He continued. "I can be manipulative, and I know I've done some things you don't agree with, things you don't understand. Things that sorry does not, and will not, cover. I know that at times your faith in me has been lost."
For some reason one tiny, hapless sob escaped me at his last sentence, and he paused for a moment, comforting me, before he continued. "But search your heart, angel, and tell me, and yourself, if you believe that any of my actions, no matter how messed up, or misguided, no matter how unforgivable they may have been . . . Ask yourself, do you truly believe that any of the things I did weren't for you? We can disagree on my methods, but do you have any doubts that what I did, I did to protect you?"
I didn't answer, just let him rock me, and stroke me, wipe my tears, and comfort me. All the while, I was doing as he said, searching through my ravaged heart.
"Find the answer to that question, and you'll find your faith again."
I'd had my eyes closed for a long time, but when I opened them, I found him doing something that helped me to see the truth.
He was rubbing the chain around his neck, rolling the key and rings between his fingers—Gram's ring had been added—over and over, like it was a very old habit. For the first time in years, I let my hand cover his, let the pad of my index finger trace over the objects, let it linger on them, remembering them.
His shoulder jerked as he shook off a shudder. "You get it. I know you do."
"You never took them off. Even at the worst of it, you kept them on as reminders."
"Touchstones, yes. They help to calm me. And they help me remember what we are. What we're supposed to be. That no matter what, we'll find our way back to each other."
I was crying, but so was he. "No matter what," I agreed quietly.
I'd been so blinded by my own hurt and fear for so long where he was concerned, but when I let go of my doubt, my pain, my insecurity, I really did know him.
His soul was mine and always had been. I couldn't deny that if I tried now that the truth was out.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."
~Emily Brontë
PAST
SCARLETT
Hollywood parties were the worst. I hated them, had relegated them to one of the more miserable parts of networking in tinsel town. A necessary evil that had to be borne with a big fake smile and plenty of liquor.
This one was being thrown in one of the trendy new clubs in Hollywood. It was a big space, surprisingly well-lit for a den of iniquity, and it was full to the brim with people I needed to meet.
I was still taking it all in, scoping out the best place to mingle/network. My bored eyes swept across the room for maybe the third time as I tried decide where I wanted to spend my energy and charm, when they landed on a pair of cold eyes that I had not expected to see again.
Eyes that were more familiar even than my own.
I froze, drink halfway to my parted lips.
No. Oh no, please. Not now. I haven't had a moment to pull myself together. It's not fair. He's not allowed to see me first, to catch my initial reaction.
Because it would surely be the most telling.
I blinked, recovered, then took a long drink.
It had been well over a year since I'd seen him, and the things that had occurred since our last parting and now . . . I couldn't even stand to glance at him across a crowded room.
But some part of me, the lovesick, pathetic part that I'd have cut out of myself if it were possible, rejoiced at the sight of him.
And the way he looked then, it was something to behold.
There was a woman clinging to him, a beautiful black-haired woman, and as I studied her, I realized it was an actress. No one terribly famous, more of an up and comer who was talked about often in the industry of late. Her name was dropped in a lot of gossip rags for potential roles, but nothing she'd done had panned out in a big way yet.
Still, she was certainly more famous than I was. No contest. And he'd come here with her. It was clearly the most hurtful scenario he could dream up.
Well, close to. Tiffany would have been the most hurtful, obviously.
Always.
The actress was, of course, young and lovely, wearing a clingy, red Versace dress I could remember ogling in this month's Italian Vogue. She was fashionable and beautiful and would likely be the next 'it' girl, and Dante barely seemed to notice that one of her perky little tits was trying to permanently meld itself into his bicep.
Of course the too good-looking for his own good Durant heir could have any woman he set his sights on. I'd never had any doubts about that.
His eyes were on me, his body stiff, his fists clenched as he watched me like we were the only two people in the room, and just the sight of me had stopped him in his tracks.
I smiled. Maybe there was some fun yet to be had in this misery trip down our fucked up memory lane.
I could do this. I could suffer through this pain if it was for the sake of making him suffer with me.
Ah, love. Isn't it grand?
I finished my drink and tore my eyes from his, seeking my date for the night.
Justin was a screenwriter who had developed a pretty devoted crush on me when I'd first moved to town. He got me into all of the parties I hated to attend but could never say no to. In exchange I'd been stringing him along rather relentlessly.