Chapter 7: truth or dare
When Beth finally arrives home after that afternoon at The Cellar with Daryl, she at last caves and answers her incessantly-ringing phone with a barked, "What, Maggie?"
"Where the hell have you been all day?" Maggie's voice is condescension drizzled in the most subtle traces of concern. "I've been trying to call you for hours."
"Yes, I'm aware," Beth replies, removing her shoes and flopping into the oversized chair in her living room, "I've been ignoring those same calls. For hours."
"Why?" Maggie asks, and she sounds impossibly offended, and that makes the younger Greene sister smile. "What if it was something important?"
"It's clearly not," Beth says, voice bored. "You'd have texted me by now if it were, or you'd have blurted it out immediately instead of the current interrogation. So, what? What is it that you need?"
"I need to tell you something, Beth," Maggie's voice is suddenly much more somber; gentle even. "You may not want to hear it. But you're my sister, and I love you, and I care about you."
"Ugh, just come out with it," Beth says, pulling her knees into her chest, fatigue suddenly hitting her even as the effects of the alcohol she'd consumed gradually begin to fade.
"It's about Daryl," Maggie says, and her words are coming out more quickly, a sense of urgency in them that Beth cannot comprehend. She hears Maggie inhale sharply through the phone before she continues.
"I think – no, I know you should know this, Beth. Daryl – he just got out of jail a few months ago. His brother, Merle? The one I referenced at the epic fail of a dinner party? Forty to life for manslaughter, Bethy."
Beth feels her chest tighten, only it isn't because of fear or shock that she'd just spent hours drinking with a recently freed prisoner. It's anger, and it's directed at her older sister. She bites her tongue until she swears she tastes copper, waiting for Maggie to continue.
"Daryl wasn't there for the same charges; his were lesser crimes – but he's still a criminal, Beth – "
"Stop," Beth snaps. "Stop right there. What is this about? What's it matter? Did you spend the whole fuckin' day snoopin' the world wide web for Daryl's life history? Jesus, Maggie." She stands, feeling like she may crawl out of her skin.
"It matters because I can tell that you – you must like him, or something. To be so upset with me for the other night. Daddy says you two have been spendin' all this time together, gettin' along and talkin' at work, with the horses and all, and I – I just was worried, Beth. I knew I remembered hearin' something about him. Definitely about his brother; I think a lot 'round here remember him – "
Beth cuts off her words, which are becoming too much, too fast, too jumbled: "You're right. I do like him. I consider him a friend. I just spent the whole afternoon with him, for your information – and he didn't try to murder me, or rob me, or assault me – nothing! As if you're so innocent," Beth bites out, pacing her living room. "And what gives you the right, Maggie? To share this?"
"The right? You're my sister! And you're with this man – this criminal – more than you're with your goddamned fiancée, at least recently, from what I hear. And you and daddy seem all too keen on invitin' the guy over -" Maggie's voice takes on an edge that Beth cannot stand for another second.
"Oh, right. We're so keen, what with the one dinner we invited him to, which you ruined, if you've forgotten. And really, is that what this is about? Have you been gossiping with Zach, too?" Beth asks, wanting to rip her own – no, mostly her sister's – hair out.
"I did – I did talk to him earlier – when I couldn't reach you. I was worried, Beth."
"He's busy today, Maggie. I told him I'd be out, so you should really just keep your damn nose outta my business – "
"He told me things haven't been great, Bethy – between you two – lately." Maggie's voice again takes a gentler tone.
"Wait, I'm sorry," Beth says, her own voice rising in frustration, "I thought you called him 'cause you were worried about me and my whereabouts, not to talk about my relationship with my fiancée."
"It just – it came up, Beth. He made me feel a bit calmer 'bout you not answerin' and we were just talkin' – we're basically family and will actually be family, by law, soon, ya know?"
Beth rests her back against the wall and slides all the way down until her ass meets the floor in the small space between the sofa and the entertainment center. But she isn't even sure what this conversation is about anymore, nor how to respond. Or if she wants to.
"If you're havin' second thoughts – if you don't wanna go through with this, with marrying Zach – Beth, you have to say so. Or do somethin' or tell me. Or tell him. Tell someone. We're weeks away. We have time to fix things here."
Feeling numb and detached, Beth mumbles, "I'm not sure it can be fixed."
"You two are great together, and he loves you, Beth. You love him. He helped you get through mama's sickness, her death – helped you clean up the mess you found yourself stuck in. A guy like that don't come around often – "
Suddenly, there's a light knock on the door.
"Maggie, I gotta go. I can't talk now," Beth says, rising from the floor, relieved at any interruption. "I'll call ya tomorrow." She hears her sister's attempts to keep her on the line just as she presses the end call button.
Glancing at the digital clock on the stove as she enters the small entryway of her apartment, she feels a rush of dread knowing that it's likely Zach on the other side of the door, and she doesn't think she has the energy to go through what she'd just experienced during her phone conversation with her sister.
Sighing, she unbolts the lock and opens the door.
Blue eyes, shielded slightly by tufts of unruly dark hair, meet hers.
"Daryl?" she asks, opening the door wider.
"Hey," he mumbles, shifting his weight. She smiles at his constant state of general discomfort, despite the hours they'd shared together today. "Um, you left this in my truck." He holds a cell phone charger out toward her even as he looks at something interesting on the floor, or his feet – anywhere but at her.
"You didn't have to come all the way back here for that damn thing," she says, laughing softly while taking it from his hands. "I want the fucker to die, actually."
"I just didn't want it to get lost or somethin'," he says. She feels flutters deep inside her chest, and she isn't sure why. Maybe because he didn't throw the thing at her and bolt. Maybe because he looks vulnerable somehow, much like she feels in this moment.
"Come in," she says, quietly, stepping to the side to allow him room to enter her apartment.
"Ya sure?" he asks, and she knows instantly that if she said no, he'd leave without question.
She nods, smiling. "Yeah, please come in. Can I get ya somethin'?"
He shakes his head, then leans over, unties his boots and sets them on the semicircle mat beside the door that so rarely gets any use at all.
"Well," Beth says, stepping into the kitchen, lit softly by only the light over the sink. "Turn your head left, then right, and that's basically your tour of the place."
"'S nice," he says, arms crossed over his chest, as he takes a tentative step into the living room. "Organized. Clean. I like it."
She follows him through the living room and down the small hallway that leads only to a linen closet, a small bathroom, and her bedroom.
"I'll have to keep this place on my house-huntin' list," he says, knocking a fisted hand against the molding of the doorframe to her bedroom, as if he were checking its integrity.
"Ya wanna – I don't know, sit down? Watch TV or somethin'?" she asks.
His lips twitch. "Y'ain't gotta entertain me, Beth. You did enough of that today."
"Hey, you were entertainin' me, not the other way 'round, mister," she replies, and she feels a sudden sensation of lightness, maybe giddiness, overtake her.
She isn't sure if it's just the physical attraction – because she's honest enough to admit that it is certainly there – causing all of these sensations and responses in her body and mind, or if she really hasn't been spending enough quality time with herself and/or Zach, but she feels hot and nervous and something like excitement. The latter feels somehow foreign to her. She turns on her heel and heads back out to living room, willing away the heat she feels creeping up her neck.
Daryl, still smirking, follows her, removing his vest and draping it over the small corner chair before sitting in the middle of the sofa, shifting his hips this way and that, as if testing its comfort.
"Daaaaamn," he drawls. "Now this is a fuckin' couch." He spreads his arms along the top of the sofa, the beige fabric contrasting in a distracting, sort of beautiful way with his tanned skin.
Giving herself an internal shake, Beth crosses the room and plops – extremely abruptly and ungracefully – into the spot just to Daryl's right side.
"It is pretty nice, actually," she says, wiggling a bit to mimic Daryl's actions. "It's boring, but it's comfortable."
They're silent for a few moments. It isn't awkward or uncomfortable – apart from the physical reactions that she can't seem to control at the proximity of his body and hers. She swallows and turns to him.
"Why'd you come, Daryl?" She looks him in the eyes when she asks.
"I – uh, well, there was that charger thing," he starts, removing his arms from where they'd been spanned across the sofa's back and placing them in his lap – the better to fidget with, she figures. "And there's – I guess I wanted to tell you one more thing, when we were talkin' earlier."
"You can tell me anythin'," she says, leaning toward him. The words escape her in a whisper, without warning or conscious thought.
"Beth, I was – I just got out, at the beginning of the year. Out of jail, I mean. I was in jail, almost five years. I – uh – not that many people know, or at least don't let on that they do or say anythin' 'bout it to me. Your dad knows. Rick, Lori – they know. They're helpin' me – givin' me work, shit to do, helpin' me back on my feet." His words are discontinuous and rough and raw. His eyes intermittently meet hers, then travel over her face, return to his hands, the ceiling, and then the floor, as he speaks.
"Merle's in jail. Probably 'til he finally dies. He, uh – he's in for bad shit. Manslaughter. He – he killed someone. A young girl. He was fucked up, bad. Almost got us both killed earlier that night. I finally got him outta that bar… we were stayin' in a town a couple hours north of here. We'd been fucked over by a guy. A – our – supplier. We were low on cash, basically homeless. I was in the car with him – when it happened. I couldn't get him to stop, to just fuckin' stop, but I should'a tried harder, I think."
Beth inhales and places a tentative but firm hand over the top of one of his, even as he's got them clasped together tightly and continues to fidget, restless where he sits.
"I called it in – after. He'd already passed out. I tried to take the fall for it, 'cause maybe at least in jail, I'd be safe from him – safe from myself – after all these years. There were witnesses. I had drugs on me. A stolen gun. The car was stolen. Seemed like even when he'd done the worst fuckin' thing anyone can do – kill someone, take a life – I still wanted to protect him, or some shit. It's pathetic."
Daryl exhales a humorless laugh, and he won't look at her face now.
"I should'a told you. Tonight. Before. A long time ago. I wanted to. Even before today, Beth, I wanted to tell you, for some reason. Every time I'm with you – it would just eat at me – that you didn't know the truth. Didn't know really who I was – who I am. And I get it if ya don't wanna work with me or go to sketchy bars with me or let me sit on your damn sofa. No hard feelings 'cause I wouldn't blame ya – "
"Stop," she says, and it's a whisper but one built of armor and accompanied by a shake of her head. She's angled her body fully toward his, legs crossed under her.
"I think – I'm sure, actually – that your sister probably knows. Your whole family might. People in this town probably do – or at least they know about Merle. I'm not only bad and guilty by name and association, though. He's the only family I got. Only family I've had. 'S no excuse, though." He's still staring at the beige carpet underneath his feet.
They both sit quietly, her hand still atop his. His fidgeting has slowed, but his head is tilted downward, and Beth thinks he looks a little like a child then, one who's being scolded or punished for breaking something.
She curls her fingers around his hand, and it should probably feel extremely awkward, but it doesn't. It feels right.
"I'm not innocent," she says, clearing her throat. "No one is. Even if they look perfect, act perfect, have families – everyone has skeletons, as I said to ya before. And if ya think it's gonna make me feel differently 'bout you, then you don't know me as well as you think ya do."
He looks up at her then, and his face is a mess of confusion and awe. "Ain't you scared, or shocked, or – somethin'?"
She raises her eyebrows and inhales deeply. "No, Daryl, I'm not scared of you." She says her next words slowly but deliberately: "If I'm bein' totally honest, and I feel like there's no better time to be… I'm more scared of myself when I'm with you."
"What do you mean?" He asks in a voice that sounds somehow rougher and raspier than it did before.
"When I'm around you, I just – I don't know. I feel lighter, despite all the shit that weighs me down inside. I feel free – free to talk 'bout shit that I don't talk to anyone else 'bout, like somehow I know you won't judge me or hate me, even when it's all darkness. I can't explain it, and I'm not sure why or when or how it happened. I miss you when we're not together. I feel excited when we are," she says it all in just a breath and a half, and instantly feels heat climbing up her throat.
He's still looking at her, and she thinks it's maybe the longest he's looked at her, and she's suddenly desperate to know what he sees. What he thinks or feels right now, with that bomb of ambiguity she just dropped.
Her phone, a few feet away resting on the floor where she left it, vibrates for several moments before stopping and then starting again.
He twists his hands, moving hers underneath his. They feel warm and rough against her – capable of things she probably couldn't comprehend if she tried. Her breathing is shallow, but she feels his long index finger tracing the ring on her left hand – round and round.
"Can't say shit like that," he mumbles, holding her hand up for her to see.
She recoils, drawing her hand to her chest, feeling an ache so deep inside her, she's not sure if she's actually breathing.
She slowly lifts her hand to his face, swiping the stray strands of his dark hair from his eyes and through gritted teeth, admits it: "I know. I know. It's not right. It's not fair – to you. To him."
His lips part, blue eyes searching her face – for what, she doesn't know. He looks resigned and almost defeated – even moreso than when he was confessing his sins moments earlier.
He maintains his eyes on her – maybe this is the longest he's looked at her – and answers quietly, "I feel the same way. 'Bout you. Maybe – maybe shit would'a been different, if I'd met you before." His eyes dip to her ring. "But I wasn't worthy then, and I'm not now. I'm not a homewrecker, Beth."
She feels the tart sting of tears welling behind her eyes, in her throat and chest. He clasps her hand in his again.
"Please don't cry," he says, shifting toward her, inching his face closer to hers.
The moment – this moment – is gone in a heartbeat, left in destruction when the door to her apartment flies open and Zach stalks inside with wide eyes and an unstable stride indicating he'd been drinking.
"What the fuck is that criminal scumbag doing here, Beth?"