focusing on Annie’s paintings, not on paint for the baby’s room,” I say.
“Between the house and the hotel, I had a bunch of sample colors and thought I’d just see what you were thinking.”
“I’d like to know what you’re thinking,” I say, not at all referring to nursery paint colors.
“I don’t really want to find out the sex,” he says. “So something neutral. Either a bright white or a soft gray.”
The man can be so frustrating, I want to scream. “You’re assuming a lot here, Pierce.”
“Our family under the same roof,” he says. “You didn’t have that. I didn’t have that. Our child will.”
“Whether I like it or not,” I say, stomping my foot, like a child throwing a tantrum.
“You’ll like it,” he flirts, stepping closer to me, pinning me to the wall. “I’ll make sure of that.”
Placing my hand on his chest, I force him back. “I think you need to go back on your diet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m hurt and I’m mad, and you can’t make that go away with your penis.”
He can’t help the smirk that covers his face. Tenderly, he reaches out for my belly. I expect an I love you or perhaps an I’m sorry. You know, one of the catchall phrases men like to use to weasel out of any situation. As if a simple apology or declaration of love is going to fix this.
But he asks, “Marry me?”
The shock only lasts a second because it’s quickly replaced with annoyance. The man just doesn’t get it. “Oh yes, this is what I want. Mr. Commitment-Phobe to marry me because I’m pregnant.”
“That’s not why I’m asking,” he says. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know I don’t have a ring. I haven’t asked your dad. Hell, I even forgot to get down on one knee, but . . .”
“I don’t care about any of that,” I say. I had a fairytale proposal before and look how that turned out. “I only want you, to know you, to know the truth.” He opens up his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him. “Let’s just get ready, and go pick out one of Annie’s paintings.”
*
I watch his long fingers twirl the key. He’s locked up tighter than I’ve ever seen him. It’s like he expects to find Annie’s ghost hiding amongst the paintings. He pauses outside the sliding door of the storage room. I want to be here for him, but I worry that me being here might make this harder on him. “I can wait out here,” I say.
Lightly, he runs his fingers through my hair. “I want you beside me,” he says.
“For some reason, I’m scared,” I say.
“You should be,” he says, his voice cold and flat, causing goose bumps to cover my skin. He’s usually so protective and comforting, but something has him on edge.
He slips the key in the lock and rolls the door wide open. No ghosts fly out at us, thankfully.
I look inside and find paintings covering the walls, each one numbered. I take a cautious step in the room and find the canvas marked number one. It’s a splotchy mess of color. I feel Pierce come up beside me, his fingers lining the edges of the painting.
“Annie and I painted that together when we were only six or so,” he says.
“Looks like you just rolled in paint,” I say.
He chuckles. “We did.” He looks around the room at a lifetime of work. “These are us, Annie and me. This is our life together.”
That might make some women jealous, but it only makes me curious and thankful for Annie. She’s giving me a glimpse at a part of Pierce he keeps well hidden.
Taking his hand, I walk to another painting. This one is of the Mississippi River, snaking between the outline of a couple kissing. I look up at him, swearing he’s blushing. “You kissed her.”
He smiles. “More like she kissed me. My first.”
“Have you not seen these before?” I ask.
“Not all of them,” he says.
Stepping around the space is a step back in time. It’s more than a story of two kids. It’s a story of love and heartbreak. His voice takes me from painting to painting, through the pain of witnessing his dad use his mother, and then to the time his mother lost her child. He pauses on that painting for a moment, and his fingers find my belly, as if protecting our child from that sorrow. His eyes and her paintings then lead me down a path of anger and hatred for his father leaving, and for all the pain that followed.
With each painting, I fall a little deeper into the story, his story, his soul, and I fall a little more in love with him, too. I feel the protectiveness and love he felt for his mother, and I can see through Annie’s paintings that he gave her the same.
Suddenly, I feel a twinge of fear—the shift in his stance scares me. It happens as soon as he shows me a particular painting, telling me it’s his dad and Vicki’s house. Something about that house changed him, changed the course of his life. I see it as clear as the blue of his eyes. Fear!
“There was a party,” he says. “They always had them.” He goes on to tell me about this particular one, the first time he got drunk and had a serious make-out session with Annie.
I’m listening intently, and then he just stops, like the memory ends there, but I know it doesn’t. This is where the real story begins.
He moves on to what appears to be another painting, one that’s covered by a sheet. Why is this one covered up? Is it because it’s still a secret?
An envelope is pinned to the sheet with Pierce’s name on the outside. Dear God, please don’t let this be a suicide note. He removes it delicately, like it might detonate at any moment, careful not to make a false move. He stares down at her handwriting, and I can see him trying to decide if he should read it. Instead, he slips it into his pocket. Then he lifts the sheet, slowly, carefully. The date of the painting comes into view—just a few days before Annie left, if my memory serves me correctly. As the sheet moves higher, there’s no doubt who’s in that painting.
I see Vicki holding Annie on puppet strings, a bottle of alcohol in one hand, drugs in another. She’s leading her up a staircase to a single door. I see the dots connecting in Pierce’s eyes, but I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
“Pierce?”
“That’s what she wanted to tell me,” he mumbles. “About that night.”
“What night?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. He’s just staring, fallen into his past. Finally, he turns to me, and I say, “Don’t tell me you can’t tell me.”
“I won’t lose you,” he says. “And if I tell you, you’ll leave.”
“Try me!” I say in a little dare, a cocky tone in my voice.
Silence fills the space between us, so thick it’s hard to breathe. I can see him struggling, twisting and turning with the truth. The fight between honesty and silence plays in his blue eyes.
His mouth opens, his eyes lower. Honesty finally wins.
“I slept with Vicki.”
My mind swirls around. No way did I hear that right. This isn’t happening. I feel my knees weaken. I will not fall! His arms find my shoulders. I see his mouth moving, but nothing is computing in my brain. I knew he was a man whore, but this is something totally different. I shove his hands off me.
“Once!” he says in a frantic tone I’ve never heard from him before. His eyes are filled with more fear than I’ve ever seen in another person. “One time!”
My eyes scan the room, memories from his past engulfing me. “When?” I demand.
“A long time ago.”
“When?” I scream.
“I was fifteen.”
A swift inhale of air enters my lungs, then nothing. No sound, no breathing, no movement—only silence.