Reckless In Love(54)

     



 

"Everything's gone terribly wrong." Charlie's words were muffled by the  fabric at her mother's chest. She lifted her tearstained face. "I should  have told him I didn't want to go to all those parties or take all the  commissions, but I didn't mind it at first. All this time I've said I'd  never change myself for anyone, but wearing the pretty dresses and  making the dumb cherubs for society patrons were all tied into helping  y-" She clapped her hand over her mouth. She'd been on a rant, not  thinking about what she was saying or how it would make her mother feel.

"Oh, honey." Her mom stroked her hair so gently that tears clouded  Charlie's eyes once more. "I know you've been turning yourself inside  out for me. A thousand times I've wanted to tell you that you've already  done more than enough."

"That...that's what I'm always telling Sebastian."

Her mother smiled. "Does he listen any better than you do?"

"No." Charlie took a shaky breath and let it go. "Neither of us  listened." Then she'd woken up this morning and found she simply  couldn't breathe anymore. "I didn't even give him a chance to listen  today." She'd blasted him with all her frustration, then told him it  would be best if she processed everything alone. As though she would be a  better, smarter version of herself without him. Only, that could never  be true.

Her mother held her gaze, her eyes serious and full of deep love. "Then  go back. Make sure he hears you. And while you're at it..." Her mother  squeezed her fingers with the little strength she had, and yet it seemed  so mighty. "Make sure you're always listening to what's in your heart  too. Even if it scares you. Even if it doesn't feel like it makes sense.  Trust yourself, honey. I always have."

The tears spilled down Charlie's cheeks. Her mother's words seemed to  echo what Charlie had tried to make Sebastian understand about his art.  Trust your heart. Because Sebastian's art came straight from his heart.  He just hadn't learned how to trust it yet.

Her mother had asked Charlie what her mile was, the one she needed to  walk every day. Now she knew. It was this-committing to Sebastian with  no more reservations, no more holding back, no more running away or  keeping secrets, no matter what.

Charlie wasn't a quitter.

And Sebastian was worth fighting for.

* * *

Sebastian had been sitting at his computer for the past hour trying to  write the damned email that would set Charlie free. An email that would  let her know he loved her with every beat of his heart and every breath  he took. That was why he had to let her go. Because he was toxic for  her. Because he knew she'd be happier without him pushing her into a  scene she didn't want to be a part of. Because he knew the art world was  her oyster, even if he wasn't there with her. And that he would always  be her biggest fan, would always appreciate every single masterpiece she  created.

But just like his drawings, the words wouldn't come out right. Dear  Charlie was as far as he'd gotten. Hell, it felt like he barely had a  grasp on the English language, for all the success he'd had stringing  together sentences that made sense.

Maybe because his chest was so tight he couldn't get enough oxygen to his brain.

Maybe because nothing made sense without Charlie in his life, without  holding her in his arms or waking up to see her beautiful face lit by  the first rays of the sun.

Or maybe it was because he'd been lying to himself all these years about  knowing the right words, about believing in yourself. Just believe and  all your dreams will come true. Charlie was his dream, so much more than  any dream he'd ever dared to have.

And now...

He shoved his chair away from the desk so hard the whole thing toppled  over, crashing to the floor. He didn't care. Didn't care if every piece  of priceless art sitting on his shelves fell and shattered into slivers.

He'd never let himself get truly drunk before, not even when he was a  teenager. He'd always been so careful not to turn into his father.

It had happened anyway, hadn't it? He'd become toxic to the woman he loved.

His hands shaking, he poured himself a full glass of whiskey. With his  gut a coiled mass and his chest so tight he was choking, he raised his  glass to the memory of his father, then tossed back the liquid in one  harsh gulp. The whiskey seared his throat going down, burned all the way  into his heart, setting fire to the image of his father laughing at  him.

His grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles turned as white as  the ghost of his father. Then, with all his anger, all his fear, all his  grief, he threw it against the brick fireplace.         

     



 

"Sebastian?"

He spun. Charlie, lips parted, eyes wide, stared at the mess in his  office, the remaining whiskey in the bottom of the glass still dripping  down the brick. He'd never needed to let her go more than he did in this  moment. Right now, when she saw it all, saw him at his worst.

But he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't find the strength to tear  off the shackles he'd bound her with. Not even when she strode to him  through the glass, her steel-toed boots crushing the shards. She was so  beautiful, everything he'd ever wanted, everything he could ever want.  She owned his heart and soul.

"I'm not running again." Her words were quiet but firm. Utterly determined. "No matter what."

"Charlie." It was the only word he could push out of his burning throat.  Her name was both a prayer and a desperate plea not to give up on him,  even after he'd given up on himself.

"I have so many things I want to ask you. So many things I want to tell  you. But first-" She held out the clipboard of sketches he'd worked on  this morning, forcing him to look. "I'm going to tell you what I see  when I look at this drawing." She traced the lines of the sketch with  one fingertip. "I see me. The real me."

He had to say, "You're far more beautiful than that." His hands could never bring out her true beauty.

"Maybe I am, but this is my essence," she insisted. "This is when I'm at  my best. When I'm working. You show that with every look you give me,  with every kiss, and with this too." Another step closer, glass  crunching beneath her boots. "Now it's your turn. Tell me what you see,  Sebastian," she whispered. "What you really see, not just what you're  afraid you see."

He was afraid. Not only of being an artistic failure, but also of  somehow diminishing her in the drawing, as his father had accused him of  doing so long ago.

"He threw my sketches into the fire." The words were out before he even  realized he'd opened his mouth. Tonight his control had fled, gone after  all these years of locking his secrets deep inside, hiding them from  the Mavericks, from Bob, even from Susan. "My father found my drawings.  When I was twelve. Of him and my mother. He hated the way I'd sketched  him. Said I made him look like a weak drunk." Only Charlie's hands over  his kept Sebastian from falling back into that night in the filthy  living room. "All I wanted was to help him, help my mom. But he and his  friends tossed my drawings into the fire, and they all burned while they  laughed." Angry, bitter laughter that had echoed inside him with every  chink in his walls. So he'd built those barriers higher, thicker, hiding  that secret part of himself. Until Charlie. Until he fell so deep, so  recklessly in love, that all the walls had shattered like the whiskey  glass against the fireplace.

Charlie gently cupped his cheek. "What did your mom do?"

"Passed out," he said as softly as the feel of her skin against him.  "She never saw a thing. Never mentioned it. She was almost like a shadow  around the house."

"That's why you stopped drawing, isn't it? Why you've been hiding all  your sketchbooks ever since. Because your father-" She spat out the word  in disgust. "-sent your dreams up in flames." She wrapped her arms  around him, holding so tightly it felt as if she could weld the pieces  of his shattered heart back together by the sheer force of her will to  heal him. "Yet you still tried to do everything you could for them."

"I spent my teenage years trying to fix them. I believed that if I  poured enough liquor down the drain or got them into rehab or AA, I  could change them. I believed I could find something to replace whatever  they were missing." He stared at the whiskey glistening on the bricks.  "But maybe there's a part of me that's just like my father," he  whispered. "Maybe that's what all the parties and galas are about. He  needed his parties too, craved them as much as he craved his next  drink."

She drew back, gripping his shoulders to force him to meet her gaze.  "Don't you ever say that. You're nothing like him. And those parties  were all about helping me. There's nothing wrong with you."

"Then why couldn't I fix my parents?" He needed to find a reason.