I stand quickly, scared by the direction of my thoughts. "I--I should get back to work."
My mother's brows rise, the silent equivalent of an order.
"Thank you for the necklace," I say dully.
"Walk me to the door, sweetie," she says, then looks at Damien. "You don't mind, do you?"
It's clear that he does, but I just nod, signaling that it's okay, then fall in step beside my mother.
"You must know that things happen for a reason," she says as we pause in the open doorway. "Babies take so much time, and we both know how selfish you can be about the things you want to do."
I just stare at her.
"Now, Nichole, you know I'm right. You mangled your own body simply because you wanted to inconvenience me."
I stand frozen--stunned by her words. Inconvenience her? I was drowning in the pageant life. Forced to be her wind-up toy, her performing monkey. I'd begged to stop, begged to cut down to only one pageant each year. Begged for any kind of relief she'd allow me, but she'd denied me everything.
I'd already started cutting by then--it was the only way to hold onto my sanity. To keep myself anchored to the ground and not flying off into some horrible, melancholy nightmare. But I'd been careful, never using a blade where it might be revealed in an evening gown or a swimsuit. Because I knew what the fallout would be if my mother learned of my weakness.
Finally, though, I'd had enough. And when I knew that I simply couldn't take it any more, I'd taken a blade to flesh that would be exposed. My hips. My thighs. The worst is on my inner thigh--a still-angry scar from when I cut too deep and, frantic, had rendered my own First Aid with superglue, duct tape, and an Ace bandage.
That was the end of my pageant career. And, as far as my mother was concerned, a huge affront to her reputation and social standing.
"But, of course, you're very successful," she continues calmly, as if she's not tossing words out like grenades. "Your business. Your rich husband." She leans in to kiss my cheek, and though I cringe back, I'm stopped by the doorframe. "Just remember what happened to Icarus when he flew too close to the sun. Maybe losing this baby was your way of crashing back down to Earth."
I want to lash out--to tell her she's a fool and wrong and a terrible excuse for a mother.
But I can't find the words. All I can think of is how much I craved the blade over the last few days. How much I wanted the release it would bring. How much I needed it to get me back to center.
And so I just stay quiet. Because if she's telling me I have no business being a mother, then she just may be right.
24
Damien rests his hands on my shoulders as the door closes behind my mother. Slowly he begins to knead my muscles, and I sigh, wishing he could squeeze out every bad feeling she's left inside me.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks.
I close my eyes, from both the ecstasy of his touch and the agony of her parting words. "Yes. No. Later." I draw a breath. "It's just my mother. Just the usual."
He stops massaging. "Are you sure?"
I keep my back to him, because if I turn around, he'll see fresh pain in my eyes, and we've both suffered too much already. "I just want to get back to work," I say truthfully. "I don't want to think about her another minute."
He turns me in his arms, his eyes searching my face. I'm not sure he's convinced, but he knows me well enough to not push. At least, not yet.
Since work really is the best remedy for my mother, I go back upstairs to where Noah is still deep in the thick of it. I check in with him, then dive back into coding, losing myself in the architecture of the project and letting the rest of the world simply fade away.
There's so much to do that it's easy to fall into a rhythm and let work rise to the top, acting as a balm against the lingering pain.
We work steadily for the rest of the week, and by the time Friday rolls around, I'm confident this thing is going to come in on time. For that matter, everything is looking better. Life has slid back into a rhythm. Damien's started going to the office again instead of working from home, I've had four excellent phone interviews with potential new hires, and Noah and I are moving through tasks in the Greystone-Branch project outline with a pace that exceeds my expectations.
We've just competed another milestone, in fact, when Noah rises to stretch. I stand, too. "You know what?" I say. "Let's knock off early."
He leans to the side, his head cocked and his brow furrowed as he looks me up and down. "You look like Nikki Stark . . ."
"Ha, ha." I grab my coffee cup and head over to the coffeemaker to refill it. "We're on track and doing great. So let's take a step back and enjoy it. Take the afternoon off. Then over the weekend Damien and I can move this mess to my office," I say, indicating the spray of papers and stacks of file folders. "We can finish out the month there, and before I send you off to work at Stark Tower, I'll get you to help me prep for my first progress presentation in Dallas. Sound good?"
"Sounds great. And I'm happy to have an afternoon and weekend."
"You should do something fun. Go to the beach. Learn to surf. Or I could find someone to show you around. Who knows where it might lead."
I hope he takes me up on it. The more I get to know him, the more I like Noah. He's sharp and funny and focused. But he's also quiet and haunted.
"Thanks for the offer," he says. "But I promise I know how to fill a weekend."
I bite back a frown, because I really don't believe that. Still, I remember what Jane told me about his missing wife who has only recently being declared dead. Even if Noah had been on the verge of moving on, I can see that change in the status quo stopping him in his tracks.
But I like him well enough that I wish I could help.
"Are you sure you want to wrap for the day?" he asks as he packs up his stuff, pausing to reach down and scratch Sunshine on her head. "I can stay. We can blow through another chunk."
"No," I say firmly. "Break time."
I happen to know that Damien has a light schedule today. And now that the world is starting to look brighter around the edges, I intend to take a different kind of break from work.
"Fair enough." Noah takes off his glasses and tosses them onto the table, making me think of a superhero shedding his mortal persona. And when he flashes a charming smile, it only cements my belief that it's a shame he's not interested in dating. Because I can think of a dozen girls at Stark International who would fall for him in a heartbeat.
He grabs his laptop bag and heads for the stairs, all the while running through a list of things we need to be sure to tackle on Monday.
"Go," I say laughing. "And try to spend at least five minutes this weekend doing something other than thinking about computer code or engineering or whatever new gizmo you're inventing in that mind of yours."
"Yes, boss," he says, and I roll my eyes, biting back a grin.
As soon as he's gone, I sit at the table again, then reach for my phone. Sunshine trots over and leaps up onto my lap, and I rub behind her ears, getting her little motor going, then call Damien.
He answers on the first ring. "What can I do for you, Ms. Fairchild?"
"I sent Noah home," I say, in the tone of a
n invitation.
"Did you?" I hear the rising heat in his voice and feel my own body tightening with need. "That's very interesting information."
"From what I hear, you're an expert at taking information and turning it to your advantage." I lift Sunshine and deposit her on the floor so that I can stand. I'm anxious to move, my mood brightening simply from this heated flirtation with my husband.
"It's a reputation that's well-earned. I may have to prove it to you."
"How fast can you get here?"
"Time me," he says, and I can't help but laugh.
"The clock is ticking, Mr. Stark."
"Soon, Ms. Fairchild." And then he's gone, and I'm left grinning like a crazy person in my kitchen, because it feels like we're really healing. That we're shifting back to us again.
I hum as I open up a bottle of wine, then pour myself a glass. I've just taken a sip when the doorbell rings, and I frown because that makes no sense. Since Gregory is at the market, I start down the stairs. I'm just about to call the gate to ask how someone got all the way to the door when a text from Jimmy comes in telling me that there was a delivery and he authorized them to leave it on the porch.
Curious, I pick up my pace. I'm actually wondering if Damien arranged a surprise as I open the door--and then I freeze when I see the thick, flat box and the words stamped on the side: Baby Crib, White, Zoo Animal Design.
An unexpected punch of grief hits me with the force of an attacker. My body goes limp, my wine glass slips from my hand, and I stumble backward, my hand going over my mouth as tears stream down my face.
No.
The word slams through me so damn hard that I feel bruised inside. And that's all I can think. Just--no. There's nothing else. Just gray. Just loss.
Just my feet pounding up the stairs and my body moving through the house, and my knees aching as I fall hard on the floor of my closet, because I want to get away. I want to hide.
Everything was getting better. I'd believed I was getting better. But I'm not.
Dear God, I'm not.
One symbol, one memory, and everything's fallen apart. And the world is rushing in around me, proving that all the healing we've done just was camouflage. I'd believed that my return to work was proof that I was getting better. But it was just a mask. A salve for the pain. And now that the bandage has been so brutally ripped away, I'm not sure that I can stand it.