Dirty Red (Love Me With Lies)(40)

“You didn’t have to. It’s a shame it took my mother to point that out to me.”

“What are you saying, Caleb?”

“I’ve taken you for granted. Your loyalty. Your trust. I’m sorry.”

He pulled me toward him and wrapped me in a hug. I didn’t know what his words meant for us, but I was sure as hell going to stick around to see.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

I nodded, swiping at my tears with my fingertips.

Please, God, don’t let him hurt me.



Chapter Nineteen

Present



Sam is on my side — or at least I think he is. He doesn’t judge me. I like that. He knows the basics of what happened between Caleb and me. So far, he hasn’t asked any probing questions. I almost want him to.

I feel like we’re a team. He cleans the house, keeps me fed, does the laundry and tells me when to feed the baby.

I feed the baby.

Sometimes I watch when he gives her a bath and hand him the towel.

Motherhood isn’t nearly as hard as I thought. Except when it is.

Caleb doesn’t call.

Caleb doesn’t call.

“What’s with all the tattoos?” I ask him one day. He has his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and he’s gently rinsing the soap from the baby’s hair. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. I trace the pictures with my finger, something I’ve never done before … to anyone. It’s a mess of artwork: a pirate ship, a lotus flower, and an incredibly tacky spider web. When I reach his elbow, he raises his eyebrows. “Would you like me to take my shirt off so you can continue?”

“There’s more?”

He smirks and lifts the baby out of the bath. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were attracted to me.”

I cackle. Really. It’s kind of embarrassing.

“You’re gay, Sam. And no offense, but I’m not really into the Kurt Cobain, tattooed look.”

Sam carries the baby into the nursery and sets her on the changing table. “I hope you’re at least into the Kurt Cobain sound, then.”

I swallow. God. I feel dizzy all of a sudden.

I’m shaking my head before words can make it past my lips. “I listened when I was younger.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“I’m gonna go get something to drink…” I slip out of the room before he can say anything else, but instead of going to the kitchen, I head for my bedroom. I shut the door as quietly as possible and crawl onto my bed.

Breathe, Leah.

I am trying to think of happy things, things my therapist gave me to focus on, but all I can hear are the words to a Nirvana song, echoing so loudly in my head I want to scream.

I scream into my pillow. I hate that. I’m a goddamn mess and there is nothing I can do about it. When my heart stops racing, I go downstairs and get a drink of water.



I am channel surfing a few hours later when I hear Olivia’s name. I flick past the channel and have to backtrack. Since Caleb’s been gone, I am desperate for any news on her. I know he’s watching. I pluck at my eyelashes and watch as Nancy Grace gives me an update on what’s happening in Dobson’s trial preparation. She’s on a tirade. I snicker. When is she not on a tirade? She moves on from Dobson and it takes me a few minutes to figure out that her sharp southern accent is directed at Olivia. I turn up the volume and lean forward. Yes! Olivia bashing! This is exactly what I need to feel better about myself.

I snuggle down in my seat to watch, a full glass of Scotch sweating in my hand. One corner of the screen is reeling footage of Dobson’s victims. They range in age and appearance, but they all have the same haunted look in their eyes. When a video clip of the rapist comes on the screen, I scrunch my nose. He’s in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffed and shackled. Officers wearing plain clothes surround him as he walks the short distance from the vehicle to the courthouse. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. He’s huge — linebacker size. The cop next to him looks puny. How this buffoon managed to get girls to come within five feet of him astounds me.

Suddenly, the screen flashes to Olivia. I want to change the channel, but as usual, I can’t pull my eyes from her. Nancy is waving her bejeweled hand in the air. Her voice is rising in crescendo and she’s told three people on her panel that they’re idiots for defending Olivia’s case. I reach over for a handful of popcorn, not taking my eyes from the screen. Nancy is right. I feel a sudden fondness for her. She obviously knows how to read people. Then I hear my name. I spit out my popcorn and lean forward.

She won a case a year ago, defending an heiress on clinical fraud charges. Nancy calls to someone on her panel. Did she win that case, Dave?

Dave gives a brief summary of my case and affirms that yes, indeed, Olivia did win the case.

Nancy is disgusted.

The evidence against that girl was overwhelming, she says, stabbing the desk with her finger.

I change the channel.

But, the following night, I turn it on again and watch all fifty-two minutes of blond fury. By night three, I’ve called into the show as a Ms. Lucy Knight from Missouri, and expressed my disgust with Olivia too. I make sure to tell her that I appreciate what she does for women, that’s she’s a goddamn hero. Nancy tearfully thanks me for being a fan.

By the end of her show, I am usually drunk. Sometimes Sam stays to watch it with me.