Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(86)

Yawning, I went to the bathroom, found Hardy's robe, and tugged it on. The coffeemaker was all set up in the kitchen, with a mug and a clean spoon laid out. I pushed a button, and the air filled with the cheerful gurgle of brewing coffee.

I picked up Hardy's phone and dialed his cell number.

No answer.

I hung up the phone. "Coward," I said without heat. "You can run, Hardy Cates, but you can't hide forever."

But Hardy managed to avoid me all Saturday. And while I wanted badly to talk to him, pride wouldn't let me chase after him like a lovestruck skink, a Texas lizard which was known to lunge and circle around the male it was interested in. I figured I could afford to be patient with Hardy. So I left a couple of casual messages on his machine, and decided to wait him out.

Meanwhile, I got an e-mail from Nick.

CHAPTER NINTEEN

The whole thing is crazy," I said when Susan had finished reading Nick's e-mail. I had printed it out and asked her to take a look at it during our Saturday therapy session. "He's turned everything backward. Upside down. It's like Alice in Wonderland."It was ten pages long and filled with accusations and lies. I had felt dirty and tainted after reading it, but most of all, outraged. Nick had recast our entire marriage, with himself as the victim and me as the villain. According to Nick, I had been an insane, histrionic, and unfaithful wife, and he had tried in vain to pacify me and my moods and rages. And in the end, when he had lost his temper with me, it was because I had pushed him to the edge, by rejecting his honest efforts to fix our relationship.

"What pisses me off the most," I continued heatedly, "is how detailed and convincing it is . . . like Nick believes his own crap. But he doesn't, does he? And why would he write this to me? Does he actually think I'm going to buy any of this?"

Susan's brow was furrowed. "Pathological lying is the MO for a narcissist . . . they're not interested in the truth, only in what gets them what they want. Which is attention. Supply. So basically Nick is trying to get a reaction from you. Any kind of reaction."

"Like, me hating him is just as good a supply as me loving him?"

"Exactly. Attention is attention. The only thing Nick can't tolerate is indifference. That creates what's called 'narcissistic injury' . . . and unfortunately this e-mail is sending strong signals in that direction."

I didn't like the sound of that. "So what happens when Nick gets a narcissistic injury?"

"He may try to frighten you in some way, which to him is another form of supply. And if you refuse to react, it may very well escalate the situation."

"Oh, great. Does that mean more phone calls? More unexpected visits?"

"I hope not. But yes, probably. And if he's angry enough, he may want to punish you."

There was silence in Susan's small office while I digested the information. It was so unfair. I had thought that divorcing Nick would be enough. Why did he have to pull this crap with me? Why did he expect me to go on being a supporting player in the movie of his life?

"How do I get rid of him?" I asked.

"There's no easy answer. But if I were you, I would save this e-mail and document every interaction with him. And try to go no-contact, no matter what he does. Refuse gifts, don't answer e-mails or letters, and don't discuss him with anyone who might approach you on his behalf." Susan looked down at the e-mail, frowning. "If a narcissist is made to feel inferior to something or someone, it eats away at him until it's relieved. Until he feels he can walk away as the winner."

"But we're divorced," I protested. "There's nothing to win!"

"Yes there is. He's fighting to retain his image of himself. Because without that image of superiority and dominance and control . . . Nick is nothing."

The session with Susan had not done a lot for my mood. I felt anxious and angry, and I wanted comfort. And since Hardy was still not answering his cell phone, he had moved close to the top of my shit list.

When my phone finally rang on Sunday, I checked the caller ID eagerly. My hopes were deflated as I saw it was my dad. Sighing, I picked it up and answered morosely. "Hello?"

"Haven." Dad sounded gruff and self-satisfied in a way I didn't like. "I need you to come over. There's something we have to talk about."

"Okay. When?"

"Now."

I would have loved to tell him I had something else going on, but no convenient excuses sprang to mind. And since I was already bored and moody, I figured I might as well go see him.

"Sure thing, Dad," I said. "I'll be right over."

I drove to River Oaks, and I found Dad in his bedroom, which was the size of a small apartment. He was relaxing in a massage chair in his sitting area, punching buttons in the control panel.

"Want to try it?" Dad offered, patting the arm of the chair. "Fifteen different kinds of massage. It analyzes your back muscles and makes recommendations. It also grabs and stretches the thigh and calf muscles."

"No, thanks. I prefer my furniture to keep its hands to itself." I smiled at him and sat in a nearby, ordinary chair. "No how's it going. Dad? What do you want to talk about?"

He took his time about answering, taking a moment to enter a massage program into the chair. It began whirring and adjusting the seat position. "Hardy Cates," he said.