Vulnerable (32 page)

When Sicily left the spacious room, Rawn stood in the middle of the loft. He caught a glimpse, although barely, of Queen Anne Hill.
D'Becca used to live there. If she never moved away, she might still be alive.
The northern end of the downtown Seattle skyline, with the tip of the Space Needle in the background, looked like headlights through a windshield along a crowded freeway. Rawn placed his jacket on the stool. He blew his hands with his warm breath and walked to the fireplace. He held his hands close to the flames. Sicily returned to the front of the loft.

“Here you go!”

They met each other in the center of the floor, and before he took the towel, Sicily watched him retreat into a daydream.

“Rawn? The towel.”

“Oh!” He reached for it.

“What were you thinking?”

He shook his head side-to-side. “When someone you know dies…someone you were very intimate with dies…it's strange how you keep experiencing flashes and snippets of that person everywhere. The simplest of details. Someone might stand next to you and wear the same perfume. A laugh from someone you can't make out—the laugh is similar to hers. All the idiosyncrasies crowd your mind with chaos.”

“What did I conjure up?”

“The first time D'Becca came to my apartment, she ended up there because we were walking, and typical of Washington weather, it started to pour down rain. When we were at my place I gave her a towel, like you did now, and it seemed—back then, Sicily, I couldn't imagine being in this mind-set, in this…situation: someone you were intimate with dies a violent death; the constant not knowing.”

Sicily took a breath and replied, “I know.”

When Rawn looked up, because of Sicily's demeanor and the pitch of her voice, he sensed that she was down about something.
Over the course of several years, they had grown quite close. Rawn could not determine if she was uncomfortable with his being there, or something else was going on in her life. He did not feel particularly at ease in seeking details, even when he knew she might want his ear. They were in an awkward place, and not solely because of his temporary leave of absence. Rawn was a very visible man at the moment; especially locally. The ongoing publicity his situation placed on the Academy was something that could only die down if he stopped teaching at Gumble-Wesley; at least until the spectacle eased up. Even though there was no direct evidence and Rawn had not been arrested, the Crescent Island police department's investigation focused strictly on his relationship with D'Becca. They looked into her relationship with Sebastian Michaels, but he was swiftly cleared.

And then there was, for Rawn anyway, the issue of Tamara.

He decided to ask because she was sulking. “What's wrong?” He was not sure which he preferred: that she claim nothing was wrong, or that she pour out her heart to him.

“I don't have beer, but would you care for wine?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Minutes later they sat on Sicily's aubergine velour sofa and she said, “Tamara left!”

Rawn looked away from the burning fire and turned to Sicily, his face implying bewilderment. “What do you mean by
left?”

“I broke down. It goes against the values I live by, but I did it; like a desperate woman, I went to her boutique because she wasn't returning my calls. Some young girl—probably not a day over twenty-one—was, as she said, ‘boutique sitting.' She claims Tamara went to Europe on business and she wasn't sure if she would be back before the New Year.”

“Why do you say
claims?”

Her eyes glossy, Sicily sipped her wine, and Rawn noticed that her hand was trembling. No longer in his comfort zone, he was not sure who to be or what to do. All of a sudden, his life was demanding that he be someone he was not sure how to be—emotionally, spiritually. He would have to navigate through all of it blindly. He would have to pick up survival instincts along the way.

“Rawn…” Sicily pursed her lips. “I fell for her. And harder than I thought.”

Rawn looked down into the deep magenta wine.

“I know you need a friend right now. And Lord, poor D'Becca. I prayed for her, Rawn. I actually
liked
her. I gave you a hard time, I know. But I got to know her a little and realized she is—was good people.” Sicily lowered her eyes. “But…” She reached over and rubbed his arm that rested against the back of the sofa. “I guess I've been too selfish.”

Rawn swallowed hard.

“Tamara shared some things with me, but….” She paused, trying to decide whether she wanted to reveal the information. Sicily gazed into the burning fire.

Although Rawn was not sure he wanted to know, he asked, “What, Sicily?”

“She gave me several hints. I look back now…And I know we didn't know each other long, but… Not as long as you knew D'Becca.”

“You said hints?”

“Let me say this: she talked about Henderson constantly. That was not even a
hint
. That was like waving a red flag at a bull. I have a Ph.D. in psychology, Rawn. If a gay person came to me and told me that someone they were falling for or talked nonstop about another person—especially a person of the opposite sex—I'd advise them to run and don't,
don't!,
look back. She was—no,
is
obsessed with Henderson Payne. She told me that she connected with
women from the soul, but that men made her feel
whole
. What the hell does that mean? She's definitely not gay. I'm not even sure she's bi. She plays with your mind. I believe we're getting really obnoxious when it comes to labels, but what would you call someone like her? She uses…she manipulates people. The psych in me knows that very well. But…” She reached for her wineglass and took a long gulp of the liquor, like she was drinking water. “Experience has taught me all too well not to get tangled up with a woman who has an obsession with a
man!
How can I reconcile my own weakness with?…” Sicily finished off the wine.

Rawn had to push the memory of Tamara's face in his lap into the back of his mind. The sound of Sicily's self-pitying voice kept him focused.

“One night we were at her boutique. In fact, the last time I saw her. She needed to stop and get some sketches. I was walking around looking at the dresses while she checked her website for orders. I saw this journal amid paperwork. It was a beautiful leather journal which is why it probably caught my eye. I couldn't stop myself from picking it up. I knew it was private, although Tamara's the type to hand it over and say enjoy! But I digress.” Sicily pushed her hair away from her face in that quite feminine way she often did. “I looked inside. I wanted to know what, if anything, did she say about me—us. What we shared, what it meant to her. I didn't want her catching me, so I flipped through it clumsily and I'm not even sure how I ended up on the last page. It was dated the Saturday following Thanksgiving.” Sicily's voice was borderline sarcastic. She was verging on contempt. “That entry,” she went on, “was all about someone new she met. A
man.
What the?…I couldn't believe it. She wrote
He's my new Henderson.
Those were her exact words. And still…” She started to take a drink of her wine but realized her glass was empty. “Stupid, stupid me! I
wracked my brain…Who is this man? Tamara is insane when it comes to Henderson. This other man…I mean, Henderson is…She's sooooo obsessed with Henderson. Henderson this, Henderson that…”

“You were vulnerable…”

“How?” she raised her voice.
“How
could I be such a fool? I feel like all that internal work I've done…for what?”

Sicily began to cry and Rawn did not know what to do. One part of him wanted to hold her and another part of him wanted to rush to his feet and run. Run fast and never look back. How many men—cowards—did this? Got caught up in what Khalil referred to it as a ménage à trois and could not handle the consequences. It was less complicated, without all the name-calling and in-your-face confrontation, to disappear.

“Sicily…”

She wiped the tears from her eyes. “What?”

“Look at me.”

Ashamed, it took a moment for her to turn her head slightly. Feeling short of humiliated, she met Rawn's somber look. In a quiet voice, she said, “What?” sniffing her runny nose.

“There's something I need—something I should tell you.”

T
he week leading up to Christmas was a lonely time for Rawn. One week ago, while he sat in Sicily's warm and cozy loft, he knew what he was about to say meant that he could not go back, and the touchstone of their relationship would never be the same. While he sat listening to her lost in a deep melancholy, he kept battling between full disclosure and enough of the truth so it would set him free. In doing that, it could cost him a friendship.

He sat in his apartment alone, pecking with the keys to the piano. He tried not to think about his life over the past month or whether he should go home for the holiday. Rawn slowly began to grasp the idea that life was not merely mysterious; there were ambiguous nuances. Still young, yet a mature soul, he never paid close attention to his experiences, and nor did he take them too seriously. When something happened in his life, he acknowledged it in a rather oblique way. He did not stand that close to the moment. When it became apparent that a shift took place, Rawn could not determine exactly what; he adjusted his thinking without analyzing it. Now, however, he paid attention to each moment to the point of distraction. He took notice of the changes in the day, its rise and fall; its color scheme. How long had he taken things—his life—for granted? “You can be so basic, Rawn,” Khalil had once said to him in a conversation. Had it never occurred to him to be on the lookout for an occasional surprise? No, it was not the way Rawn thought; he did not approach life in that way. And yet as his mother said to
him not twenty-four hours ago, “It's time to grow up, Rawn.” Her words stunned him. She concluded, “It's time to be your own man. Your father can pull out his checkbook, but he cannot save you from
you
.” Rawn admired his mother's honesty; her directness. But what he failed to say to her was that he was only human. Perhaps because it was what he had said to Sicily that rainy evening at her loft, and her response to those words made him feel as though they were much too hollow.

Rawn never had to work very hard at anything. He was naturally smart, naturally good-looking, and effortlessly perceptive. It was the glorious nature of his life's blessing and the solid foundation upon which his life had rested. Growing up, he took advantage of his father's season seats to the Broncos and the Nuggets; without knowing it, he took for granted being able to ski in Vail and take hikes in Aspen. Growing up, it never occurred to Rawn that his experiences were not everyone's experience. Right after high school graduation, he and Khalil took a six-week trip to Europe, getting high off hashish, and sleeping in hostels long enough to get some shut-eye. He had quality resources at his disposal. His life had been a profound blessing. Rawn now understood, though, that even when life was limited to having things generally go your way, the extraordinary nature of living similarly came with a downside.

While he wanted to contact D'Becca's parents—at least her mother—he was advised not to do so. But nothing felt right. Nothing made sense. The one person he could let go with, other than Khalil, was Sicily. That trust had been damaged, which was a byproduct of deception. Rawn, nevertheless, held out hope that the mistrust would not be eternal.

He stopped pecking at the keys, and because he thought he heard someone at the door, he turned. He listened. He waited. It was probably a squirrel, he told himself. Every now and then he
would stop what he was doing and turn around, expecting D'Becca to be there. Would that turn out to be the case with Sicily? For days after the evening at her loft, Rawn tried very hard to bury the feelings. The look on her face when he had told her, “I think Tamara might have been referring to me”—it had reduced him to an empty shell. The information was not offered because he was so full of himself, as Sicily had accused him of being. It was presented in view of the fact that he had knowledge Sicily was not privy to.

“And what exactly does that mean?” she had said. By the look on her face, it was like she had known all along.

“The day after Thanksgiving,” he had started. “I was supposed to hook up with D'Becca. I wasn't in the mood and as… Later I decided we could catch a film. We had planned to go shopping at Pacific Place. She left a message on my machine that she was going to go without me. Something in her voice…I picked up on her disappointment so I came to Seattle. When I got inside the mall, it was crowded and I couldn't find her.” Rawn did not look directly into her face, but from the corner of his eye, he observed Sicily crossing her arms stiffly. “I ran into Tamara. She invited me to her place for…”

“She invited
you
over to her place?”

His look told her to let him finish. She exhaled a deep breath; her body language gradually became colder and stiffer. He had sat in her loft wondering, would that decisive moment—on Black Friday—eventually recede from his mind?

“We talked for a while and I looked up and she was…she was there…”

“I don't want to hear anymore!” Sicily had rushed to her feet. Her back to Rawn, she then said, “I…D'Becca—we both picked up on you two. I knew it wasn't only me, but I didn't give it that much thought.”
She had then turned and looked Rawn dead in the eyes that were truly the windows to his soul. “I knew that you would never betray me. Even though I got lost inside Tamara, I admit I didn't trust her completely. But you, Rawn? I would trust you with my debit card and the PIN number because I know you'd never steal from me. How could?…”