Safe With Me Part 7

Emily shrugged, and Hannah couldn't help but feel her daughter's longing for a father was an indication that the life Hannah had built for them wasn't enough-that she was failing Emily in the most fundamental way. Emily was twelve before she finally understood the logistical circ.u.mstances surrounding her conception, and she was not happy about them.

"So my dad is just some random guy you picked out of a book?" she asked, disgusted.

"He wasn't random," Hannah explained. "I picked someone very healthy and smart."

"It's totally creepy," Emily said with a dramatic shudder. "Do you tell the guys you go on dates with how you had me?"

"Some of them, yes." It wasn't something that Hannah offered up front, but if a man asked, she told him the truth.

"Maybe you shouldn't," Emily concluded, and every time Hannah went on a date after that, her daughter would inquire if she thought he might be "the one." Hannah hated to disappoint her, but the truth was she didn't believe in soul mates, that there was one perfect person for her in the world. She thought of relations.h.i.+ps as many possible paths she could walk down, but so far, she hadn't found one she wanted to travel.

She had thought she found it with Devin. The first day she saw him sitting alone at a table at the coffeehouse she used to frequent before work, she was struck by his rugged good looks. He had short brown hair, eyes almost the exact shade of copper pennies, and wore jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt amid a sea of men in well-cut suits. He caught her staring at him and his lips curved into a slow, languid smile. Not wanting to gawk, she averted her eyes as quickly as she could, but she couldn't deny the attraction she felt. After she paid for her drink, she was about to go talk with him, but he beat her to it; before she realized he had left his table, he was standing next to her. He was tall and thin, but muscular, too. As he rested an arm on the counter, she could see one of his exposed triceps working beneath his skin and she had to restrain herself from reaching out to caress its contour.

"Do you need any furniture?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Well, that has to be the strangest pickup line I've ever heard," she said, wrapping her hands around her travel mug.

He smiled and tilted his head at her. "Am I trying to pick you up?"

Hannah's chest flushed with heat, but still, she looked him straight in the eye. "I hope so," she said, grateful that he laughed, too.

They sat down together and drank their coffee, making small talk and stealing l.u.s.t-laden glances at each other. Their attraction was immediate and visceral, something she felt like she couldn't deny. It turned out that Devin designed and built beautiful custom furniture for a living. He had just opened a small studio with a storefront a few blocks from the salon, so he invited her to come see it that night. Normally, she'd play a little bit hard to get, but something about Devin made her say yes right away.

When she arrived at his studio, it was illuminated by candlelight, and her first impression was that he was laying the romance on too thick for a first date. But then, as he began to show her the pieces he'd built, he explained how the candlelight brought out the truest beauty of the wood, the wisps of texture and changes of color in each. She ran her fingers along a burled walnut end table, marveling at the pattern of the grain.

"Mesmerizing, isn't it?" Devin said, standing so close to her she could feel the heat coming off his body.

"Completely," she said and turned to face him. He kissed her and led her to the bed he kept in the back room. Their lovemaking was beautiful and slow; Devin coaxed pleasure out of her body the same way she imagined he created art out of wood. His skin held an intoxicating scent of sandalwood and sap-she breathed him in like he was her new oxygen. Hours later, sated beyond anything she'd ever experienced, she felt sure she'd found her match.

Within a couple of months, they were engaged. Devin moved into her apartment, and for a while, everything was better than Hannah could have imagined. She introduced him to Sophie and Isaac, and then took him back to the farm to meet her parents. Everyone agreed he was the right fit for her. They talked about the babies they would have, the house they would build together just outside the city. They occasionally argued about money, but Hannah a.s.sumed this was a normal part of being in a long-term relations.h.i.+p.

After about a year together, though, Devin began staying nights at the studio again. "I work better at night," he told her. "I like the quiet and the dark."

She tried to be understanding, but she had a hard time with the distance he suddenly put between them. Then one evening, at an opening they hosted at the studio for his new line, Hannah saw him in the corner leaning a little too close to an obviously younger, twentysomething girl in a red dress. She giggled when he whispered in her ear, and Hannah felt sick.

"It was nothing!" he said later when she confronted him. "She's interested in marketing the line for me, so I was just being friendly."

"It looked way more than friendly," Hannah said, trying not to cry. She loved him so much she tried to overlook that one moment, what she hoped was a simple misjudgment of his behavior. But then as time went on, even when he was with her, he was constantly checking his phone, telling her over and over again it was business related. But the look on his face as he read whatever was on the screen was one of pure l.u.s.t. She recognized instantly because it was the way he'd stopped looking at her.

Her suspicions ate away at her thoughts, so much so that one night when he was in the shower, she opened his laptop, which he'd left on the coffee table. His email was still up on the screen, and as she clicked on one message after another, reading the notes from a woman named Nadia about the recent nights she'd spent with Devin at his studio, she felt increasingly ill.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" Devin demanded a few minutes later as he stood in the threshold between the hallway and the living room. He had a white towel wrapped around his thin waist and his hair was still wet.

She looked over to him, her eyes gla.s.sy with tears. She pointed at the screen, her entire body shaking. "How long have you been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on me?"

"I'm not," he said, though his shoulders curled forward, as though a weight had suddenly been set upon them.

"Please don't lie to me." She swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat. "Please. I asked you how long."

"I don't know," he said, clearly deflated. "A while. I think I have a problem, Hannah. I think I need help."

She stood up, clenching her fists at her sides. "I think you're right," she said. "And you're not going to get it from me. Get the h.e.l.l out."

It took almost a year after Devin left for Hannah to work through the shock she felt over his betrayal. Only then did she start focusing on what it was she really wanted in her life, and it turned out what she wanted was Emily.

Now, fourteen years later, Hannah sighs, defeated by Sophie's logic. Emily would want Hannah to be happy. She would want her mother to move on, so Hannah allows her friend to drag her into the bathroom.

Sophie puts her finger under Hannah's chin and lifts it, examining her face. "Have you been exfoliating? Your skin is positively gray."

"It hasn't exactly been high on my list of priorities. I'm a little busy running the salon."

"Pfft!" Sophie dismisses Hannah's excuse with a wave of her hand. She grabs a bottle of astringent off the counter and douses a cotton ball before cleaning off Hannah's face. As she carefully swipes on a mineral base, Sophie chatters about business. "I can't believe how many new clients I have time for now," she says. Part of the reason she and Hannah decided to open a second location was how many potential clients they'd had to turn away because of lack of s.p.a.ce on their stylists' schedules. Even during an economic downturn, they'd been lucky enough to prosper. "The only things that are certain are death and taxes," Hannah liked to joke. "And the need for twice-weekly blow-outs."

Sophie quickly applies Hannah's makeup, then takes her into the tiny bedroom and stares into the closet, clucking with disapproval. She finally pulls out a pair of decent boot-cut jeans and a fitted scarlet sweater. "Put these on. And don't smear your lipstick."

Hannah complies, and twenty minutes later, she and Sophie are seated in the bar of Daniel's Broiler, an upscale restaurant not far from the salon. The lighting is warm and low, and a grand piano tinkles quietly in the background. At least Sophie hasn't brought her to a club. Hannah figures she can have a drink or two to placate her friend and then go home.

Sophie orders them both a gla.s.s of Merlot and with a stealthy eye, surveys the room. "By the window," she murmurs. "Bachelors on the prowl."

Hannah gives them a perfunctory glance, pretending to take in the stunning view of the city lights. The two men look to be in their late forties and are attractive enough-one with thick, slightly wavy black hair and the other a cropped-cut blond. Both are wearing jeans with casual b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, along with expensive-looking silver watches. The black-haired one catches her eye and smiles, so she quickly looks away. She decides the only way to keep Sophie from inviting them over is distraction, so she tells her friend about Olivia and Maddie appearing at the salon. Not wanting to appear obsessed, she doesn't mention that she spent an hour reading about the family on the Internet.

"Do you really think it's them?" Sophie asks after she takes a sip of wine. "I mean, what are the odds?"

"There are only something like two hundred transplants a year in the Northwest," Hannah says, reciting what she learned from Zoe. "And only a handful of those are livers, since the parameters to qualify as a match are so hard to meet. I think the odds are pretty good, but I don't know for sure yet."

"Did you tell them that Emily was a donor?" Hannah shakes her head, and Sophie sighs before going on. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I just . . ." Hannah trails off, then takes a quick sip of wine. "I told them she died, I just didn't say when or how." Sophie gives her a pointed look, and Hannah groans. "I was blindsided, Soph. I was in the middle of cutting Maddie's hair. What was I going to say? Oh, by the way, I think you might have my daughter's liver inside you?'"

"Why not?" Sophie repeats the question, and before Hannah can answer, the men they were eyeing from across the room are standing next to them.

"Hi," the blond one says to Sophie, holding out his hand. "I'm Robert, and I'm pretty sure it's a crime that women as beautiful as the two of you are sitting alone."

Hannah tries not to roll her eyes as the man with black hair slides onto the stool next to her. "h.e.l.lo," she says, primly. "Are you lost?"

He smiles. "If I am, you're certainly a lovely roadside attraction."

Hannah c.o.c.ks her head. "Did you just compare me to an enormous ball of twine?" Up close, she sees that he is quite handsome, with dark eyes to match his hair, tan complexion, and a slow, easy smile. He looks like the kind of man who doesn't have a hard time getting women to fall in love with him-and once they have, he probably loses interest.

He laughs, then holds out his hand. "I'm Seth."

Hannah tells him her name, then briefly places her hand in his, noting his soft skin and manicured nails. Metros.e.xual, she thinks. He's never done an ounce of hard labor in his life. He stares at her face, as though attempting to figure something out.

"What?" she asks, taking another sip of wine. "Do I have a piece of spinach in my teeth?"

He smiles again, but squints a little, too. "I'm just trying to figure out how high this wall of yours is, and whether or not I have the strength to climb it."

There's no malice to his tone, but still, Hannah bristles. "Does that line get you laid a lot?"

He sits back and lets out a quick, low whistle. "Ouch."

"G.o.d, sorry," she says, immediately feeling guilty for being rude. She knows she's being a b.i.t.c.h, but she can't help it. How can she even consider dating, when Emily is dead? Dating someone would imply she is moving on, letting go of the life she had with her daughter. Emily was the foundation upon which Hannah structured her entire life. All her decisions, her goals, her day-to-day choices were based on how Emily would be affected. Her daughter was the center of her world, and now, Hannah has no way to gauge what to do next, no scale to weigh what might be right or wrong for her. All she has is her gut instincts, and right now, they're telling her she's not ready to be here.

She looks in the mirror behind the bar, noting that Sophie is leaning in toward Robert, whispering something in his ear. She's fairly certain her friend won't be going home alone tonight.

Suddenly, Hannah's empty stomach seizes and she feels as though she might vomit. The wine has made her queasy. She grabs Sophie's arm. "I think it's time for me to go," she says.

Sophie stops midsentence and turns toward her. "But we just got here, cherie. And Robert's asked us to join them for dinner. You should eat."

"Yeah," Robert says, placing a light hand on Sophie's lower back. "Don't leave poor Seth all alone."

"Poor Seth will be just fine," Seth says, quietly.

Hannah sets her gla.s.s on the bar, causing the wine to slosh and spill onto her hand. "I'm sorry, but I really don't feel well," she says, swallowing down the bitter swell of acid that rises in her throat. She shouldn't have come. She should have stayed home, where she was safe. She will climb into bed, take a Xanax, and drift off to sleep . . . into the only kind of true relief she can find.

Sophie frowns, and her brow furrows. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No," Hannah says with a quick shake of her head. "Don't worry. I'll grab a cab." She stands, picks up her purse from the bar, and gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for trying," she whispers into her friend's ear. "I'm just not ready for all of this." Pulling back, Hannah smiles at Robert and Seth. "Be nice to Sophie," she says. "Have a good night."

Pus.h.i.+ng her way through the small crowd of people gathered at the bar, she tries to keep her breaths even and measured so she doesn't cry. At the elevator, she pushes the down b.u.t.ton over and over, as though the motion could hurry the machinery, and then, she hears her name being called.

"Hannah, wait," Seth says, half-jogging toward her. She keeps her eyes on the numbers as they light up over the elevator door. Seth stands next to her, not too close, his hands linked loosely behind his back. The elevator dings, and the door opens. It's empty, so the two of them step inside and Seth presses the b.u.t.ton for the lobby. "I really am sorry for the wall comment," he says. "It's kind of an occupational hazard. I didn't mean to offend you."

This piques Hannah's interest, and she eyes him briefly. "What do you do?"

"I'm a psychologist. Reading people is part of my job, and sometimes I do it at the wrong time with the wrong person." They are quiet a moment, the only sound the buzz of the cables guiding the elevator to the ground, but then he speaks again. "What about you?"

"Bricklayer," Hannah says wryly. "Professional wall builder."

"Ha," he says with a chuckle, and because he laughs at himself, Hannah decides she needs to apologize again.

"I'm sorry for being rude, too," she says. "I'm having a bad night." A bad year, actually, she thinks but doesn't say.

"It happens," Seth says gently. "Don't worry about it."

"Thank you," she says and then realizes she hadn't yet answered his question about what she does for a living. "And Sophie and I own Ciseaux Salon, one downtown and one here on the Eastside. We're stylists."

"Ah," he says. "No wonder you're both so beautiful." He glances at her with warm brown eyes, and suddenly, Hannah feels exposed, as though he can see right through her. "Whatever it is you're dealing with," he says, "I hope it gets better, soon."

"You're doing it again," Hannah says, though not unkindly. It wasn't that he made these observations that bothered her-it was the fact that he was right about them. She thought she was a better actress than that. She thought she did such a good job of hiding her pain. Was she really so transparent? Maybe he was just really good at his job.

"I'm telling you," Seth says as the door opens and they step out into the lobby, "it's like having psychological Tourette's."

She laughs a little at his words, and once they're on the street, Seth hails her a cab. She shakes his hand and looks him straight in the eye. She notices when he smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle into small fans.

"Good night, Hannah," he says. "Take care."

She nods. "You, too." She climbs into the back of the cab, and he closes the door behind her. She tries not to, but after she gives the driver her address and he pulls away from the curb, she looks back at Seth standing on the sidewalk. She wonders what it would be like to let a man like that into her world, and if Emily would have liked him. Before she knows it, she is crying, loud, gulping sobs that shake her core.

The cabbie glances at her in the rearview mirror. "Everything okay?" he asks, gruffly.

Hannah sucks in a quick breath and nods. "Just take me home," she says, knowing that without Emily, no matter how hard she tries, things will never be okay again.

Olivia.

Olivia walks down the hallway of Lakeview College, clutching her purse between her fingers until her knuckles turn white. An hour ago, after dropping Maddie off for her second day at school, she withdrew enough from the bank to pay her tuition in cash, and she's terrified that some punk kid might decide to mug her and s.n.a.t.c.h away the handbag that holds her future.

The idea of working toward a degree in criminal justice came to her one night last year, not long after Maddie's transplant, when she and James got into an argument that ended with a three-inch round bruise on the back of Olivia's thigh, where her husband's heel landed when he kicked her. She doesn't remember what the argument was about, but she does recall lying on the floor of their bedroom afterward, thinking if she didn't find a way to leave James, someday he was going to kill her.

She already has an A.A. in criminal law-it was a prerequisite for her certification as a paralegal-but she knows if she is ever going to make it to law school, she'll need a four-year degree. Once Maddie turns eighteen and is safely ensconced at college, there will be no more threat of a custody fight and Olivia can leave James. She wants to be prepared. She wants to find a job, first, something that will pay her enough to support herself-something that will allow her to say "no, thanks," to alimony offers from James's legal team. After witnessing Waverly's husband divorce her five years ago, seeing the hateful way she went after every penny she could get, Olivia is hesitant to become one of those women who live off their ex-husbands' fortunes. She doesn't care that the law says she's ent.i.tled to 50 percent of James's money, or that after her living with his abuse for almost twenty years, he deserves to pay a steep price for all he has done to her. She only wants to be free from him, and needs to do whatever it takes to cut all ties.

Olivia enters the admissions office, glancing around the room to make sure there is no one there she knows. However unlikely it is, she is terrified someone will see her and tell James what she's up to. If someone does tell him she was at the college, her plan is to say she was only doing research on whether it might a good school for Maddie. She isn't sure if he'd believe this, but she isn't going to let anything stop her. For now, she will register for one course, Criminology 201, scheduled three mornings a week, while Maddie is at school and James is at work so her absence will go undetected.

As she stands in line to pay her tuition, unsure if she is doing the right thing, she feels her heart bang against her rib cage in an anxious rhythm. But all she can think about is last night, after James told Maddie her hair was beautiful and their daughter went upstairs to her room. When he was sure Maddie was out of earshot, he grabbed Olivia's arm and twisted it behind her back. With a sharp intake of breath, Olivia bit her bottom lip and tried not to make a sound-she didn't want Maddie to come back and see what her father was doing.

"You should have asked me first," he said, pressing his mouth against her ear. She winced as he squeezed her forearm tighter; her shoulder felt like it might pop out of joint.

"I know," she said, hoping to placate him. "But she had such a hard day. She was crying, James. She felt so different from the other girls and I just needed to do something to make her feel better." She closed her eyes and waited for him to release his grip on her.

After a moment he did, but when she tried to take a step away from him, he grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck and yanked it, hard. Her hand flew to the back of her head, and she cried out, her eyes filling with tears.

"It's not your place to make those kinds of decisions," he said, spitting the words out through gritted teeth. He gave her hair a tug in emphasis. "Next time, you call me first. Do you understand?" She nodded, head down, and he released her again. This time, though, she stood still, waiting for him to tell her what to do. Her eyes flitted to the sharp silver pizza cutter resting on the counter, and she suddenly flashed on grabbing it and slicing it across his face . . . his neck . . . his chest. She imagined the blood and what were sure to be his howling cries as he fell to his knees on the pristinely white kitchen floor. She'd watched The Burning Bed. She knew that women in situations like hers sometimes committed such heinous acts. But that wasn't what she wanted-to murder him. She wanted him to see her thrive without him. Someday, she wanted to rub her freedom in his face.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, glancing up at him. His eyes squeezed into slits, and before she knew it was coming, he threw out his arm and backhanded her across her face. She cried out again, curling her shoulders forward and pressing a palm against where he'd hit her to try to reduce the sting.

"You should be," he said, then strode over to the table, where he sat down and took a bite of pizza. She cleaned the kitchen up in silence, feeling his eyes on her the entire time, and she wondered if he sensed what she was thinking, if he knew she had a plan.

Now, after paying her tuition and confirming that the college will only communicate with her through an email address James doesn't know about, Olivia makes her way back to her car, unsure how she should fill the rest of her day. For years, all she has done is take care of Maddie-her daughter is the foundation upon which she structures her time. She feels a little out of sorts until her cell phone rings, startling her. She grabs it from her purse, instantly worried something has happened to Maddie at school, ready to jump back into her caretaker role.

"Hi, Olivia," a woman's voice says. "This is Hannah, from Ciseaux Salon?"

"Oh, hi." Olivia clears her throat and straightens in her seat. "Is something wrong? Did my debit card not go through?" James sometimes would transfer money out of her account without her knowledge, just to show her he was the one who controlled it. Normally, she checked the balance before even buying groceries, but yesterday at the salon she'd been so worried about Maddie being upset, it hadn't even crossed her mind.

"Oh no, nothing like that," Hannah says. "This might be a little presumptuous, but I wanted to extend an offer for you to make an appointment with me for yourself. I know Henry's a master with highlights, but I'd love to be able to win you away."

Olivia laughs. "That's funny. Maddie liked you so much, she basically suggested the same thing." She pauses. "When should I come in?" She doesn't really need a touch-up, but she likes Hannah, too.

"I have some time free early next week. Thursday morning at ten thirty? Or we can meet after hours, if that's easier."

"Thursday morning is fine," Olivia says, wondering if she is imagining that Hannah sounds a little nervous. "But hey, maybe we could get together before that? For lunch, or a cup of coffee?" She doesn't know the words are there until they come out of her mouth. She's been so wrapped up with Maddie and her illness, Olivia hasn't made a new friend in years. The more time she spent in the hospital or at home taking care of her daughter, the more her interactions with Waverly and Sara Beth tapered off. They sent get well cards and flowers, stacks of books and magazines, but after Maddie's transplant, neither of them came to visit her. For the most part, Olivia spends all of her time with her daughter or alone.

There is a beat before Hannah responds. "Sure," she finally says. "I'd like that. There's a cute cafe right around the corner from me. Are you free today?"