Fearsome (38 page)

“I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”

“What did he say after that?”

“Well after my diatribe about him and other women that I don’t want to repeat, he accused me of not trusting him. He’s right. I’m cynical and cold when it comes to talking about…”

“Love and commitment. Yeah, I dated enough guys who had the same problem.”

“You’re not making me feel better.”

“Why should I? Carson is the one getting his heart battered around.”

“It’s my heart, too. That’s why I’m crying.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Say it then.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re in love with him. What is with you? Do you think a bomb is going to go off if you say the three little words to him?”

“They’re not little words and I can’t be cavalier about it. That’s how people end up getting hurt.”

Lauren rises on her long legs and moves to sit on the armrest of the couch.

“Then decide how important it is to you. Is it worth having Carson in your life or would you be content without him? Stew on it. Get pickled and really miserable over him, or not.”

“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“I think you know what you want, but you’re afraid to go after it. You like to plan things out and your methodical approach has been very successful for you in school and work, but this is love. There’s no blueprint to follow. Carson is waiting for you to tell him you feel the same way as him. It’s not unreasonable.”

“It’s not easy.”

“Then don’t do it. Baby,” she accuses. “You tell me that you’ve been in love with Carson for months, but you can’t tell him?”

I’ve lost Lauren’s sympathy. She’s completely on Carson’s side at this point.

“Okay, I’m going to take your advice and stew,” I concede.

“Great. You’ll be known as the woman who single-handedly brought down the Blackard boys. Hope you’re happy.” She stalks out of the room.

Thirty-Eight

Dylan meets me at our usual booth at Bonnie’s. Imogene is our waitress and in between serving other customers, she sits down with us and chats about Dylan’s upcoming stay at the mental health facility in Massachusetts. Carson will be picking him up after lunch and driving him up there. My heart clenches when I think of Carson.

“This is what the place looks like,” Dylan says, sliding a brochure across the table. “Nice dorm rooms, right?”

I flip through the photos of the well-appointed grounds, amenities for patients and the images showing smiling concerned doctors as well as therapists in one-on-one and group sessions.

“It looks very nice, Dylan. Kind of like a retreat with spa services.”

“No shit. It comes with a hefty price tag, too.”

“It’s really that expensive? Does insurance cover it?”

“No. Affluent brothers cover it. At these prices, I better leave there feeling great.”

Dylan is his usual cute self. His hair is growing out and his athletic good looks haven’t suffered since the accident; in fact, he is probably more attractive since taking his anti-depressant and following a dedicated program he prescribed for himself of alcohol abstention and daily runs. He said Carson works out with him in the makeshift weight room in the back of the shop and then they go for a six-mile run before they start their day.

He explains that he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a teenager and how his classification has changed since then to bipolar II. When he describes the symptoms he’s tried to manage over the last ten years—extreme depressive episodes, decreased need for sleep, talkativeness and excessive participation in risky behaviors—I think of his past experience with his dangerous motorcycle racing and all the wild partying he did in college. Yet it’s the last symptom he tells me about, hyper-sexuality, that triggers remorse in me.

Dylan is kind and never discusses our past sexual relationship. We have built a stronger friendship over the last few months and I’m pleasantly surprised since I’ve never maintained a friendship with any of the men I dated; I use that term loosely. Dylan is like the sibling I never had and, despite our crazed few weeks of dating and sex, that period seems like events that happened in a different lifetime with a different person.

Dylan talks openly about his disorder as if the accident has freed him from a lifetime of secret shame, his illness, and his father’s suicide. I am happy for him and reach my hand across the table to hold his hand that is fidgeting with a fork.

“Dylan, this is so wonderful. I’m happy you’re going to one of the best places for treatment and that you’re so enthusiastic about it.”

“Don’t get too excited. My enthusiasm could be one of the symptoms of the disorder.
Grandiosity
,” he says, rolling his eyes.

We laugh over that and eat our burgers and fries, which he refers to as his last meal before imprisonment. Of course, the treatment center has a gourmet chef in residence since they cater to wealthy people and celebrities because, if you’re going to suffer from depression, there’s no reason your refined palette should suffer, too.

“Can I ask you something?”

Dylan swallows his last bite of food and gives me a questioning look. “What haven’t you asked me, or better yet, what I haven’t I told you?”

“It’s not about you. It’s about Carson. It’s personal and you’ve never mentioned it and neither has he, so this is kind of awkward.”

“Ah,” Dylan says, putting his napkin on the table. “Shoot.”

“Carson is adopted. Is that true?”

“Yes. My parents didn’t think they could have kids. My mom and dad took in Carson as a foster child and then they adopted him. I was a surprise baby.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Is there a problem?” Dylan is concerned and, considering his big heart, perhaps it’s for both Carson and me.

“A while back, Carson referred to his family as having the genetic component, a predisposition to depression. But if he isn’t your biological brother, I’m wondering why he felt the need to say that to me. Why didn’t he tell me that he was adopted?” A sudden chill makes me shudder, so I pull the long sleeves of my heavy black sweater down over my hands and clasp them on the table.

“Carson never refers to himself as the adopted son. It doesn’t matter that we’re not related by blood, there are no brothers closer to each other than us. I think he decided a long time ago that whatever happened to him before the age of three is irrelevant and his real family was my parents and me. Loyalty is one of Carson’s strong suits. He never forgets and he takes care of his own.”

“Does he remember his biological family?”

“Nothing good. He was only three when the state removed him from his home. He remembers the trauma, the violence, the yelling and his fear. He told me about it when we were kids and I was old enough to understand. I brought it up and asked a lot of questions, but this isn’t something he talks about. I doubt he’s talked about it in over a decade unless he’s seeing a shrink that I don’t know about. Why are you asking?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that he’s never mentioned this to me in all these months I’ve known him?”

“You mean because you two have hooked up a few times?” Dylan says this as if hooking up for me is as trivial as sharing a cab.

I clamp my mouth shut in surprise and the heat in my face rises.

Dylan smiles. “Sorry. Did I embarrass you?”

“A little. How did you know?”

“About you and Carson?” He scoffs. “No one knows my brother like I do. He has had a thing for you forever. The day of the accident, I assumed you were stopping by his house. But by the look of your face now, I’m guessing you got more than a tour.”

I look down at my hands. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“I can handle it,” Dylan says softly. “It’s not my favorite topic, but I’m not going to slit my wrists over this.”

“Don’t make jokes like that. Please,” I say quietly, hoping other customers can’t hear us.

“Fine. Well, I also know of another time when Carson came into work, really worked up, muttering about you. This was after you visited the workshop and he gave you a ride home. You’re pretty irresistible, so I kind of put two and two together,” he says with a little smirk. “And then I heard about the party and you spending the night. So, there’s that.”

“I guess everyone knows.”

“Pretty much. It’s good I’ll be gone for a couple of months or so. You two can figure out what you’re doing without me being in the way, if that’s what’s making you uncomfortable.”

“Why are you so supportive of this after what you and I went through?”

“Because I love my brother and he deserves to be happy for a change. He’s always taking care of other people; me, his employees, his friends. If he wants to be with you, I hope it happens.”

“I don’t understand the secrets. Why wouldn’t he tell me about his past?”

“Maybe he doesn’t think what happened to him before coming to our family matters anymore. If he had a criminal record, then I’d say yeah, he should be upfront about it. But Carson does whatever he thinks is best to protect other people. It’s rarely about him.”

But that isn’t true,
I think. Protecting other people is what makes Carson feel stronger and in control. It is about him, but I really can’t hold his intentions against him. It’s one more damn thing I have to admire about Carson. Someone should smack me for being so tough on him.

My silence annoys Dylan enough that he feels he must intervene on Carson’s behalf. “Carson is in love with you,” he spits out with a tinge of anger. “Okay, maybe I’m full of shit and act like I’m okay with all of this, but the truth is, I’m jealous of my brother. Always have been. But he deserves to be with someone who is good to him and honestly cares about him. He is a better man than me. If you could start something with me, then what is holding you back from Carson? He’s better than me in every way. I’ve been a handful for Carson since we were kids; I did bad things out of spite because I was jealous of him. He never cut me off, though. He kept pushing his way into my life to help me. He’s never let me drown in my own mistakes. Never. Is that what this is about? How you feel about Carson?”

I sigh nervously.

“That wasn’t fair of me,” Dylan says and then rubs his chin, the gesture I assumed was a genetic trait, but now I realize it must have been a characteristic of Carson’s that Dylan emulated after observing his big brother do it so many times.

“There are parts of Carson that make me question how I feel about him. This little secret doesn’t help.”

“Shit, women love him; think he’s some unattainable gift. He is unattainable because he’s been in love with you for years.” Dylan shakes his head in disbelief.

“Years? You mean months or weeks maybe.”

“Years,” Dylan says emphatically. “How do you think Gin kept up on you? Who got her the photos of you?”

“Carson told me about the private detective she hired to track me down and he took photos of me at different times in my life.” My seriousness is drowned out by Dylan’s boisterous laugh.

“Holy crap! Is that what my brother told you? A detective?” He keeps laughing.

“What is so funny?”

Dylan wipes the tears from his eyes with a napkin. He has a big grin on his face. “There was no private detective. The year you graduated high school from the posh private school you went to, Carson was in the city working on his first contacts for distributing and selling the furniture. He swung by the school on the day of your graduation and took the photos of you outside of the school talking to your parents and friends. When you were at Columbia, he walked right into the big lecture halls and got photos of you sitting and taking notes. It was easy. Carson had his own school ID. He was accepted and took classes part-time. He wanted to study engineering, but he never finished because he had to deal with yours truly.”

By this time, my mouth is hanging open in a stupor. I can’t believe this is the same Carson. “Go on,” I say, dying to hear the rest of the whole cockamamie scheme.

“Carson got a lot of photos of you for Aunt Gin. He kind of prided himself on being so inconspicuous, but then you wouldn’t have recognized him as an adult. Gin was thrilled to keep up with you.”

“It is so weird.”

“Weird?” Dylan asks annoyed. “How about impressive? Carson didn’t start out falling for you. He was doing this as a favor to Gin, but then something happened and I could tell he was very interested in you.”

“Well, he wasn’t charged with stalking because I didn’t know what was going on. So what happened?”

“You became a woman,” Dylan says in all seriousness.

I lean back in the booth, my skepticism faltering as I listen to Dylan.

“You left for M.I.T.; two years and two Master’s while Carson kind of watched over you.”

“Carson went to Cambridge to follow me?”

“No, by that time he had clients there selling his furniture. Instead of sending me, he went on store visits. He would spend a few days there seeing clients and attending some interesting consortiums in math and computer science.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Yeah? How many guys would sit through a two-hour lecture on algorithms or math and computer jargon so he could hear you speak? Carson, that’s who.”

“That’s amazingly insane,” I say but inwardly, I am glowing with joy that Carson saw that confident intelligent side of me when I was a graduate student.

“He loved bringing back information to Ginnie. I could see it in how he acted, he was excited to do this for Gin and even more excited to show us the photos. That’s when I knew my brother was falling for you in an epic sort of way and a part of me always wants what my brother wants.

“We knew when your bus was arriving last June. What Carson didn’t know is that his brother had a plan to usurp him. Carson thought he’d catch up with you at Gin’s house when Archie took you there. He didn’t know that I planned on being there front and center, your escort to the house, your date, your boyfriend. He didn’t have a chance, unless of course you were repulsed by me.”

I scoff. “You were diabolical.”