Page 37 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“She’s a kid with a crush who, in her eyes, was just publicly scorned. Not to be taken lightly,” I countered.
“I can’t apologize for not liking someone,” he said, a bit sourly.
“Not saying you have to. I’m saying in her eyes, I’m public enemy number one. The big bad raging whore that ‘stole’ you away and lied about it.” I was in my late teens once.
“Don’t call yourself that. Please.” He looked disgusted.
“Just an example. I’m no town bicycle,” I said flippantly.
He looked puzzled.
“Old joke. ‘Everyone’s had a ride’? No?” My jokes are deader than a doornail today.
“Cor, please. I don’t love hearing that.” He grimaced into his drink.
“Why are you so bothered by it?”
He put his beer down and stared at me.
“I’ve known you at least half of your life. You don’t think I’d dislike hearing someone lie about you? You don’t think I’d feel a bit protective of you? You are my oldest friend and the only person who I could even tell about this. Literally no one else knew.” He tapped his chest.
“I’ve had a while to sort through all the bullshit that was said about me, especially in high school and college, with my dad. It barely bothers me anymore but I’ll refrain. But, second? I’m not going anywhere, OK?”
He took my hand with both of his, heat infusing through.
“Cor, tell me what happened with your dad. I have about two weeks to live and I need everything out in the open with us. What happened the day of the benefit?”
CHAPTER 10
“What do you want to know?” I asked warily.
“Tell me about the day he was arrested. The museum benefit. You were a sophomore,” he prompted.
“Yes, Damien, I was a sophomore.”
I swirled my beer bottle around, thinking back. I hated everything about that day. The anticipation and the horror.
“Let me set the scene.
“My father had been talking about this painting for months. He had finally gotten it to the museum and gotten it cleaned. He thought it had been lost to time and had been too over the moon to figure out its authenticity.
“So much so that the museum decided to host a benefit. It was a Thursday night, of all things. It was to be a light-appetizers-and-small-presentation type thing, some glad-handing with the politicians.
“My father didn’t care about any of that. He wanted to be in charge of its preservation but revenue is a thing to consider. The museum director insisted he show up to introduce the painting as part of the museum’s collection.
“I remember him, in his weary way, telling me that I didn’t have to go and that it was a school night.
“How could I not? I was so proud of him, putting in those long hours, bringing books back and forth to look at. I insisted on going with him, as dressed up as a sophomore girl could be.
“He told me earlier that week that this painting could put him on the map and that good things would come of it.
“I couldn’t have known how wrong he was going to be. I couldn’t have known the fallout from that one night.
“His arrest. His trial. His jail time.
“I thought about it at least once a day, ten years later. I should have just feigned illness, should have made him stay home.
“As soon as we got to the museum, my father’s friend pulled him aside. He looked worried. My father didn’t though. He was in his best suit, which was at least ten years old, likely last worn at my mother’s funeral. He smiled and patted his friend’s arm but I couldn’t get the stony look he gave me out of my head.
