Paul's relentless midwestern courtesy would not permit him to abandon a crying woman, no matter how fervently she insisted it would be best if he left; instead he ushered her into the house, sat her down at the kitchen table and started brewing a fresh pot of coffee while Noah played with his blocks in the living room and Olivia watched from the far side of the kitchen, aghast and embarrassed.
She didn't do this. Didn't fuck married men, didn't cheat on her lovers, didn't fall to pieces when a kind man rebuked her; these days she felt as if she hardly recognized herself. The very foundations of her life had been ripped away and she was floundering without them, lonesome and uncertain and haunted by the thought that she might have been better off if the cartel had just killed her; in many ways, she felt as if she were dead already.
But she was still breathing, and Paul was still in her kitchen, handing her a fresh cup of coffee with a worried look on his face, and she could not stop the wheels from turning, no matter how hard she tried.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was fighting too hard to hold on to a life, an identity, she'd already lost. Maybe it was time she gave up, and accepted her fate.
"Thank you," she said, taking the cup Paul offered her. He smiled at her softly, sadly, and then sat down across the time from her, something expectant in his gaze, as if now that he had calmed her down and made her coffee she owed him some kind of explanation.
Maybe she did. Maybe she owed him the truth. The night before she'd taken him in her arms and held him in her bed and then he'd watched as another man arrived to take his place, and he must have been hurting, angry, and it would've been so much easier to push him away, to ignore him, to provide him no answers, to never speak to him again. That was what Olivia would've done, back in New York; she'd have run from him. Would have run from his wounded heart and her own mistakes and the unpleasant confrontation that was brewing, would've felt safer on her own than with him. Maybe Lindsey wouldn't run, though. Maybe Lindsey could be honest, and vulnerable, and maybe she'd be better off for it. Maybe Lindsey needed a friend more than Olivia had ever let herself believe she did.
Olivia would not have told Paul the truth; Lindsey did."I'm sorry," she said. It felt pathetic, her apology; he'd caught her red handed fucking another man, could no doubt see the mark Elliot had left on her neck when he looked at her now, and all she could think to say was sorry.
Sorry didn't begin to cover it. She was more sorry than she could express, and guilt churned her belly when she looked at him. How could she have done this, to Paul, to Kathy? How could she have been so cavalier, so reckless, not just with her heart, not just with Elliot's, but with the hearts of those who cared for them?
Because you wanted to, a dark voice seemed to whisper in the back of her mind. She'd wanted it. The touch of Elliot's hand, the burning, blinding intensity of his affections; she'd wanted it, wanted him, had wanted it for so long that her resolve had finally, finally wavered, unable to resist the calling of her battered heart a second longer. In the moment, she wanted it; she wanted to be held, to be loved, to be seen, by him. By Elliot, by the one man who meant more to her than any other.
Sometimes the wanting of a thing was sweeter than having it; she'd had a taste of him now, and it had ruined her.
Olivia would not have told Paul the truth; Lindsey did.
"This isn't like me," she continued. "I don't…I don't do things like this. Sometimes…sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am out here."
To speak the truth so plainly, to lay her heart bare, required a titanic effort. Such candid disclosure of the inner workings of her heart had never been her style, before; to let someone in, to let them see the ugly center of her, was anathema to her. She was never so candid with anyone; well, anyone but Elliot. Elliot had seen more than most. From the very first, she'd let him see more than most, let him know her, relied on him, let herself rely on him, to need him, to trust him as she'd never trusted anyone else, and Elliot left her, and tore her in half when he went. The devastation he'd left in his wake seemed to prove that she was right, to be wary, on guard, not to let anyone in, but keeping everyone out hadn't saved her from calamity.
"I can understand that," Paul said slowly, carefully; it didn't sound like forgiveness, and his eyes were wary, but he offered her grace despite his own aggrieved heart, his own wounded pride. "Your husband died, you're a thousand miles from home, you're trying to do everything by yourself, you're lonely. And he knew that, didn't he?"
The implication was clear; Paul believed that Lindsey's husband had been abusive, and he knew that someone else had left scars on her skin, and now he saw Marshall, turning up in the middle of the night, bullish and aggressive, and he'd seen her tears this morning, heard her lament. Paul thought Marshall had manipulated her, used her, seen a woman who was weak and gone in for the kill. For a second Olivia just stared at him, horrified at his assumptions and yet unsure how to dispel them. She couldn't let him go on thinking Marshall was a monster, because Elliot wasn't, and she wanted to defend him - had always, would always defend him - but more than that she couldn't let him go on thinking she was so vulnerable.
She couldn't let him think she was a victim. She'd spent so much of her life trying not to be.
"It's not like that," she started to say, but Paul shot her a dark look.
"Isn't it?" he said. "You told me you didn't have any friends here, but you have Mary and Marshall. Are they the only people you know in Omaha? Did you move out here to be close to him?"
"No," she insisted. "No, I didn't even know they were living here before I moved."
Until that first day when Elliot came marching into her kitchen she had believed she'd never see him again. Thought he was gone, forever, and finding him again had brought both relief and devastation. It was a relief, to hear his voice, to know that he was watching over her once more, to find the missing piece of her heart returned to her, but oh it was a devastation the likes of which she'd never known.
"And you've been here what, like two months? And you're already…"
And you're already fucking him.
That was all it took. Two months in the same city, and they'd fallen into bed together, and ruined everything. This never would've happened in New York, she thought; if she'd still been at home, still been Olivia, still been sitting in her office in the 1-6 with her friends around her, walking familiar streets and certain of who she was, she would never have done this.
Would she?
"It was a mistake," she forced herself to say. Fucking Elliot was a mistake, she was certain. It was a mistake, but it still didn't feel wrong. Somehow, his arms around her felt like the only thing that had gone right since she arrived.
"I don't…I don't want to hurt Mary."
I don't want to steal Kathy's husband. I can't.
"I don't want you to hurt yourself," Paul said. "I look at you and…you're hurting, Lindsey. Whatever this is, you and him, it's…he's hurting you."
That wasn't quite right, Olivia thought. Elliot wasn't hurting her; she was hurting herself. Two nights he'd come to her, two nights he'd touched her, two nights he'd sworn he'd leave if she told him to, two nights he'd left it up to her to make the decision, and two nights she'd chosen. Chosen him, and the damning burning heat of him, chosen him, and the way her body sang for him, chosen him, and the few fragile moments of bliss their union provided, chosen him, and all the carnage their love wrought. She'd chosen this.
"It's my own fault," she said, and watched Paul's eyes soften with pity. Christ, what he must think of her, sitting there blaming herself when Paul thought Marshall was the instigator, the one taking advantage. What he didn't understand, what she'd never be able to explain to him - or anyone else for that matter - was that whatever Elliot did, she did, too. The choices of one were echoed in the other; he carried no more blame than she did.
"Why don't you hate me?" she asked him then.
She'd have hated him, if their roles were reversed. If she'd caught Paul fucking another woman the same damn night he'd fucked her, she'd have hated him for it. Would've scheduled an STD test and blocked his number; probably would've struck him, if he'd dared come near her again. Not even two full months into a relationship they'd yet to put a label on, she'd have decided he wasn't worth her time, and walked away. A man would have to be crazy, she thought, to continue to pursue a woman after a betrayal like that. To see just how much baggage she was carrying and just how much trouble she could cause, and reach for her anyway.
Apparently Paul was fucking crazy. Or maybe, maybe he was just crazy for her.
"Hate's a strong word," he said ruefully. "I'm hurt and I'm angry but I don't hate you Lindsey. I think you're struggling. I'd like to help."
Why? She wondered. Why bother? Why shoulder this burden, why subject himself to so much drama and strife, for a woman he barely knew? Was the guy a saint?
"You've been a good friend to me," she said. "I don't have too many of those."
"I want to be your friend," he told her. "I've…I've been having a good time with you and I'm not ready for it to end. But I can't be your friend if you keep this up."
The carrot and the stick, she thought. He was dangling his friendship in front of her, the promise of a shoulder to cry on, a good man to keep her company, someone to help banish the loneliness, but the offer of his friendship was contingent on her not fucking Elliot again, not hurting Paul again. Historically Olivia had not ever responded well to ultimatums; she hated having anyone - especially a man she was fucking - tell her what to do, how to live her life. It was no one's place to control her, and back home she'd have called his conditions a red flag, and walked away from him.
But she wasn't home, anymore. She wasn't Olivia, anymore. And she had no intention of fucking Elliot again, anyway. Paul wasn't asking anything of her she had not already resolved to provide; she couldn't let Elliot touch her again. Couldn't open herself up to this hurt again, couldn't risk further damage to his marriage, his family. It was Elliot who'd come to her with eyes bright and desperate, all but begging her to make a choice he was not strong enough to make himself, and send him home. Next time - shit, she really hoped there wouldn't be a next time, but if there was - she would send him home. She would protect him from himself. She would make sure Eli grew up in a house with both his parents. She would be better.
"It's over," she said.
"Good," Paul smiled, and reached across the table, and covered her hand with his own.