CORT
“You don’t oweme nothin’.” I kept his hand in mine and rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. “I did it because I wanted to.” God, I wanted so much more, but I couldn’t talk about it. It was too soon.
“You’re right. I don’t owe you nothing.” Harlan smiled, his blue eyes still a bit dreamy from the aftereffects of our session. “I owe you everything. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be in a gutter somewhere, or maybe worse.”
This was a different Harlan. He’d kept a bit of that cockiness I enjoyed bantering with, but he was softer now. Less brittle and jaded.
“You done it because you wanted to. And I knew you could.”
“You’re going to be stubborn, aren’t you? I’m trying to apologize to you, dammit. Now shut up and let me.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Please.”
Sensing he wasn’t joking, I stopped. “Okay.”
He sat cross-legged on my bed, facing me. “I don’t only owe you an apology. I owe you a thank-you. A profound one. If I pushed you away, you came at me stronger. When I was rude, you shrugged it off and were even kinder. You were the only one who took the time to look beyond the stigma of being homeless to try and find out the why and how.”
“I told you I was taught to be kind to people. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Most people are taught to be kind but don’t follow through. You put your words to use and forced me to take responsibility for my life. Something I never had to do before. When everything’s always handed to you, you forget what it all means.”
“And you know now?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Hell, no. But,”—he sobered, his brow furrowed—“I think I’m on my way. It’s going to take time, I know. There’s no way I can erase over twenty years of bad behavior in four weeks. I’m going to have therapy once a week and a counselor I can call anytime.”
The difference between the Harlan I first met, the skinny, suspicious, angry man who sneaked cheese and crackers in the bookstore, versus the Harlan who now sat naked in my bed, clear-eyed, laughing, and guileless, was stunning.
“I knew you could do it.”
A sad smile flickered over his lips. “You did. And no one else. Not even me.” He might be on his way to recovery, but it couldn’t hide the exhausted slump to his shoulders.
“You wanna get dressed and talk?” Maybe he’d lie down and fall asleep on the sofa.
“Yeah. I have more to tell you. I think the time has come for you to know what really happened to me.”
We headed to the bathroom to pick our clothes up off the floor and got dressed, sneaking glances at each other. We’d had sex twice—three times if you counted the hand job in the kitchen, yet I knew as little about him now as I did then.
Once in the living room, Harlan stretched out on the sofa while I sat in the chair facing him. He propped up on one elbow, his stare unflinchingly direct.
“One thing I want you to promise me. After you hear the story, if you want me to leave, I understand. I can go to a halfway house. They urged me to, as a matter of fact, but I needed to see you first. I owed it to you.”
“Stop sayin’ that.” I didn’t want him to come to me out of a sense of obligation.
“It’s an ugly story because I was an ugly person. You know I was a lawyer.”
I nodded but didn’t interrupt.
“My great-grandfather started the firm DeWitt and Wynters. I always knew I had a place there. From when I was a child, it was stated I’d go to law school and join the firm. My family had everything—the big apartment on Park Avenue, houses in the Hamptons and Aspen. I had nannies and went to boarding school and spent summers in Europe.”
“I’m getting the idea y’all had some money. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Harlan threw a pillow at me. “Ten points to the cowboy in the front row.” He smirked, then turned serious. “We didn’t simply have money. We hadmoney. I think my father loved his private banker more than anyone.”
“All right, then. I get the picture.”
“When you grow up with that much wealth, you can go one of two ways. You can be philanthropic: do good, charitable work to help people.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t your way.” I was under no illusions as to who Harlan was before I met him. I knew he’d been an unhappy person who’d allowed his misery to shape his choices.
“In spades,” Harlan said grimly. “I’ve already told you I spent most of my time drinking and doing drugs. I’d pick up women and bang them or get them to blow me in the restrooms of restaurants, the dressing rooms of stores, or in the back seat of my car. None of it mattered—none of the people did either. I wouldn’t know who they were ten minutes after they left.”
