Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 29: The Belief System

EMERY

Where is he? He should be here by now. I lean against the hood of my car, arms crossed over my chest as my gaze stays glued to the parking lot entrance. He needs to show up. He needs to hear what I have to say. Last night, I felt something I'd never felt before. I felt absence. His absence. He left without saying a word, without saying goodbye, and I felt it. Why did I feel it?He gave me space. He did as I asked him. Don't follow me. And he listened.

I didn't expect that.

Not at all.

Tapping my nails impatiently on the headlights, I swallow, his tortured voice playing over and over again in my head like a broken ballad. It should've been me. I've never heard a man cry before. Not even my father. He never cracked, he never shed a tear. He kept it all locked up, and it made him miserable. It made us all miserable.

But Damon's tears were familiar. I recognized the aching melody of his sobs. I've sung it before. For years. As a child, as a teenager, all into adulthood. Why me? Why is this happening to me? Those lyrics were my mantra, a daily ritual of begging for answers from a world that had none. I stopped crying once I learned that there was no reason, that there was no one on the other side listening to my questions. It brought me peace. Not happiness, but peace. I can't give him the former, but I can guide him toward the latter.

Tires screech in the distance and I snap my head in the direction of his blacked-out SUV, my heart suddenly hammering. He came. Damon parks a couple of stalls away from me, and I walk in his direction. The man who exits the vehicle resembles a ghost. Pale, almost withering.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he mutters, clearing his throat, and avoiding my gaze. Red. His eyes are so fucking red. Like a splash of blood on an otherwise stark white sheet.

"You look like shit," I say, scanning his wrinkled clothing from the gala, his unbrushed and chaotic hair.

It's tiny, barely recognizable to the human eye, but he manages a smile, and a low, airy chuckle leaves his lips. Damon runs a hand through his hair. "Did you ask me here to insult me, Miss Jones?"

"I didn't mean to offend you," I say, inwardly cringing at my inability to filter my thoughts around him. "It's just— I've never seen you like this."

"A first time for everything," he says, sighing as he glances up at the hospital. "Why am I here, Emery?"

Hesitating, I take a step toward him, closing the distance between us. I reach out to touch his hand but stop myself. He doesn't radiate warmth today. He's cold. Frozen. Like the iceberg that sunk The Titanic. I'm also cold. I can't help him. Not through touch. Not now.

"This is where I spent my childhood," I say, turning to face the towering building in front of us. He shifts uncomfortably beside me but doesn't comment. "This hospital sees over half a million children every year. Half a million, Damon." I point to the fifth floor. "That's the cancer wing. That's where they pump little children full of chemicals, hoping it'll eradicate their illness." My finger shifts west, toward the fourth floor. "That's the NICU. At any time, there are roughly twelve babies housed there. Newborns. Some on respirators, others with a machine pumping their tiny hearts."

Damon swallows. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because—"

I turn to him, forcing him to come face-to-face with me. With the uncomfortable truth of our existence. His earthy brown eyes linger over my shoulder for a second, struggling to meet mine. With a determined breath, knowing the risk of collision, I reach down and clasp his hand.

"Emery..." he whispers, squeezing my fingers. "I'm—"

"You called me a nihilist before," I say, cutting him off. Whatever he has to say can wait. He needs peace. He needs to know. "And while that may be true, you need to understand why." I briefly glance up at the hospital. "Do you think those kids up there did something bad to deserve to be sick? Do you think that they're being punished for something?"