Kim Karr - Torn

He nods his head and leads me out the door to the lower pool deck. He pulls another chair over to where he sat last night and tries to avoid knocking over the beer bottles still there. We sit in silence for a long while, both of us facing the pool and the Hollywood sign. When I kick my shoes off, he does the same and catches my eye. I can see he’s unsure about how to proceed, so I just start the conversation by blurting out what’s on my mind. “We talked a little bit last night about this, and even though Grace asked you not to tell me who attacked me, I wish you did. It’s not that I don’t get why you didn’t—I just don’t like you keeping things from me. Actually, I really, really dislike it.”

He leans over with his head down and his hands behind his neck. When he looks up at me his eyes seem clouded with indecision. “Dahlia, it’s not just about keeping things from you. It’s more complicated than that.”

Starting to get angry, I try to control myself. “What do you mean? In what way? What’s complicated about not keeping things from me?”

He closes his eyes. “I didn’t see it as keeping anything from you. I intended to tell you. Just not right away. You don’t understand how I felt.”

Through clenched teeth, I respond, “What do you mean how you felt? You haven’t told me how you felt or anything else so how about you start with that?”

He cringes and sits back up. “Grace’s phone call that morning was a shock. I was never expecting that. But the guilt I felt for not going running with you, the sick feeling I got when they wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital, and then the regret that overwhelmed me when I finally saw you and you were lying there in the hospital bed, it was all just too much. The last thing I wanted to do was explain who had done that to you. I knew all it would do was open an old wound and cause you more pain and you were hurt enough.”

My anger fades in the face of his loving confession. He was trying to protect me in the only way he knew how, and, after hearing about his father, I understand his actions so much better. He’s rubbing his palms over his jeans with his eyes focused on me. I have to let him know I get it, that I understand. So I scoot my chair as close to his as I can and taking his hand in mine, I kiss it, then place it over my heart. No words can express my feelings right now. My head drops as I think about the amount of love I have for this man. And for me to be so upset over him not telling me, when he thought it was the right thing to do, it doesn’t seem right anymore. I don’t want to argue with him or cause him pain so I have to let this go.

He lifts my chin. “Hey, I didn’t tell you that to make you sad. I just want you to understand it wasn’t a simple decision. It’s not like I consciously made a choice. I just felt in my heart that Grace was right. A couple of days for you to heal before telling you the news wouldn’t matter either way. So although I’m sorry you got upset, I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I did what I thought was best for you. I’ll always do what I think is best for you.”

A cool breeze rushes by and I shiver. I have to apologize, so I sit up and inhale a deep breath. But when I cross my arms and rub them with my hands, he immediately notices and walks over to get my sweatshirt that’s lying on the ground from last night. As he picks it up, the note from Ben falls out of the pocket. Immediately my heart starts pounding and I bolt out of the chair, trying to retrieve the paper before he reads it. But he’s too fast. He snatches it first and quickly scans it.

I search his eyes trying to get a glimpse of what’s going through his mind. “River, it’s not what you think.”

Anger flashes across his face and it doesn’t take me long to figure out what he’s thinking as his body goes instantly rigid. With a look of betrayal, he stands there, just feet from me on the pool deck with his hands fisting at his sides, not saying anything—just staring at the note.

Stepping closer to him, I reach for the piece of paper. “Let me explain. Ben . . .”

He cuts me off as suspicion washes over his face. His voice is harsh, almost commanding. “Yeah, I think you should explain why you have a love note from your ex-fiancé in your pocket. You told me you didn’t see him again. Did you lie to me?”

My jaw drops. I’ve never thought of Ben as my ex-fiancé and his words paralyze me for a moment. But as the silence becomes deafening and the tension turns unbearable, I finally manage to say, “No, I didn’t lie.”

Taking a step back, his green eyes alternate between looking at me and looking at the note he’s waving in the air. “Then how did you get this?”

Flinching at his accusation, I start trembling as nerves overtake me. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel guilty and it terrifies me. Not in a physical way, more in a he’s-done-with-this kind of way. With that thought, I inhale a deep breath and say, “When I left my house yesterday it was on the windshield of my car. I needed to leave a note for Serena so I tore off the bottom half and shoved the rest in my pocket. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He closes his eyes and I can see his body start to shake as well. When he opens them again they’re unfocused—looking everywhere but at me. “Let me get this straight. So not only did you spend the day at the house you shared with him, but he was there with you.”

His observation is so blatantly false I don’t falter in my response. “I told you he left it on my car. He never came in the house. I never saw him after I left Grace’s. Like I said, the note doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Fuck, Dahlia, how can you say it doesn’t mean anything? He wrote you a love note and you kept it in your pocket. That means something to me.”

I move forward. When I step into him and try to cup his cheeks, try to get him to look at me, he steps back. Crumbling the note in his hand, he shakes his head and tosses it into the pool. Without even looking at me, he walks over to where we were sitting, picks up a beer bottle and smashes it against the stairs. I watch it break into a million tiny pieces. The sound deafens me as he throws another and another.

I rush over to him and grab his arm. “River, stop it.”

He bats my arm away and continues until every bottle lies broken on the ground. Looking down I hope I’m not looking at a reflection of the despair I swear I see on his face . . . is his faith in me shattered? Touching him, talking to him, I need to figure out how to make him understand. Grabbing his arm with one hand, I clutch his face with the other. “River, please talk to me.”

Jerking his head back, he glares at my hand and then yells louder than I have ever heard him yell before. “Do you have any idea how it makes me feel to know that you’re still a part of his life? Dead was one thing, but now he’s alive.”

“He’s not in my life.”

He stops me with one look, clenching his jaw as he walks away. Near the railing, he stops and leans back, crossing his arms. Glaring at me he seethes in anger and spits out, “Do you have any idea how I felt when I woke up yesterday and you were gone? Do you?”

Tears sting my eyes. I don’t want to fight with him anymore. I just want all of this to go away and for us to go back to us, not these two angry people who don’t know how to calmly discuss their issues. Trying my best to remain calm I quietly start to explain, “River, I left you a note . . .”

But again he cuts me off. His eyes dart to mine as rage clearly defines every inch of his body. “You left me a fucking note that you were going to see the man you spent your whole life with. The man you left me for the first time we met. The man whose ghost I have had to compete with every day of our lives together.”