The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [129]
His vulnerability touched and surprised her, and for a fleeting moment she almost went to his side. But she couldn’t forget what he had done to Kyle—or to her, she reminded herself.
I can’t go through this again.
But I also said I’d be there if you needed to talk.
“Taylor . . . it’s really late . . . maybe tomorrow?” she suggested softly. Taylor nodded, as if he had expected her to say as much. She thought he would leave then, yet strangely he didn’t move from his spot.
In the distance Denise heard the faint rumble of thunder. The temperature was dropping, and the moisture in the air made it seem colder than it really was. A misty halo encircled the porch light, glittering like tiny diamonds, as Taylor turned to face her again.
“I also wanted to tell you about my father,” he said slowly. “It’s time you finally knew the truth.”
From his strained expression, she knew how hard it had been for him to say the words. He seemed on the verge of tears as he stood before her; this time it was her turn to look away.
Her mind flashed back to the day of the festival when he’d asked to drive her home. She’d gone against her instincts, and as a result she’d eventually received a painful lesson. Here again was another crossroads, and once more she hesitated. She sighed.
It’s not the right time, Taylor. It’s late, and Kyle’s already asleep. I’m tired and don’t think I’m ready for this just yet.
That’s what she imagined herself saying.
The words that came out, however, were different.
“All right,” she said.
He didn’t look at her from his position on the couch. With the room lit by only a single lamp, dark shadows hid his face.
“I was nine years old,” he began, “and for two weeks, we were practically buried in heat. The temperature had hovered near a hundred, even though it was still early in the summer. It had been one of the driest springs on record—not a single drop of rain in two months, and everything was splinter dry. I remember my mother and father talking about the drought and how farmers were already beginning to worry about their crops because summer had supposedly just begun. It was so hot that time just seemed to slow down. I’d wait all day for the sun to go down for some relief, but even then it didn’t help. Our house was old—it didn’t have air-conditioning or much insulation—and just lying in bed would make me sweat. I remember that my sheets would get soaked; it was impossible to sleep. I kept moving around to get comfortable, but I couldn’t. I’d just toss and turn and sweat like crazy.”
He was staring at the coffee table as he spoke, his eyes unfocused, his voice subdued. Denise watched as one hand formed into a fist, then relaxed, then formed again. Opening and closing like the door to his memory, random images slipping through the cracks.
“Back then, there was this set of plastic army soldiers that I saw in the Sears catalog. It came with tanks, jeeps, tents, and barricades—everything a kid needs to have a little war, and I don’t remember ever wanting anything more in my whole life. I used to leave the catalog open to that page so that my mom wouldn’t miss it, and when I finally got the set for my birthday, I don’t think I’d ever been more excited about a gift. But my bedroom was real small—it used to be a sewing room before I came along—and there wasn’t enough space to set it up the way I wanted, so I put the whole collection up in the attic. When I couldn’t sleep that night, that’s where I went.”
He finally looked up, a rueful sigh escaping from him, something bitter and long repressed. He shook his head as if he still didn’t believe it. Denise knew enough not to interrupt.
“It was late. It was past midnight when I snuck past my parents’ door to the steps at the end of the hall. I was so quiet—I knew where every squeak in the floor was, and I purposely avoided them so my parents wouldn’t know I was up there. And they didn’t.”
He brought his hands to his face and bent forward, hiding his face before letting his hands fall away again. His voice gained momentum.
“I don