Page 91 of Fierce Love
“Right.” I swallow. “So, I went to see her after we started living together, and she made it clear I had to leave the island whenthe show was done filming. That part of our agreement was nonnegotiable.”
Nate’s expression morphs into something I don’t recognize, and he whispers, “She makes and ruins lives.” He presses a hand to his chest and stands up. “Jesus. I just never thought it would touch me. So fucking naïve. I can’t stay here. I have to go.”
“Nate,” I say following him.
His hand is on the apartment door, and he keeps his back to me. His shoulders are slumped and tense, but he’s listening, waiting for me to say something. I wish I could say anything that would make what’s happening between us better. But there’s nothing. Words don’t change what I did.
My instinct is to run my hand along his back, and for the first time in weeks, I’m afraid to touch him, can’t imagine that my touch, the sight of me, is any kind of comfort. I betrayed him in the worst way.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my words garbled by the sobbing that’s threatening to return. “I’m so sorry.”
Nate glances at me over his shoulder, and when our gazes connect, I see a tiny glimmer of the man who loves me. Hope stirs in my chest.
“You should read what’s in those papers. It’s a lot more than you know,” he says. “We both deserve the whole truth.”
Then he opens the door, and he’s gone.
Chapter Forty-Three
Hollyn
When the door closes, I collapse against it, my chest heaving with the sobs I’ve been barely holding in while talking to Nate. Of course he needed to leave, couldn’t bear to look at me for very long before going. He must be disgusted with the choices I made, the way I threw his love away.
I didn’t have to go to Celia that night. I could have given up my dreams of leaving the island, and I could have tried to save up enough money to get Aunt Verna a decent lawyer. At the time, it felt impossible to leave my aunt’s fate up in the air, to trust that the truth would come out, to be sure that the truth would vindicate her and not damn her further. On top of that was the pregnancy—the idea that my parents would be in charge of a second human being. And fighting Mickie and Niall for custody would have taken more money, more time, more resources that my aunt and I didn’t have.
Aunt Verna and I never talked about the deals I made once she was released. I never asked if she was innocent, and she never tried to tell me I made the wrong decision. What happened lay between us, unspoken, even when Kinsley was being handed over to me to take to New York.
When I’ve cried all the tears I have left in me, I crawl over to the papers scattered on the floor. The first one I find is the court document I already saw Nate holding. It’s not new. I have a copy of it myself in New York.
But as I sift through the other loose pages, a chill runs through me.
Oh my god. Nate’s right. There’s so much I knew nothing about.
I pour over the contents of the pages, reading every word, every concealed document. I’ve watched enough movies, read enough books, seen enough TV shows to understand that parents are supposed to protect their kids. That has never been my reality, but for all of Celia Tucker’s faults, teenage Nathaniel thought she came from a place of love, and even adult Nathaniel seems resigned to the kind of love Celia can give.
But nothing on these pages looks like love to me. Not the kind of love Nate’s given me so freely. Celia’s love is centered on power and control. And now that I’m older, I don’t think that’s any kind of love at all.
I shove all the papers back into one of the manilla envelopes, and I check my watch. I’m not on the visitation list—haveneverbeen on the list—but I think she’ll see me. If for no other reason than curiosity. I’ve never sought my mother out before.
Like most things in Bellerive, the jail is more upscale than you’d expect. Leather sofas in the front waiting area, high ceilings, tasteful décor. God forbid anything on the island seem less than idyllic for tourists and the rich people randomly hauled into jail to sleep off one too many drinks. I’ve heard the prison—the place dominated by the lower classes in Bellerive—is much less comfortable.
When my mother struts into the visitation booth, I’m not even surprised that her outfit for jail resembles hospital scrubs more than regular prison attire. The branding around the Bellerive blue runs deep.
She drops into the recliner, nimble despite her age and the rough life she’s led. She motions to the switch on the wall, and when I glance over, I see it is labelled with Sound On and Sound Off. I flick it to On.
“My eldest, finally lowering herself enough to visit her dear mother in jail.” Her voice has a harsh edge to it. “You’re just like me, you know. Only turning up when you want something.”
“I came for the truth.”
“Did you?” Her laugh seems like genuine amusement.
“Why is that funny?”
“Truth is subjective. Whoever is telling the tale is in charge of the truth.”
“When the truth is documented, it makes the details a little firmer, I think.” I hold up the manilla envelope I brought.
“Does it?” She lets out a derisive chuckle. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.” She leans forward and gestures to the envelope I’m holding. “You found my stuff?”
