Chapter 24: Living Proof

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He couldn't say he was surprised when she went to bed early. It was probably for the best, being that they had a long drive the next day. Still, he found himself hurt that she hadn't even said goodnight on their last night here. Part of him wondered if she wanted to sleep alone that night.

He wasn't an idiot, he knew why she was behaving this way. She was angry with him about the interview in Texas. But hadn't she made it clear she was not interested in anything long term? She was selling her house, but she didn't hint at moving in with him. She had asked him to help her find somewhere else to live, somewhere safer and less in the public eye. But she had balked at the idea of living out here. Her mixed signals were driving him crazy. What did she want him to do? As skilled as Frank felt he was at reading her expressions, he certainly couldn't read her mind. If she was going to stay in Hollywood and write music, she would still be a celebrity. No matter how irrelevant she thought she was becoming, she would still be at risk of being recognized wherever she went. He couldn't live like that. He just couldn't do it.

Frank stood hesitantly beside the bed, watching Rachel sleep for at least five minutes before finding the courage to slip under the sheets beside her. She didn't budge.

Sleeping beside her felt so right. No matter how upset she was with him, or he was with her, he still wanted to be close to her. He had never expected his feelings to become so strong over such a short period of time.

He had entertained the thought of a long distance affair, of course. But the idea of booking flights on random off days just to see her for twelve hour increments every few weeks was exhausting, especially at their age. He didn't want to lose her, but he didn't want to alter his lifestyle to accommodate her needs, which surely would have been too demanding.

The dilemma of their strange relationship haunted him all night long.

He woke up to his phone vibrating at five A.M. with another call from Leah. Again, he ignored it.

The sun stayed hidden behind clouds the next morning, which he felt was appropriate given the kind of unspoken gloom that had lingered between them. Making sure he got out of bed before Rachel wasn't hard. He was certain she would have slept another six hours if he had let her. She glared at him when he shook her shoulder to wake her up. "I'm taking your luggage down to the truck," he said. "Check the bathroom again to make sure you didn't leave anything behind."

He felt a bit like her father at times, especially when he had to order her about like this.

She seemed to still be half-asleep as she reluctantly dressed into her loungewear and dragged herself to the truck. He hadn't even made it ten miles from the cabin before she'd fallen asleep again.

He was somewhat relieved that she had stayed asleep for so long during the drive. He wouldn't have known what to say to her, and she certainly was not making it easy on him. He supposed he was getting the cold shoulder from her, but unlike how it had been with his ex-wife, this time he felt as if he deserved it.

If Rachel had asked him how he felt about her, how would he have responded? If he was being honest with himself, he would have told her that he didn't want to be apart from her. He wanted to stay as close as possible to her. But the closer he stayed, the stronger his feelings would become. And then what? He kept coming back to the same impossible conclusion: marriage. It was what he had wanted for years now, but Rachel had practically boasted the fact that she had never been married and that she never wanted marriage.

No matter which way he tried to analyze it, it would not work. One or both of them would have to make a sacrifice that they might never be ready to make.

He spent nearly the entire drive that way, lost in his thoughts, tortured by what his next move would possibly be when they arrived back in L.A.

When Rachel woke up, she didn't wake up gently. She bolted awake, as if she'd been slapped across the face, her eyes wide and scared. He glanced at her from the side, still maintaining visual on the road. He watched discreetly as she urgently grabbed her purse where it lay on the floor by her feet. She dug through it for a few seconds, frantic, and seemed to sigh in relief when she located something deep inside.

She had tried to hide it from him. But he saw. He saw her take the small white pill.

He felt the pulsing, perspiring, nervous feeling of betrayal – a feeling he recalled with a sickly familiarity from his marriage. He stared straight ahead at the road, struggling to maintain steady breathing as he fought back the urge to confront her.

But it was too much.

"How many hours late were you in taking that?" His voice was torturously calm, barely within limits.

He could feel her eyes burning him. "Just a couple," she said, already on the defense.

His mind raced with all the things he wanted to say, but he responded only with silence.

"Don't you dare," she said, her voice deadly.

His heart dropped. "I didn't say a word."

"You didn't have to." Her voice became shrill in a way he'd never heard before. "You know, we can't all be fucking perfect like you all the time, Farmer."

He couldn't believe she was going to take it there.

"Christ, Rachel, all I did was ask if you'd taken it on time."

"It's none of your goddamn business in the first place, but at least I was honest with you."

He opened his mouth to reply, but something stopped him. A tiny voice in the back of his mind that reminded him, Leah would have never admitted it.

He couldn't help but belabor the point. "If you'd told me what time you take it, I could have reminded you." He thought he was being helpful, but Rachel interpreted it much differently.

"I don't need a man to remind me what to do with my body, thank you."

He stopped talking, knowing it was useless. He knew all too well what these conversations looked like when they'd happened with Leah. His Y chromosome was never more of a disadvantage then when the woman brought up body autonomy. Not that he could blame her.

He had made a conscious decision to make love to her multiple times during her stay. And he had made a conscious decision never to pull out once.

Deep down in the uncharted spaces of his heart, perhaps, he had his reasons.

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He wished she would have just fallen back asleep for the remaining three hours of their trip. Instead, she sat in stone cold silence, staring out the window, and occasionally texting Fletcher on her cell phone.

When he arrived back at her house, she barely waited for the truck to stop before hopping out and heading for the doors. He put the vehicle in park and took her luggage inside, leaving it in the foyer.

The house remained mostly unchanged from when he'd worked there. It was still too vast to feel comfortable. It still smelled like a furniture store – like polished wood and newness and over-vacuumed carpeting. Frank was overwhelmed, looking around at all the original adjustments he'd made to the property; everything was unchanged, nothing had been updated. Everything was as frozen in time as it could possibly be, and here Rachel Marron was, screaming at him just like she had back when he first became her employee. It was like a cruel dream.

"You weren't there for me! All these years, you weren't there!" she cried, sparks flying from her dark, beautiful eyes. "Just went from one hundred to zero overnight. What was I supposed to do? Go on with my life like nothing ever happened? I did the best I could! And you know what, at least I tried. You went off and married the first bitch you met who only wanted you for your money and your sperm. I would've given you so much more than she ever did!"

Every sentence she shouted at him was like a rough thrust of a javelin in his heart. He could hardly take it, but she kept tearing him apart.

"How come you never saw that? How come you ran away? What was it? The interracial shit? I'm loud, I'm a diva, I'm impossible? Fuck, Farmer, you were the only man who could handle me. And you abandoned me! And worse than that, you abandoned Fletcher! How could you? He looked up to you more than any other man on this God-forsaken earth!"

His hands were shaking enough just from her words, but the mention of Fletcher was his undoing. He felt the words rising in his chest before he had the power to stop them.

"Oh, and you were so loyal all those years, Rachel? You didn't seem to hesitate before jumping into bed with every NFL player on the roster a couple months after you got your Oscar. Meanwhile I was wasting hundreds of dollars a week on therapy just to watch you move on like it was all forgotten. Do you know how long it takes a gunshot wound to heal? I couldn't do my job for months. I felt completely worthless."

Once he'd started, he couldn't stop. Everything that he had kept bottled up for a decade came spilling out, and he wanted her to drown in it. "I'm sure it was easy enough for you to forget me with all the distractions you had in your life. How do you think I felt having to see you every time I turned on a fucking TV, and hear you every time I turned on the fucking radio? Having to pretend like I wasn't affected by it when my wife was in the room? I couldn't escape you. You tortured me, Rachel! You still torture me!"

He saw it in her eyes. The fear. The thought that he was the cause of it now made his blood go cold. She stormed up the steps and disappeared into the hall. Moments later, the sound of a door slamming echoed through the vast house.

He stood still in the grand entrance of her extravagant mansion, trying to catch his breath as he processed their heated exchange.

Some pieces of truth had been uttered which he never expected from her. She thought he ran away from her? How could she think that?

The more he repeated the accusation, the more he realized how brutally correct she was.

He had run away.

He hadn't been ready to make any more sacrifices at that time. He had already sacrificed his life to save hers. Maybe some part of him had been bitter about it. He had known even then that he loved her, against all his better judgment, against all his training, against everything in his hardened heart.

But they were so different. They still were. It was impossible for them to be anything more than what they were now. Wasn't it?

He ran his hand through his hair, debating with himself if he should run up the steps and hunt her down. But he had no clue what he would say to placate her after such a screaming match.

Looking around the room he noticed there were already boxes beside the walls. She hadn't been kidding when she said she was ready to sell the house. Devaney must have been all too thrilled to take on the task of organizing a moving party during his last two weeks on the job.

Frank turned suddenly, sensing he wasn't alone in the room. To his left, Scott Pettigrew stood in the doorway, a slightly confused expression on his face. "So, how did the trip go?" he asked hesitantly. It was obvious from his eyes that he had heard them yelling moments ago.

"I wish I could answer that," Frank sighed, turning back to look longingly up the staircase.

Scott gave him a tight smile. "If anyone can handle a loaded pistol, it's you."

Frank found the cryptic compliment somewhat encouraging. It wasn't like Rachel stayed mad forever. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that she would come around. But if he was being honest with himself, he wasn't too sure she would this time.

Deciding not to overstay his welcome, he headed back to the truck, ready to leave when he heard Fletcher calling for him.

"Hey, can I talk to you for a bit before you head out?"

Frank was all too relieved to have an excuse to stay. "Sure, Fletcher."

Fletcher led him back through the house and out to the swimming pool, settling on a stone bench by the water. It was so beautifully strange to find himself back here after all these years, remembering times when they would sit and talk in this same spot when Fletcher was about a third the size, playing with his boat.

"I take it you saw the moving boxes," Fletcher said.

Frank nodded.

"She's actually serious about it this time. I never thought she'd actually do it."

"Where do you think you'll go?"

"Not sure yet," Fletcher shrugged. "I'd like to live on my own now. I think I'm ready."

"I think you are, too."

Fletcher looked thoughtfully around at the idyllic surroundings. "I felt like I could never leave this house because Mom needed a stable man in her life, and I was always that man for her."

Frank's heart sank. "That's admirable, Fletcher, but that's not fair to you."

"I know." His dark eyes glinted in the sun as he stared at Frank. "I just hate watching her struggle."

Frank shifted uncomfortably. "She has . . . friends, Fletcher. She doesn't have to live alone if she doesn't want to."

"The friends she has here in L.A., they aren't good for her." He spoke quietly, as if afraid Rachel would hear them. "I told her that so many times, but she doesn't listen. It was the same with all those guys she dated. I kept telling her how terrible they were. She doesn't want to hear it."

Frank was quiet, taken aback by the uncharacteristic frustration in Fletcher's tone.

"What if she moves in with one of those nutcases?" Fletcher said, kicking aside a stray pebble with his shoe. "I couldn't live with it."

Knowing he had to tread carefully on such a subject, Frank quietly asserted, "I know it can be painful, Fletcher, but she's not your responsibility."

"I just wish she had someone who could take care of her."

Those words were intended for him, and Frank knew it all too well. If Fletcher had only known how hostile Rachel had been minutes prior, maybe he would understand.

"I wish she did, too," Frank sighed.

Fletcher looked disappointed. "I really think she never got over what happened to her with my dad."

Frank felt a shudder along his spine. He glanced at the boy, hesitant to probe on such a sensitive topic. He had never heard a word about Fletcher's father from Rachel herself. As curious as he was, it was never his business to ask about the man. But Rachel wasn't here…

Frank whispered, "What happened with your dad?"

"I don't know too much about it. I don't even know his name. She doesn't like to talk about him. He went to jail right before I was born." Fletcher paused, choosing his next words carefully. "I'm pretty sure he was abusive."

The weight of Fletcher's words sank into Frank's gut like a demolished battleship. Frank looked out at the glittering water of the pool with a long exhale, suddenly dizzy with the information. It all made sense now - her tendency to fall into meaningless affairs, her strange violent kinks, her dramatic personality which seemed to have been stunted at age twenty. Had it all been because of this nameless man who had broken and abandoned her before Fletcher was even born? Anger rose within him like lava from a dormant volcano. It was probably for the best that Fletcher did not know this man's name, or else Frank would have scoured every record with the FBI to find the bastard and show him the true meaning of abuse.

"Are you gonna stay in L.A.?" Fletcher's hopeful question brought Frank back to reality.

Frank didn't have the heart to tell Fletcher about his interview in Texas. "I'll be staying in Chatsworth for the time being, at least until I find work."

"I hope you stay nearby," the boy said, with an earnestness that shocked Frank. His next words took him by surprise. "You were the closest thing I ever had to a dad."

The bright California sun illuminated a tear in Fletcher's eye, which caused Frank to choke audibly on a sob. "Fletcher, that means so much to me." He hugged the boy fiercely, wishing he had done better for him over the past decade. Looking back now it seemed ridiculous that he could have ever left either Fletcher or Rachel behind. Why did this boy's innocent confession suddenly make him question every decision he'd ever made?

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After a heartfelt conversation with Fletcher by the pool that lasted almost thirty minutes, Frank felt it safe to assume Rachel wouldn't be coming out to find them. He reluctantly walked back through the house with Fletcher.

"Will I see you at Mom's birthday party in a couple weeks?" Fletcher asked.

Frank masked a surge of bitterness as he said flippantly, "I wasn't invited."

Fletcher looked embarrassed. "Oh . . . well, maybe she just knows it wouldn't be your thing. It's a pool party. I'm sure there will be a lot of booze and stuff. To be honest, I don't know if it's really Mom's thing anymore either."

Frank was saddened by the boy's awareness. It seemed they both could see that Rachel was still holding onto part of her past that she did not have to.

As if summoned by their gossip, Rachel appeared at the top of the staircase to call for her son. Frank turned to look up at her, but she didn't meet his gaze. Fletcher looked apologetically at Frank before shaking his hand goodbye and then scaling the steps to meet his mother at the top.

The entryway was now filled with several men in work clothes and about twice as many boxes. Frank pushed aside a stray box with his foot as he tried to get through to the front doors. Having not been sealed properly, a single piece of paper slipped out of the box and onto the floor. Curious, he bent over to pick it up.

What he saw on that paper intrigued him to open the lid of the box.

Fletcher's words from back at the cabin rang in his ears. "She writes her own songs. A lot of them are really good, but she says she won't record them."

Frank gathered up a handful of papers from the box and flipped through them, intrigued and stunned by Rachel's innermost thoughts to lyrics.

The lyrics were striking. Even just reading fragments of them, poorly scribbled by a hasty hand, they left him breathless. Each song spoke of insecurity, wistfulness; a deep loneliness and emptiness that Rachel did not dare show on the outside. Her words were full of emotion, and yet they were void. He could not fathom her voice singing such words. This was not the Rachel that the world knew. These were the lyrics of a woman in torment; a woman with a thousand secrets that not one soul could bear to hear. Within those songs, Frank sensed a deep vulnerability that he only remembered seeing during rare times when he was her bodyguard.

His hands shook as he sifted through the pages, barely able to process what he read. He gripped the very last page with everything in himself, trying not to let the tears fall.

You always were a figment, even when we kissed.

Now that you're gone it's almost like you never did exist.

Never will be brave enough to stand and tell my truth.

My heart is stone but still it beats, and you're the living proof.

If the songs she sang on the radio were not about him, then this certainly was.

This was the woman he saw when he looked into her eyes. This was the woman who made love to him. This was the woman who had escaped from her private jet to tackle him on the tarmac. It was not Rachel Marron, the celebrity. It was Rachel Marron, the songwriter. This was who she really was.

He had one last chance to go back upstairs and chase her down. One last chance to show her he wasn't going to run away. One last chance, perhaps, to give himself what he had been desiring for far too long.

But something akin to terror was still holding him back, and he could not bring himself to do it.