He twists his hands on the wheel. “I can’t decide whether you’re a masochist or if your grand plan for revenge is to make me as uncomfortable as possible.”
“Neither. I just—” What is it that I want to hear? “You had a life before we met each other. You had relationships and encounters with other women, and I’m not naïve enough to believe that none of those experiences ever changed you. I want to know you better. I want to know how you became the man you are.”
“And what kind of man is that?”
“It’s your turn to answer a question, not mine.”
He’s still looking at the road, but I watch the side of his face as he considers his answer. He works his jaw as he thinks.
“There were some,” he says after a moment, “who meant more than others. A couple I stayed with for some time. One who I considered marrying.”
“You almost got married?”
“I thought about proposing. I was young and infatuated and she seemed to expect it.”
“Who was she?”
He shoots me another look out of the corner of his eye, probably trying to gauge my reaction to everything he’s telling me.
“She was a model. French. Her name was Chloé.”
“What happened?”
“It was a slow unraveling. She was busy with her career, and I was busy with my friends and their parties and all that stupid shit. We grew apart.” He taps his fingers on the wheel again. “She contacted me after my father died. She’s married now—happily, I believe—but she took the time to send me her condolences.”
“Do you miss her?”
He looks at me. “I don’t regret breaking it off, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What, no ‘one who got away’ in your past somewhere?” I say. I don’t want to admit that hearing him talk about her makes my stomach clench. It’s my own fault for asking the damn question. Maybe he’s right—maybe I am a masochist.
“When did this become an interrogation?” he says. “You were only supposed to get one question.”
I shrug. “It’s not my fault you lost count.”
He’s silent for a long moment. an amazing time tonight somethingpa
“Here’s the deal,” he says finally. “I’m willing to go one-to-one. You can keep going, but for every question you ask me, I get to ask one of you, too.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I get to go next, of course. Considering you just got half a dozen answers out of me.”
“Fine,” I say, though I’m beginning to wonder if putting myself at the mercy of his curiosity is a good idea.
“You mentioned Garrett,” he says. “Tell me, how did all of that begin?”
Yeah, regretting this already. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll admit that my limited contact with the guy has left me less than impressed. But you say that you loved him once, which I’m assuming means he wasn’t always like that.” He looks over at me. “Please tell me he wasn’t always like that.”
“No, he wasn’t.” I wish I could read Calder’s expression. Does he really want to hear this? Calling himself “less than impressed” is a bit of an understatement. Even now, I notice the way his shoulders have stiffened as if he’s getting ready to face off against some invisible opponent.
But he doesn’t say anything, which means he’s waiting for me to go on.
“He volunteered at the Center,” I hear myself saying. “He was brilliant at getting donations. I guess you can say he found my weakness.”
Calder still doesn’t say anything, so I go on.
“He was smart. Driven. He was really good at his job.” Good enough that he learned about the Cunningham’s financial difficulties before most of the rest of the world. He’s not the sort to run around chasing people with the paparazzi—no, he’s smarter, sneakier than that.
“You loved him because he was good at his job?” Calder asks.
“He was very sweet to me,” I say quickly. I don’t know why the site where Garrett contributes wsh I feel like I need to defend those old, stupid feelings, but I do. “And gentlemanly. He completely charmed my dad. He brought me flowers, left little love notes on my desk on the evenings he volunteered. Everything a perfect boyfriend should do.”
I look back over at Calder. He appears to be completely focused on the road, but I know he’s hanging on to my every word.
“When did things change?” he asks me finally.
I know it’s my turn to ask Calder a question at this point, but now that I’ve started talking, I find that I don’t want to stop. I’ve never really discussed my relationship with Garrett before. With anyone.
“I don’t know, exactly,” I say. “It was really subtle at first. He’d make some offhand comment about my clothes or my hair. I don’t even think he realized what he was doing, not at the beginning. But he was the first guy I ever really loved, you know? And his opinion meant everything to me.” I twist my hair between my fingers. “If he said he didn’t like the way I did my makeup, I changed it. If he complained about the music I listened to, I switched over to the radio stations he liked. I don’t know when he realized how much influence he had over me. As our relationship went on, he started to pull back, and that only made me more desperate to please him. And then one day I caught him with someone else.”
I don’t look at Calder this time. I stare out the window, at the trees and the billboards. This shouldn’t be making me emotional, not now. I’ve long since gotten over my feelings for Garrett. But it’s hard to forgive my past self for being so pitiful.
“I don’t blame him,” I say. “At least, I’m not surprised things ended the way they did. I was a doormat, and things were over between the two of us the minute he realized that. He might have enjoyed it for a while, but how can you respect the person you’re dating when you realize that they’ll let you walk all over them? After we broke up, I promised myself I’d never let that happen again.” I let out a bitter laugh. “The funny thing is, the minute Garrett realized I was fine—better—without him, he wanted me back. But you know that part of the story.”
I still don’t turn toward Calder. I don’t want him to see the tears in my eyes.
But God, I wish he’d say something.