16
Haven
If I stareat my reflection long enough, I can convince myself that I deserve everything around me. If I didn't deserve it, I wouldn't have it, right? I have to believe that to justify living this life.
"Darling, how long before you're ready?" Bennett calls into the bedroom. "We're supposed to meet the Sanders’ in twenty minutes, and if we don't leave now, we're going to miss our reservation." Normally, I'd be the one dragging Bennett out of the house since I don't like to be late. Tonight, however, I feel like I'm in a fog as I continue to gaze at the stranger reflected in the mirror. Only my trademark scarlet lipstick identifies that girl as me. The hair, the clothes, and the jewelry look like they belong on someone else. I place one more pin into my hair and break my stare away from the mirror as the door to the bedroom opens, bringing forth Bennett with a look of concern. "Haven, darling, what is taking so long? Are you sick?"
Kind of, but not really. I want to tell him what's going on, but it's already a sore subject. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just a little tired tonight for some reason." I walk past him and into the walk-in closet, retrieving my dress from the hanger while deliberately ignoring his analyzing look—one brow raised, the other eye partially closed, his lips twisted to one side. It's the look Bennett gives me when he knows I'm keeping something from him. I wonder if I have a look when I know he's keeping something from me. Maybe my poker face is better than his.
I don't keep much from him, but there's a part of me that remains concealed within me, hidden from not only Bennett but the rest of the world as well. "Could you help with the zipper?" I turn around, giving him access to my exposed back, immediately feeling the heat of his knuckles draw a line from the bottom of my spine up to the nape of my neck.
"Did you not sleep well last night?" he asks, placing a kiss on my bare shoulder.
I didn't sleep at all last night, I didn't eat a morsel of food today, and I have not breathed a painless breath in more than a week. My mind is consumed, my pulse is unsteady, and my chest is wound into a tight knot. "Maybe it's allergies. I know they can make a person tired," I offer as an excuse.
Slipping my feet into my heels, I take my navy cashmere cardigan from the edge of the bed. When I reach for Bennett's hand, he pulls me in and kisses me tenderly in a way that shows the amount of love he says he has for me. "Cheer up, darling, it's going to be a fun night. I'm not on call or anything," he says, pulling away as an eager smile pulls across his lips. With a hand on my back, he urges me out of our bedroom and down the marbled staircase.
"Where are we going again?" I ask. I know he told me, but with all the other thoughts consuming my mind this week, I've forgotten.
He stops at the bottom of the staircase and looks over to me, his eyebrows furrowing with confusion. "We've talked about this a million times this week, Haven." He moves past me and opens the front door, ushering me out onto the front porch. "We're going to Wrightman's Plantation. Remember? They have live music tonight."
"Oh yes, that's right. I remember now," I reply, simply.
"What is going on in that head of yours tonight?" he asks, opening the passenger side door to his Aston Martin. "Something is clearly bothering you." I want to remind him he's a surgeon and not a therapist, but that won’t make the nagging questions stop, and it wouldn’t be a good way to start this evening.
I slip inside the car, focusing on the cool leather of the seat as it presses against my bare thighs, desperate to redirect the thoughts spinning through my mind. "I told you, I'm fine. I'm just tired." He's still standing at my door, sadness now clouding his tanzanite eyes. I can tell he's not buying it, but Iamtired. Tired from not sleeping and tired from overthinking.
He closes my door, confining me within the darkness, allowing me to once again be alone with my reflection against the tinted windows. I can't see past my red lipstick.
It has been two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five days—seven years to the day. I was the cause of ruining a man's life, and it has haunted me every day since that night I stood in front of the boy I was sure I loved and held onto a silly lie without concern. I have tried to forget about him and the guilt. I have tried to avoid imagining what it must have been like for him in prison. I have tried to pretend like it wasn't my fault. I seem to have no problem lying to everyone else, but lying to myself has not been possible. Living with a lie is worse than living with the truth.
When I went to the grocery store earlier this week, I saw pictures of Raine hanging on street lamp posts, on benches, and trees. The people in this town have labeled him a "sexual predator," and that's what is written across his face on every piece of paper. I tried to rip down as many of them as I could, but people were looking at me...chattering, whispering, and calling me a "poor girl." Neighbors have been asking if I'm okay and if I'm prepared for the wild animal to be released from his cage. The priest has even reached out to me, offering his time if I'd like to speak. This town is too small. I could come clean now, but no one would believe me, and I'd ruin Dad's golden image, so I've continued to do the worst thing I could possibly do. Keep my mouth shut, per Dad's demand.
I have considered what might happen if I were to run into Raine...what I would say, and whether "sorry" would be enough to cover all the apologies he's deserved over the past seven years. I'm guessing not. I constantly wonder what he looks like now, how much he must have changed.
"Darling, we're here." The car jerks forward as Bennett shifts the gear into park. My phone is buzzing on my lap, and there's a tapping on my window. My thoughts all freeze in place, bringing my focus back to the reflective red lipstick in the window. I still can't see past it.
My door opens, and Maryanne pulls me out of the car. "What took you two so long?" she asks, wrapping her arms around my neck. "And what is going on with you? Why haven't you answered any of my texts or calls today? Are you feeling okay?" I nod my head to say yes then no, then yes again. She just squeezes me tighter and leans her mouth in toward my ear, allowing me to smell the pungent scent of her Burberry perfume, mixed with a hint of mint on her breath. "I know what's going on." Her words float into my ear in a whisper, but I cringe from the volume they take on inside my head.
No, she doesn't.
"I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night." How many times can I say this same line before I will start to believe it.
"Your dad is going to kill you when he finds out you’re pregnant. I have a strong feeling he would have preferred to see you marry Bennett first," she says, taking me by the arm and pulling me toward the front entrance of the restaurant.
I stop walking and pull my arm from her grip. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"That must be what's going on with you," she says through a stifled, soft laugh.
"No, Maryanne. I'm not pregnant." I can't do this tonight. "Bennett, can we go home?" He stops talking to Roger, Maryanne's husband, and freezes without a response.
"No!" Maryanne shrieks. "I mean, no, don’t go home. You'll feel better once you have some food." Now I really want to go home. I'm questioning whether I'm the one acting strange, or if it's all of them.
Maryanne's hand wraps back around my wrist as she pulls me in through the restaurant doors and over to the host's podium where we wait for the men to catch up. She faces me and runs her hand over the cashmere covering my shoulder. "You look pretty tonight. Is that the dress you bought in Paris last month? I remember it was a heather gray, but—"
"Yes, it is," I cut her off, looking back at Bennett, waiting for him to let the host know we're here. I'd love to get this night over with. I know I'm acting ridiculous and very unlike me, but I may have an anxiety attack tonight. I've never had one before, but my anxiety feels like it’s close to reaching panic level.
It only takes a minute or two before the host is leading us down a dark hallway. My heart-pounding stress continues, except now it's surrounded by hanging dim candle votives and wrought iron decorative wall hangings. We've only been here once, and it was back when Bennett and I first met. It's an old plantation house that’s been turned into the fanciest, most expensive restaurant around. It’s a special occasion kind of place.
