Echo (Black Lotus #2)(28)
“So, I’m a cat?”
“A minx,” he notes.
I shake my head, saying, “You neglected to answer my question.”
“You mean Declan?”
“Mmm hmm,” I hum as I take another drink.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ve known Declan for a very long time. He will always have a woman on his arm at events, but it’s all a show, strictly business. I’ve only known him to have a couple long-term relationships, but none he was too serious about. I think they were more of convenience than actual love. Declan’s a well-guarded man.”
Hearing this makes my guilt build heavier, knowing that what he gave me was most likely the first time he had given that to anyone. His love, his heart, his moments of sweet softness. Having this information makes the destruction feel even more malicious.
“He’s a shrewd man in business,” Lachlan continues. “I can only assume that filters into his personal relationships as well, but perhaps you might have better insight into my assumptions.”
“You want me to open up and divulge my personal knowledge of Declan?”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” I state matter-of-factly, and when he gives me a sly look, I murmur in an honest moment, “I hurt myself.”
I refuse to reveal that I also hurt him. I don’t want to diminish anyone’s perceptions of the powerful, andric man they all know him to be.
“So you were lovers?”
“I hate that word.”
“Why?”
Turning to face Lachlan, I lean to the side, resting my elbow on the bar top when I say, “It’s shallow. That word insinuates a base, sexual relationship rather than intimacy.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re gray?”
“You’re wanting black and white? As if that even exists. There is no black and white, right or wrong, yes or no.”
His eyebrows raise in curiosity, and to lighten the now heavy mood, I tease, “Oh, come on, Lachlan. Surely a man of your age has come to recognize the world for what it is.”
“A man of my age?”
“Yes,” I respond, smiling, and then laugh as I add, “Old.”
“Old? Didn’t your mother ever tell you to respect your elders?”
“I never had a mother.” I catch myself as the words fall so easily and without thinking. I immediately press my lips together and turn in my seat so I’m not directly facing him anymore.
He doesn’t make any comment, and the silence is unsettling as we sit here. When I do finally turn my head to look at him, there’s a hint of pity on his face. It irks me, but I remain polite because let’s face it, besides the elderly lady I’m staying with, this is the first real conversation I’ve had in a while.
“If you’re feeling sorry for me, don’t.”
He surprises me with his unguarded bluntness when he asks, “What happened to her?”
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“What do I have to lose? You’re leaving Scotland; we’ll never see each other again.”
“Okay, then,” I respond as I turn in my seat to face him dead on, and take him up on his offer. What the hell do I care? He’s right. After today, I’ll never see him again. “I don’t know what happened to her. I have no memories of her, so I assume her to be dead. It was always just me and my father.”
“You never asked?”
“My father died before I could,” I answer directly.
“Have you tried finding her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“What’s the point?” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.
“Aren’t you curious about where you come from? What if she’s not dead like you assume? What if she’s been looking for you?”
And when he asks that last question, I start to wonder—hypothetically—if the woman did exist, she wouldn’t have had a chance finding me. I was a runaway. An invisible child. And then I was Nina Vanderwal. How would she have ever found me when I’ve made it impossible?
All I have of my mom is an old photo of her. For a while, I used to think about her a lot, wondering what she was like, if she was anything like me.
“It’s never too late, you know?” Lachlan says, and I let his words float in my head.
I’ve lost everything, but what if . . . what if I haven’t? What if there’s a chance that I have something left in this life? Is it worth trying to find? Is it worth believing in hope when that dream has failed me countless times? Can I take another disappointment?
Questions.
I have hundreds of them.
Looking back to Lachlan, I want to protect myself, but I’m so lonely. Lonely and in need of comfort, in need of a reason to go on. Because as I stand now, I’m beginning to seriously wonder why I’m still here—moving, breathing, living.
“Why do you care?” I ask the man who shouldn’t because I’m not worthy of it.
“There’s something about you,” he says with all seriousness.
“But you don’t know anything about me.”
“Doesn’t mean that I don’t want to,” he admits before adding, “All friendships have to start somewhere. Let me help you.”