Page 78 of Fault Lines
My chest clamped up. “Thanks, Rachel. You’re a good friend.”
“I’m sorry, Livi. I never want to hurt you, but you deserve the truth.”
I stared down at my clenched fist, not sure if I was more angry or hollowed out. Or if it even mattered at all.
“I am grateful you told me. I’m done living this lie.”
“Are you going to leave him?”
A long silence, the words tangling up in my throat. “I don’t know,” I said, and this time it was the truth. “But I do know one thing: if he doesn’t care about the rules, why should I? Why stand around being the good wife for someone who only wants me when it suits him?” It felt like something new and strange cracking through my chest. “If he’s playing, so can I. He doesn’t get to own me and then just… do whatever he wants. I’m finished playing by his rules. From now on, it’s my game.”
There was a pause, then Rachel’s voice, warm and sure: “That’s my girl.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The moment Nate turned onto a street I’d only seen in passing, I realized he wasn’t taking me home after all.
“Where are you going?” I asked, tension curling in my chest. “This isn’t the way home.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’m not taking you home,” he said, as if the decision were as simple as flipping on a light switch. “You’re coming to my place. You’ll stay with me tonight.”
I shrank a little into the seat, knowing what I’d said to Rachel—and knowing he’d heard every word—but not wanting to assume the worst.
“It’s not about that,” Nate said, as if reading my mind. “I don’t expect anything from you. You just…” He let out a long sigh, his voice trailing off. “You’re not okay, Livi. I don’t want you alone in that big house tonight. I’d worry about you and probably not sleep at all. You deserve to have someone around. A friend. Especially since Rachel’s not here.”
I found my voice, small and fragile. “Okay. I’ll stay. Thank you.”
He nodded, then pulled smoothly into his parking garage. The sound of the chirping car lock echoed around us as we made our way toward the elevator.
Inside his apartment, I shrugged off my coat at the door.
“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” I pointed out.
Nate took my coat and hung it neatly in a closet, the casual set of his shoulders suggesting this was all routine. “Get comfortable, Livi. I’ll go find something for you.” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared down the hallway.
Feeling suddenly parched from crying in the car, I headed for the kitchen. The fridge held a few beers and orange juice, but orange juice in the middle of the night would only leave me regretting my choices. Water would be best. But when I opened the freezer for ice, a bottle of chilled vodka caught my eye, glimmering with possibility.
Why not?
I filled two glasses with ice, giving myself a generous pour before carrying the glasses to the kitchen table. The first burn down my throat was brutal, but the warmth that followed was worth it. I poured a second and began to sip, the numbness settling in.
When Nate came back, he raised an eyebrow at the glass I’d left out for him. "Thanks." He set a stack of folded clothes next to my arm. “These might be roomy, but they’ll get you through the night. I’ll wash your clothes so they’re clean tomorrow.”
I offered a watery smile. “You’re so good to me.”
He sat down, wrapping his hand gently around the drink. “You deserve it, Livi. You deserve a lot better than what he’s giving you.”
I brushed away a tear before it could fall. I didn’t want to break down again—not here, not now.
“He’s not a bad guy,” I said, though the words sounded hollow. Why was I still defending him? Maybe because I couldn’t stop picturing him with her, maybe even at this very moment. Maybe I thought I had to, just for me. Just to stay sane.
Nate’s hand covered mine, steady and warm. “I can’t stand the guy, but I feel like I should say this anyway. Grief, it does weird things to people. I loved my mother. She was… she waseverything to me. But my father? Everything she did infuriated him. The tiniest thing could set him off.”
“You mean—he hit her?” The question came out, barely a whisper.
He nodded. “Beat her, more like. Hospital trip after hospital trip. He was a drinker. Heavy. Everybody knew, nobody did anything. My father was a preacher, a so-called man of God.” Nate let out a dry laugh. “He’d stand up every Sunday, telling people to cherish their wives, quoting scripture, making it sound holy. And the whole time, they knew that after church, he’d go home and break her face with his fists. Kick her while she was down. Shatter her jaw.”
His eyes were dark, haunted by memories I couldn’t begin to fathom.
