Part V
"Shit". Luka's hands were shaking as he left the diner, the taste of the cigarette both strange and familiar filling his mouth. What was it he'd just done? That wasn't what he'd intended at all, no, not at all. He should go back, tell her what he had set out to say. To take care, to stay away from bars, to drink at home if she must drink at all. To call Carter. He turned around and took a step. Stopped. Took another, and another.
She didn't seem to have moved, the cigarette, now ash entirely, still between her fingers.
"Abby."
She looked up at him, confusion and anxiety plain on her face. "Don't worry about - any of that. You should call Carter. He'll be worried about you." She didn't answer, looking at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language and for a crazed moment he wondered if he had. "Abby?"
"Yes. I'll call him."
"And - just - take care." Oh, but he had not the heart for the rest of it, and this time when he left he kept on walking.
It was only when she felt the remains of the cigarette hot against her fingers that Abby came to herself. "I could have told him" she muttered, "I could have told him." Over and over again. She closed her eyes and threw back her head, trying not to cry. "I should have trusted him." As she knew he had trusted her. With Carter, with her privacy, her walls; realised she had always trusted him. Except for that, except for that. And now? There had been no recriminations, no oblique criticism of Carter, no contempt for her cheap move on him last night. For the first time she wondered what she would have done if he had taken her up on it; wondered what, if he had, she would have been feeling today, and she was overcome by an intense longing for him.
He had said that he loved her, would love her despite herself. She didn't understand, it, didn't understand him and worse, didn't understand herself. But he didn't know the half of it she thought. Her abortion. Nicole. Ah, how long could she carry that secret? He hadn't loved Nicole, that much had been clear. Her own motives she had characterized as pure. "Maybe you don't want to see him happy" the Frenchwoman had said. How true was that? Her stomach had turned at the prospect of him tied to that woman, but why? Because he was a good man, a decent man, probably the only really decent man she'd ever known. And because she couldn't let go.
Carter. Carter was decent, wasn't he? She had kept quiet when Carter sought to belittle Luka, to impugn his integrity, uneasy as she had been. Luka set the standard in decency if she was truthful, and she acknowledged that she and truthfulness had been strangers for a long time. Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone "Ain't that the truth." She said aloud, only then aware that the waitress stood beside her, offering her more coffee which she accepted because she didn't think she had the wherewithal to leave.
She no longer knew what she felt. There was Carter; her friend, her confidant and now her lover. And there was Luka. She realised there had always been Luka. Luka who had suffered so much and who had gone on to suffer even more at her hands, and she was suddenly ashamed of that. She had watched his struggle, watched his agony and had been quietly fascinated by the anger and rage which he kept so carefully battened down beneath his good nature, but which had been instrumental in forging their relationship. It was clear to her now that it had been his misery which had drawn her in. Here was a man more scarred than she, and she had revelled in it.
What had it cost him to love her? To leave his wife behind? To try again? More than she had known, she realised; more than she had cared to know. And he had loved her; did love her. She laughed suddenly, recognising the precise moment at which she had decided on the course of action which would lead inevitably to his rejection of her. Her mother. Maggie, standing at her door. That night she had loved him, for his quiet support, for his strength. She had known that they would make love and that it would be something special. They hadn't of course. She had gone on to decide, that self same night, that she would never again allow him to get so close to her. "I'm not going to do this" he had said, and she made another decision. "Neither am I."
"Shit". Luka's hands were shaking as he left the diner, the taste of the cigarette both strange and familiar filling his mouth. What was it he'd just done? That wasn't what he'd intended at all, no, not at all. He should go back, tell her what he had set out to say. To take care, to stay away from bars, to drink at home if she must drink at all. To call Carter. He turned around and took a step. Stopped. Took another, and another.
She didn't seem to have moved, the cigarette, now ash entirely, still between her fingers.
"Abby."
She looked up at him, confusion and anxiety plain on her face. "Don't worry about - any of that. You should call Carter. He'll be worried about you." She didn't answer, looking at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language and for a crazed moment he wondered if he had. "Abby?"
"Yes. I'll call him."
"And - just - take care." Oh, but he had not the heart for the rest of it, and this time when he left he kept on walking.
It was only when she felt the remains of the cigarette hot against her fingers that Abby came to herself. "I could have told him" she muttered, "I could have told him." Over and over again. She closed her eyes and threw back her head, trying not to cry. "I should have trusted him." As she knew he had trusted her. With Carter, with her privacy, her walls; realised she had always trusted him. Except for that, except for that. And now? There had been no recriminations, no oblique criticism of Carter, no contempt for her cheap move on him last night. For the first time she wondered what she would have done if he had taken her up on it; wondered what, if he had, she would have been feeling today, and she was overcome by an intense longing for him.
He had said that he loved her, would love her despite herself. She didn't understand, it, didn't understand him and worse, didn't understand herself. But he didn't know the half of it she thought. Her abortion. Nicole. Ah, how long could she carry that secret? He hadn't loved Nicole, that much had been clear. Her own motives she had characterized as pure. "Maybe you don't want to see him happy" the Frenchwoman had said. How true was that? Her stomach had turned at the prospect of him tied to that woman, but why? Because he was a good man, a decent man, probably the only really decent man she'd ever known. And because she couldn't let go.
Carter. Carter was decent, wasn't he? She had kept quiet when Carter sought to belittle Luka, to impugn his integrity, uneasy as she had been. Luka set the standard in decency if she was truthful, and she acknowledged that she and truthfulness had been strangers for a long time. Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone "Ain't that the truth." She said aloud, only then aware that the waitress stood beside her, offering her more coffee which she accepted because she didn't think she had the wherewithal to leave.
She no longer knew what she felt. There was Carter; her friend, her confidant and now her lover. And there was Luka. She realised there had always been Luka. Luka who had suffered so much and who had gone on to suffer even more at her hands, and she was suddenly ashamed of that. She had watched his struggle, watched his agony and had been quietly fascinated by the anger and rage which he kept so carefully battened down beneath his good nature, but which had been instrumental in forging their relationship. It was clear to her now that it had been his misery which had drawn her in. Here was a man more scarred than she, and she had revelled in it.
What had it cost him to love her? To leave his wife behind? To try again? More than she had known, she realised; more than she had cared to know. And he had loved her; did love her. She laughed suddenly, recognising the precise moment at which she had decided on the course of action which would lead inevitably to his rejection of her. Her mother. Maggie, standing at her door. That night she had loved him, for his quiet support, for his strength. She had known that they would make love and that it would be something special. They hadn't of course. She had gone on to decide, that self same night, that she would never again allow him to get so close to her. "I'm not going to do this" he had said, and she made another decision. "Neither am I."