Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (23 page)

“Good to know … but … but what’s he keeping from me?” I plead, while Rory fills my glass again. “Why can’t anyone tell me for God’s sake?”

“I told you. It’s not my story to tell. All you’re gonna get out of me is that he’s worth the fight. Fuck, if I were gay, I’d be all set with Dre. Wouldn’t look any further,” Rory states confidently. “Dre’s the real deal. You’d be a fool to not go ‘balls to the wall’ to get him to wise up.”

“But how? I can’t even find him!” I exclaim.

“Finish another glass, relax a bit, let the wine do its trick,” Rory soothes, standing up, straightening his vest. “Think it over. If you’re sure you want the truth and you don’t think that you’ll go hightailing it out of town once you get it, then head over to Isle of Palms … check the beach.” Rory leans over, kisses my cheek, and says, “He loves you, and I can see it in your eyes that you love him too. Isle of Palms.”

I didn’t finish the wine. I didn’t mull anything over. Currently, I’m driving over the causeway to the island. I have to see him. I need to see him. The time I’ve spent without him has been unbearable, tortuous; I don’t want to be without him. Whatever he’s hiding, whatever it is, I think we should go through it together—he should let me go through it with him.

As I’m getting closer to the beach, I spot him immediately. He’s walking out of one of the touristy beach shops, heading toward the beach. My first instinct is to honk and let him know I’m in Warren’s pickup truck. But then my inquisitive, angry side kicks in, and I decide to let the anonymity of the truck keep me disguised. I want to know where he’s going, who he’s with, what he’s hiding. Dre might still refuse to tell me even after I confront him. If I could just see and watch what he does, where he goes, then he wouldn’t be able to lie to me or hide anything from me anymore. It can be all out in the open for us to deal with—together.

Dre turns down the street with the enormous beach houses, the ones that Sydney and I salivate over when we’re “driving around” and fantasizing about our futures. Hollywood loves these beach houses for coastal Carolina movies. They’re houses that normal people couldn’t afford.

My curiosity is piqued when Dre stops at one of the mailboxes and gets the mail out. The tan-Lab-looking dog in the yard greets him, happily, as Dre pets him and roughhouses with him a bit. My stomach suddenly feels like it’s going to come out of my mouth. Why is he here? Whose dog is that? My attention is averted when a gorgeous brunette, resembling a Hispanic goddess, appears on the front porch.

“You’re back late tonight, Dre,” she yells, walking to the edge of the steps.

“Just getting some stuff done,” he replies, loudly, walking toward her. As Dre gets closer to her, I can no longer make out what they’re saying. They’re too far from me, and I can’t pull closer to hear without being discovered. I watch as they have an amicable and intimate exchange. My stomach lurches when the brown-haired beauty runs her hand up and down his arm. She nods, and he starts walking to the back of the house.

I can’t breathe. Who is that woman? Why is he giving her the mail? Why is she smiling at him like that? And why? Why is she touching him and looking at him so … so … lovingly?

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to puke right here in Warren’s pride and joy truck. When I told Rory what my deal-breakers were, I never thought to include a wife or girlfriend. I never thought in a million years—never even considered it. Nobody in the entire town talks of Dre having a … a … whatever the heck she is. This is it; this is what he’s been hiding. Dre Donley couldn’t get serious with me, because he’s with someone else. How could he?

I’ll tell you how he could. I made it too easy for him. I never demanded answers. I never asked Dre anything, never pried into his life. The clues were there. He walked everywhere. Sneaky bastard, his car wouldn’t be spotted around town if he stayed on foot. We only fooled around at my house, at the hotel, and in the freaking weeds.

Dre never gave me his number, never called me, or texted me, all because he didn’t want to get caught. Lying and saying he didn’t have a phone was pathetic, completely cowardice and ridiculous. How could I be so dumb, so naïve? I’m smarter than this. It was so obvious, but I refused to see the writing on the wall. Everything adds up now. Oh my God, I’m a mistress, the “other woman.” I throw the car in reverse ready to hightail it back to my apartment and to leave Dre Donley in the dust of an afterthought, the bastard.

Suddenly, I slam on the brakes. No way. No way is he getting off the hook this easily. I’m not going to let him get away with treating me like this. I didn’t do one thing to deserve this sort of betrayal. Dre Donley screwed with the wrong woman. I pull right into the drive, not caring if the woman accosts me. Let her find out that her boyfriend, fiancée, husband, or whatever the crap he is, that he’s a cheating, lying snake.

Thankfully, I get out and walk around to the back toward the beach without that woman confronting me. I really didn’t want that confrontation right now, despite my raging anger. I’ll deal with all that later if I have to. Right now, Dre’s number one on my hit list. I don’t see Dre around their pool or deck area. I climb up the steps to the walkway down to the beach. The big dog is just sitting by the pool, watching me. Some guard dog. I walk down the steps, looking for Dre.

At first, I don’t spot him. Then I see his silhouette a ways up the beach already, heading for the dunes. I run to catch up to him, wondering why I’m even bothering to chase after him again. Dre stops, looks at the sky, and then out at the ocean. I’m grateful that he stops, needing a break from running on the uneven sand. I stop to catch my breath, watching him closely. He’s still staring at the water. Then, Dre turns around slowly and walks into the grassy part of the dunes. Dre must have a thing for those stupid weeds. Stupid stupid weeds.

I walk slower, knowing that I have time now to reach him. As I approach the dunes, I notice a small tent behind the dunes. It’s not a camping tent, more like a tarp hung over some large sticks wedged into the sand. It’s a shoddy, makeshift tent, resembling what people would construct if they were stranded on a deserted island.

Holy crap! It’s a fort, a fort that a father would make with his kids. I know I’m going to hurl, right here, right now. What have I done? “I’ve gotta get out of here,” I say, not realizing I’ve spoken audibly.

The flap on the tent opens and Dre comes out, staring at me. “Kathryn, what—what’re you doing here?”

“I gotta go,” I turn, starting to bolt.

Dre grabs my arm before I can leave, “I knew it would be too much for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“Couldn’t tell me? Are you kidding? You
chose
not to tell me,” I yell, tears filling my eyes. “You knew I wouldn’t come near you if I knew you had a wife … and … and kids,” I scream, pointing to the fort. “Does she know, Dre? Does she know you’ve been … been … with me?”

Dre’s eyeing me carefully, as his face falls. “Kathryn, I don’t think you understand,” he says, shaking his head. “I would … that’s not …” He trails off, shaking his head. Dre runs his hands through his hair and sighs deeply.

“I’m not married. I don’t have kids. I’d never do that … to you … to anyone.”

“Right. Like I’d believe anything you say anymore,” I snap, walking away. Suddenly, Dre grabs me around the waist and picks me up, carrying me toward his adorable little fort.

I kick and scream. “Put me down Dre, so help me … I swear to God—”

“Just listen, please,” Dre pleads, pulling back the flap and putting me down in the tent. I try to break through, but he holds me back. “Stop. Listen to me. This … this is what I couldn’t tell you,” he states, motioning toward the tent.

“What? That you and your kids built a beach fort? Congratulations!” I grumble sarcastically, looking around, really noticing it for the first time. It’s more than a tent, more than a beachside fort.

Dre’s tent has bags of clothes, boxes of necessities from Rory’s hotel, and piles of blankets.
Cider House Rules
is sitting on one of the boxes, opened, and face down, holding a spot in place. I glance at Dre. His shoulders are slumped, eyes staring at the sand.

“Dre, what is this place?” I ask, eyeing him carefully.

I watch as his eyes dart around, looking everywhere but at me. His lips form a pained smile, and he says, “Home.”

“What? I don’t get it. You’re … you’re—”

“Homeless.”

I wait for it. It doesn’t come. I wait longer; it still doesn’t come. It’s shocking really. I remember being terrified to tell my parents that I didn’t want to go into the family business—in no way, shape, or form was I taking the business path in life. My parents fucking blew gaskets, screaming until they were blue in the face. I’d never heard the words “disappointment” and “disgrace” more in my entire life. My mother sobbed; my father basically disowned me, saying medicine was “for pussies.” When I first told them, the look of total repulsion covered their faces. They’ve never accepted my choices, supported me in any of my endeavors. I walked across Brown’s stage to receive my degree without anyone in the audience beaming with pride as I shook hands and was handed my diploma.

I’m waiting for disgust to overpower Kathryn’s soft, beautiful, breath-capturing features. I’m waiting. All I see is confusion and curiosity. She’s staring at me like one would gaze at a stray puppy or a bird with a broken wing, a look that clearly portrays her pity and sorrow. I don’t want pity, sympathy, or sorrow. I don’t want help or charity. I just want … want … her.

“Just go Kathryn,” I say, sitting down on the bedroll that Rory insisted I have. Ever since I got to Charleston, twelve months ago, Rory’s been trying to get me to stay with him, “bunk in swank,” but that’s not what I want. He and Lanette tried to get me to come work with them, make some money, and save a bit. But again, that’s not what I’m looking for. What I’m looking for is answers, solutions, but mainly, I’m just looking for myself.

Kathryn turns and walks out, leaving me alone in the tent, in my world of fucked up Hell. I can hear her walking through the sand. Then, I hear the “Aggghhh” as she storms back.

Ducking her head back in she asks, “Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? Do you really not want me that much?” Coming through the opening she adds, “I thought we were really connecting. All you do is walk away and never—never once have you come back. And you’ve never come after me.”

Holy fuck, she’s right. Kathryn Howell is fucking right. For the first time, I can see this from her angle, her point of view. I keep running for the door, but she keeps closing it, keeping me in, holding me close. I thought all along that I was protecting her, but in reality, I’ve been hurting her, making her think that it was me who didn’t want her. I’ve wanted her all along; I was terrified of her knowing the truth and not wanting me, which I couldn’t bear.

“Kathryn,” I say, standing up, going to her. “My God, you’re right, you are so right.” I take her hands in mine. “I fucked up. I’ve been fucking up for a long time now. I’m so sorry—so completely sorry,” I explain. I stare into her beautiful eyes.

“Look at this. Look at me. I’m just so fucking ashamed. How could I ask you to accept this?” Kathryn’s eyes pool with tears. “I’ve been so caught up in how much it was going to hurt, break my heart to hear that you couldn’t accept this … accept me … that I kept pushing you away, never believing that this … that we … could work.”