Chesapeake Blue
Page 74
"I trusted you, with my body and my heart. I never asked you for anything. You always gave it before I could. I don't deserve to be treated this way, discarded this way, only because I fell in love with you." He looked at her then, and the combination of pride and sadness on her face destroyed him. "Dru—"
"I love you." She said it calmly, while she could still be calm. "But that's my problem. I'll leave you alone with yours, and your bottle."
"Goddamn it. Goddamn it, don't go," he said when she spun toward the door. "Dru, don't walk out. Please don't." He shoved the glass onto the table, dropped his head in his hands. "I can't do this. I can't let her steal this from me, too."
"You think I'm going to stand here and cry in front of you? Even speak to you when you're drunk and insulting?"
"I'm sorry. Christ, I'm sorry."
"You are that. You're very sorry." The hand that gripped the doorknob trembled, and a tear spilled over. The combination infuriated her. "I don't want your pathetic guilty male conscience because you hurt me enough to bring on a few tears. What I really want right now is for you to go straight to hell."
"Please don't walk out the door. I don't think I could stand it." Everything inside him—grief, guilt, loathing and love—clamped his throat like strangling hands. "I thought I should shove you out before you got pulled under. I can't do it. I can't stand it. I don't know if it's selfish or if it's right, but I can't let you go. For God's sake, don't walk on me."
She stared at him, at the naked misery on his face. Her heart, already cracked, split in two. "Seth, please tell me what's wrong. Tell me what's hurting you."
"I shouldn't have said those things to you. It was stupid."
"Tell me why you said them. Tell me why you're sitting here alone, drinking yourself sick."
"I was sick before I bought the bottle. I don't know where to start." He raked his hands through his hair.
"The beginning, I guess." He pressed his fingers to his lids. "I got about halfway drunk. I'm going to need some coffee."
"I'll make it."
"Dru." He lifted his hands again, then just let them fall. "Everything I said to you since you walked in the door was a lie."
She took a deep breath. For now, she thought, she would tuck the anger and hurt away, and listen. "All right. I'll make you coffee, then you can tell me the truth."
"IT GOES BACK a long time," he began. "Back before my grandfather. Before Ray Quinn married Stella. Before he met her. Dru, I'm sorry I hurt you."
"Just tell me. We'll deal with that later."
He drank coffee. "Ray met this woman, and they got involved. They had an affair," he corrected. "They were both young and single, so why not? Anyway, he wasn't the type she was looking for. You know, a teacher, one who leaned toward the left while she leaned right. She came from a family like yours. What I mean is—"
"I know what you mean. She had a certain social position, and certain social aspirations."
"Yeah." He let out a breath, drank more coffee. "Thanks. She broke it off, left. She was pregnant, and not too pleased about it from the way I've heard it. She met another guy, one she clicked with. So she decided to go through with the pregnancy, and she married him."
"She never told your grandfather about the child."
"No, she never told him. Little ways down the road, she had a second daughter. She had Sybill."
"Sybill, but… oh." Dru let it sift in her mind until it fell into place. "I see. Ray Quinn's daughter, Sybill's half sister. Your mother."
"That cuts through it. She—Gloria. Her name's Gloria. She's not like Sybill. Gloria hated her. I think she must've been born hating everyone. Whatever she had growing up, it never seemed to be enough." He was pale, and looked so drawn and ill, Dru had to bank down on the urge to simply gather him close and comfort. "For some, nothing is ever enough."
"Yeah. She took off with some guy at some point, got knocked up. That would be me. Turns out he married her. That's not important. I've never met him. He doesn't come into this."
"Your father—"
"Sperm donor," Seth corrected. "I don't know what happened between them. I don't lose sleep over it. When Gloria ran out of money, she went back home, took me with her. I don't remember any of that. They didn't kill the fatted calf for her. Gloria's got an affection for the bottle, and various chemical enhancements. I think she came and went for a few years. I know when Sybill had a place of her own in New York, she dumped me there. I don't remember much about it. Didn't remember Sybill at all when I first met her again. I was a couple years old. Sybill gave me this stuffed dog. I called it Yours. You know, when I asked whose it was she said .
"Yours," Dru finished, and touched, brushed a hand over his hair. "She was kind to you."
"She was great. Like I said, I don't remember much, except feeling safe when I was with her. She took us in, bought us food, clothes, took care of me when Gloria didn't show up for a few days. And Gloria paid her back by stealing everything she could fence when Sybill was out, and taking off with me."
"You didn't have a choice. Children don't."
"I'm not taking on responsibility for it. I'm just saying. I don't know why she didn't leave me and head out on her own. I can only figure it was because Sybill and I had made a connection, because we…"
"Because you'd started to love each other." Dru took his hand, let his fingers grip tight on hers. "And she resented you both, so she couldn't have that."
He closed his eyes a moment. "It helps that you get it."
"You didn't think I would."
"I don't know what I thought. She f**ks me up; that's the only excuse I've got."
"Save the excuses. Tell me the rest."
He set the coffee aside. It wasn't doing anything for his headache or queasy stomach but making him more awake and aware of them. "We lived a lot of different places, for short amounts of time. She had a lot of men. I knew about sex before I could write my own name. She'd get drunk or high, so I was on my own a lot. She ran low on money, couldn't get high, she'd take it out on me."
"I love you." She said it calmly, while she could still be calm. "But that's my problem. I'll leave you alone with yours, and your bottle."
"Goddamn it. Goddamn it, don't go," he said when she spun toward the door. "Dru, don't walk out. Please don't." He shoved the glass onto the table, dropped his head in his hands. "I can't do this. I can't let her steal this from me, too."
"You think I'm going to stand here and cry in front of you? Even speak to you when you're drunk and insulting?"
"I'm sorry. Christ, I'm sorry."
"You are that. You're very sorry." The hand that gripped the doorknob trembled, and a tear spilled over. The combination infuriated her. "I don't want your pathetic guilty male conscience because you hurt me enough to bring on a few tears. What I really want right now is for you to go straight to hell."
"Please don't walk out the door. I don't think I could stand it." Everything inside him—grief, guilt, loathing and love—clamped his throat like strangling hands. "I thought I should shove you out before you got pulled under. I can't do it. I can't stand it. I don't know if it's selfish or if it's right, but I can't let you go. For God's sake, don't walk on me."
She stared at him, at the naked misery on his face. Her heart, already cracked, split in two. "Seth, please tell me what's wrong. Tell me what's hurting you."
"I shouldn't have said those things to you. It was stupid."
"Tell me why you said them. Tell me why you're sitting here alone, drinking yourself sick."
"I was sick before I bought the bottle. I don't know where to start." He raked his hands through his hair.
"The beginning, I guess." He pressed his fingers to his lids. "I got about halfway drunk. I'm going to need some coffee."
"I'll make it."
"Dru." He lifted his hands again, then just let them fall. "Everything I said to you since you walked in the door was a lie."
She took a deep breath. For now, she thought, she would tuck the anger and hurt away, and listen. "All right. I'll make you coffee, then you can tell me the truth."
"IT GOES BACK a long time," he began. "Back before my grandfather. Before Ray Quinn married Stella. Before he met her. Dru, I'm sorry I hurt you."
"Just tell me. We'll deal with that later."
He drank coffee. "Ray met this woman, and they got involved. They had an affair," he corrected. "They were both young and single, so why not? Anyway, he wasn't the type she was looking for. You know, a teacher, one who leaned toward the left while she leaned right. She came from a family like yours. What I mean is—"
"I know what you mean. She had a certain social position, and certain social aspirations."
"Yeah." He let out a breath, drank more coffee. "Thanks. She broke it off, left. She was pregnant, and not too pleased about it from the way I've heard it. She met another guy, one she clicked with. So she decided to go through with the pregnancy, and she married him."
"She never told your grandfather about the child."
"No, she never told him. Little ways down the road, she had a second daughter. She had Sybill."
"Sybill, but… oh." Dru let it sift in her mind until it fell into place. "I see. Ray Quinn's daughter, Sybill's half sister. Your mother."
"That cuts through it. She—Gloria. Her name's Gloria. She's not like Sybill. Gloria hated her. I think she must've been born hating everyone. Whatever she had growing up, it never seemed to be enough." He was pale, and looked so drawn and ill, Dru had to bank down on the urge to simply gather him close and comfort. "For some, nothing is ever enough."
"Yeah. She took off with some guy at some point, got knocked up. That would be me. Turns out he married her. That's not important. I've never met him. He doesn't come into this."
"Your father—"
"Sperm donor," Seth corrected. "I don't know what happened between them. I don't lose sleep over it. When Gloria ran out of money, she went back home, took me with her. I don't remember any of that. They didn't kill the fatted calf for her. Gloria's got an affection for the bottle, and various chemical enhancements. I think she came and went for a few years. I know when Sybill had a place of her own in New York, she dumped me there. I don't remember much about it. Didn't remember Sybill at all when I first met her again. I was a couple years old. Sybill gave me this stuffed dog. I called it Yours. You know, when I asked whose it was she said .
"Yours," Dru finished, and touched, brushed a hand over his hair. "She was kind to you."
"She was great. Like I said, I don't remember much, except feeling safe when I was with her. She took us in, bought us food, clothes, took care of me when Gloria didn't show up for a few days. And Gloria paid her back by stealing everything she could fence when Sybill was out, and taking off with me."
"You didn't have a choice. Children don't."
"I'm not taking on responsibility for it. I'm just saying. I don't know why she didn't leave me and head out on her own. I can only figure it was because Sybill and I had made a connection, because we…"
"Because you'd started to love each other." Dru took his hand, let his fingers grip tight on hers. "And she resented you both, so she couldn't have that."
He closed his eyes a moment. "It helps that you get it."
"You didn't think I would."
"I don't know what I thought. She f**ks me up; that's the only excuse I've got."
"Save the excuses. Tell me the rest."
He set the coffee aside. It wasn't doing anything for his headache or queasy stomach but making him more awake and aware of them. "We lived a lot of different places, for short amounts of time. She had a lot of men. I knew about sex before I could write my own name. She'd get drunk or high, so I was on my own a lot. She ran low on money, couldn't get high, she'd take it out on me."
