Page 113 of White Lies
Nick’s watching me, I feel his scrutiny—heavy, intense—and it makes my throat dry. I tilt the bottle back, drinking deeply, and when I lower the bottle, Nick takes it from me, holds my stare, and the bottle goes to his lips. I watch him chug the liquid, my fingers curling on my leg, acutely aware of the intimacy of sharing my water with him.
He sets the bottle down, and I don’t even mean to, but I’m staring at him, and the look in his eyes tells me that his thoughts are with mine, and I suddenly realize his message even before he says, “You can be naked with your clothes on or off, Faith.” He reaches up and caresses my cheek. “And I do like you naked, but as you said to me, tell me whatever you want to tell me, whenever you’re ready to tell me. I’ll still be here.”
“I just—”
“No pressure.” He eases back in his seat. “For now. You were telling me my control has to have limits.”
“Are you capable of limits?”
“Control is all about limits. Is that what you want, Faith? Limits?”
I’m instantly aware of where he’s leading me, and I go there. “Control is about limits. Possibilities are not. But me owing you money feels like a limit. It might not change you, but itwillchange me. I need to pay you back. And I need to give you that money I got from my art as a down payment.”
He studies me for several beats, his expression unreadable. “You need this.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“I won’t agree to ever taking any portion of the winery. Period. No conversation. And no interest, Faith. I don’t need the money. I won’t take extra.” I open my mouth to argue, and he says, “Compromise. I’m agreeing to a payback for you, not me. Agree to my terms for me.”
“Compromise,” I repeat. “Okay. Yes. And for the record, I actually like that word. I like it a lot, and perhaps I was unfair earlier. I know you just want to help and protect me. Just please communicate, Nick, and I think that makes all the difference.”
“This seems like a good time to tell you that if I have to spend money to take care of the winery situation, I’m going to spend money.”
“And if I say I don’t want you to?”
“I’m going to take care of this for you and for us. You can’t be who you really are while being forced to be what you aren’t.”
That statement punches me in the chest with my mistakes and pretty much defines a huge portion of my life. “I don’t know how to take your help and not lose myself, too.”
“You’re putting too much emphasis on the money. Eventually you’re going to have to accept that is part of who I am. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a large bank account. I work too damn hard to get it. And I’m going to spend that money on you and with you.” He leans closer, softening his voice. “Make me understand why this is an issue. Who used money against you? Your father? Macom? Both?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Not transparent enough, or I’d already know the answers to those questions. I need to know. Communication, remember?”
“Yes. Communication. Okay. My father was more about emotional baggage. As for Macom, I don’t know if it was money or fame or both, but it went to Macom’s head.”
“Meaning what?”
“He would throw the money and fame in my face.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
“It affects you, Faith. So yes. It matters.”
“He’d criticize me and then build me up and then do it all over again. I knew that he was inherently insecure, which made his actions about him, not me. I tried to build him up and support him. Eventually, though, with him and my father talking in my ear, it wore on me. Their negativity became poison, and I started to doubt myself.”
“And the doubt led where?”
“I’m not sure it was the doubt that led me down a rabbit hole I couldn’t quite escape.” I think of the fight I just had with Nick. “Macom and I didn’t fight like you and I fight.”
“How do we fight, Faith?”
“We do what we just said. We communicate.”
“And with Macom?”