Driftwood 15
Title: Driftwood (15/?)
Pairings/Characters: Stephen/Other, Stephen/Evie, Stephen/Jon
Rating: PG13
Summary: Kathryn makes a decision, and Evie has an announcement.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Notes: Gosh I love getting all the comments on each update! It really makes my night to see them. So keep on commenting! :) Also, I loved writing Kathryn's mom in this--I pictured her as some old pursed woman saying with disdain, "that...actor man." as she poked at her cold Italian food. Win.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 |
The next weeks blurred in my memory. At some point, I returned to the doctor, and was told my body had done what it had needed to do. He counseled me to wait a few months before getting pregnant again. I just stared at him, nodding dumbly. Sure thing, doc. I'll get right on that. He waited a beat and asked if I was interested in birth control. I told him no. I laid in bed trying to sleep most nights, my hand on my stomach, staring at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck was happening to my life. The last two months rewound in a constant loop in my thoughts. I couldn't stop thinking about Stephen, couldn't shake him from my thoughts, and that was even worse after all that had happened. I thought about the media, and how nasty it had gotten, and how frightened and invaded I still felt. I thought about being pregnant. What a horrible phrase, "miscarry" is. Like dropping a slippery gallon of milk on the kitchen floor--that's a 'miscarry'. Like somehow it was my fault (although secretly I thought it was. I cringed when I remembered our tequila night).
I promised myself I wouldn't call him again, as badly as I wanted to. The universe had sent me a giant get out of jail free card, and I knew I needed to use it. I found the strength to block his number, but he hadn't contacted me either. The number block didn't stop me from laying in bed at night, feeling alone and sorry for myself, and missing Stephen so badly my body ached, wishing life could be different for me. I knew I was doing the right thing, but it hurt so much, and it seemed like an insurmountable task. Get over Stephen? How about you just get over having a pulse, or a right arm? Impossible.
One afternoon in late September, nearly two months after the infamous hotel room night, I got a phone call from my mother. I actually answered it this time, and she asked if we wanted to go grab a bite to eat. It was unusual for her to do that, a warning sign blinking in my head, but I took her up on the offer. We picked a small Italian place, and I swung by to pick her up. Lucy was delighted to see her grandparents, and after a quick chat with my father, we headed out, leaving him to watch her. I was on guard, knowing she had a specific reason for this meal, even if she pretended she didn't.
We had never really discussed what had happened to me, beyond one extremely awkward conversation when I returned to Florida, filled with silences and a futile attempt for me to explain that "it just, you know, happened." I know it was embarrassing to my family, who were still very active in the church. It was shameful of me, and the result negative publicity storm had affected their lives too. I knew they were fielding questions from other church members, dirty looks across the aisles, and I loathed that my choices had done that to them. On top of all the media attention, their only daughter had gotten divorced (I remember my mother telling me "well now, you're not REALLY divorced. I mean, legally yes. But spiritually, you and James will always remained married." The word "annulment" was verboten their home). I had really fucked up, and I knew it. I hated feeling like a guilty child when I was around them, and our relationship in the last two months had been very strained. I had never told her about the miscarriage, as badly as I had wanted to do it--I couldn't recall a moment in my adult life when I wanted my mother more, but there was no way I was going to put her through that. I was expecting to get reamed over eggplant parmesan.
We made light conversation about my business, and Lucy's preschool. I asked how church was, and she talked excitedly about the formation classes she taught for children. Then, at the midway point through our dishes of mussels and pasta, she spoke.
"Kathryn, I brought you here for a reason."
I finished chewing, and took a fortifying sip of win. Here comes the guilt police.
"I want to talk about that... actor man."
I choked on the wine, coughing into my napkin, and took a gulp of water. She was calmly twirling pasta on her fork, clearly enjoying my discomfort, a small smile on her face.
"I know you better than any other person on this earth. We don't talk like we used to, and that hurts me. But what hurts me more is seeing you waste away your life on someone who can't, or won't, give you what you need to be happy."
I felt the tears swelling in my eyes, and I stared down at my napkin, struggling to hold it together. I didn't know anyone who could make me cry easier than my mother, who always knew exactly where to hit me at, when she wanted to. We didn't have a great relationship because we irritated each other so easily, but she knew me well.
"Mom..."
"Kathy, we want you to be *happy*. Love isn't like this. Love doesn't desert you when they flip your life upside down. I don't know what inspired you to become involved in a married man, and I blame myself for that. Maybe at some point, I didn't support you the way you needed to be supported, or lift you up the way you needed to be lifted up. But now I am here, and I am saying to you--it's time for you to move on."
I still hadn't lifted my eyes up from my lap, and I felt the words right in my heart. She was right. I knew she was right. Her words touched me, and I found myself crying openly, wiping my tears with the rough cloth napkin. I suddenly wanted to tell her about the miscarriage, but I knew instinctively that she would never forgive herself for not being there for me with it, even if that was because she hadn't known.
"You were doing so well there for a while after your divorce. I know James was cheating on you, we all know. And as much as we feel that you two should have tried to work things out, I was so pleased to see how well you were doing." I wanted to interrupt her and tell her, "I was doing so well because I had Stephen!" but I kept my closed in a tight line, fighting the tears.
"I want to see you happy like that again. Ever since we... found out about this... man, you've lost the light in your smile. I know you're hurting baby. I know all the attention has been hard for you."
The tears came harder, even as I wanted to laugh at her attempt to talk about Stephen. I felt like a teenager again, my mother comforting me after my high school boyfriend move away to college. I met James shortly after that.
She didn't know the half of it. I took another drink of water, trying to calm down and stop crying so we could talk.
"Mom, I love him." My voice was shakey though, and betrayed how I felt.
She was poking at her pasta. She shook her head.
"Impossible." The irritation bristled up in me, the old frustration at my mother's stubbornness and bad habit of acting like her opinions are cold facts.
"That's not impossible!"
"I just told you, love isn't like this. He's married."
I felt throwing my mussel shells at her.
"Gee, really? You know, I hadn't really picked up on that fact in the last few months. Perhaps I should have read more newspapers." Loving daughter and mother moment, gone.
"Don't turn your sarcasm on at me. You know what I mean."
I was silent, picking the meat out of the shells and scooting the little piles around in the sauce. My wine glass was empty, and I wanted more. As much as I was so easily irritated at my mother, I knew she was right.
"Still, that doesn't mean we don't love...each other." I felt uncomfortable speaking for him in this conversation, because that was not a word we had ever uttered to each other before. But I felt reasonably confident that even if Stephen no longer cared about me (a fear that spread like lava in my stomach when I thought about it, growing hotter each day) he did at one point, and I had photographic proof, damnit.
But my mother didn't see my point, and instead got flustered, throwing her napkin down on her laps and leaning across the table.
"Are you telling me you are still involved with this man?" She said man like it was an insult. I rolled my eyes and looked for a waiter, intending to ask that she just cut the crap and bring the entire bottle of wine to the table.
"I am not involved with Stephen anymore." I shot back, emphasizing his name. She brushed it off with a gesture.
"Well, good."
We sat in a stony silence, picking at our food.
"Move on with your life, Kathryn. Do it for yourself, and do it for your daughter. He is not for you." She said calmly, and I knew it was the end of the discussion. The waitress popped up a few moments later and asked how things were. I asked for the bill, my appetite gone.
As I drove my mother home, we found other things to talk about, my embarrassing affair pushed back under the family carpet for the time being. But even as I felt my anger flash at her, I knew she was right. When I got ready for bed that night, instead of having my usual cry fest, I smoked a bowl and picked a sci-fi novel up, deliberating setting my mind on something else. Stephen was gone. Life moved on. My heart may not, but I couldn't control that. I made my choice. I always felt better making a choice.
Stephen
"Stephen, I want a divorce."
She standing at the doorway of my home office. I spun around at the desk, away from my email and stared at her. Her arms were crossed, and she was giving me a level look. Steely. Ice cold.
I can't speak. I stare at her, gaped mouthed.
"What?"
"I can't be held responsible for the dead look in your eyes anymore. Everyone can see it," her tone rising, "I can't believe it. People sided with you. I shouldn't be surprised, because you are so fucking charming."
I still said nothing, the thoughts processing like mud in my skull. A divorce. A divorce. A divorce? After everything, 4 months after it all settled down, now she says it? I hadn't spoken to Kathryn since our conversation in my office, and my lame apology. As far as I assumed, she dropped me like a rock, and I knew I deserved it. I tried to find happiness in that fact, that our silence meant she was moving forward away from me, but it was hard going. I was frustrated, because I was relying so heavily on the writers at work to pick up my slack. I still loved going to it each day--as long as I had curiosity, I would find show material. But it felt harder to put "him" on each night, and I began to fear that it was affecting my performance. I asked Jon about this one evening over beers, a few weeks before Evie showed up at the office door.
"Stephen, no one can tell how miserable you are."
"I can tell dude."
"Well, so can I, but seriously, I don't think it's coming across on the show. You know the network is still watching you like a hawk, and they haven't said a word about it to me."
The bar was quiet and empty on a Wednesday night, and we picked one near our houses across the river, not in the city. We sat next to each other at a corner table, holding beers and absent minded watching the sports selection. The bar was decorated for Christmas, but cheaply, with lights strung up loosely through the rafters.
"Obviously I've had to fake it before. We've both had to, when we have real life shit to deal with. But this is different."
"How so?"
Because I've resigned myself to the rest of my life trapped in a bitter marriage, while the woman I feel like I should be with walks the face of the earth without me, and the shadow of my indiscretion poisoning my career. That's what I wanted to say to him. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic.
"Because it fucking sucks," was what I responded with. He stared at me, silent, thinking.
I finished my beer, and nodded at the bartender for a second one. We came here frequently, and I knew he knew who we were, but he kept it cool and silent, the way a good bartender should.
"Stephen, man, I know this has been hard for you. You don't talk about it, and that's cool, you know? I'm here for you in whatever you need to talk about. But I think you need to try and move on from this as much as you can. Reconnect with Evie, put the time into your kids. It's been months. This has hurt your career and your family enough, don't let it get worse."
I heard his words, my eyes landing on a neon beer sign across the pool tables from us. I felt a sharp ping of fear. It's been months, and I loved her as much as I did the day I saw her in the hotel hallway. Could I do it? Could I really spend the rest of my life with this? I didn't see what other option I had. When I was alone...my thoughts always strayed to her. I couldn't forgive myself for what had happened to her, and how deeply I was responsible for it. I had accepted that I loved Kathryn like I had never loved Evie, and it absolutely slayed me inside to know she was gone. But I took that as punishment for what I had done. I was trapped. I deserved that pain. For not the first time in my life, I wish I had my father to talk to.
I just stared at Evie, remembering Jon's words. I had taken his advice, and we had gone on a trip to Vermont a few weeks before, just the two of us over the weekend. It wasn't perfect, and we fought like cats and dogs, but it was an improvement. I found Evie's mouth sharp and hurtful, and her demeanor cold, but I tried to find the young woman I had married so long ago there. It was going to take work. But if the marriage is what I had, I was going to throw everything I had at it. We even managed to have sex for the first time in ages, and it wasn't half-bad, considering what I had to compare it to (nothing compared to Kathryn, I thought bitterly). I thought things were looking up, and this was the last thing I had expected her to say.
She stared back at me, waiting for a reply.
"I don't know what to say..." I began, slowly. "I want you to be happy. If that's what you want, I understand why. I won't fight it." What else could I say to her? She had every reason in the world to want me gone.
"I had my suspicions you had found someone else. I honestly didn't know when you would have found the time. I wasn't that surprised when I found out. But those pictures." She stopped, turning away from me to stare at a calender on the wall, her jaw tight and locked. I stayed silent. She had never spoken on this. After everything I had put her through, the pictures were a subject that never ever got brought up between us. I was too ashamed.
"I'd almost had rather they caught you with your pants down. It might have been less embarrassing."
Stab, right in the gut. Evie, one point. Stephen, straight to hell.
I stood up slowly, taking a step towards her, "Evelyn..."
"Time was Stephen, you used to look at me like that. I know how she feels. But this just needs to stop."
I froze solid on the carpet. Guilt washed over me.
"I don't want to do this to you."
"I know. That's why I'm doing it to you."
And before I could open my mouth to reply, she had turned away from the doorway, her feet retreating up the hall and the bedroom door shutting behind her. I was left standing in the office, the only sound the thudding of my heart.
Pairings/Characters: Stephen/Other, Stephen/Evie, Stephen/Jon
Rating: PG13
Summary: Kathryn makes a decision, and Evie has an announcement.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Notes: Gosh I love getting all the comments on each update! It really makes my night to see them. So keep on commenting! :) Also, I loved writing Kathryn's mom in this--I pictured her as some old pursed woman saying with disdain, "that...actor man." as she poked at her cold Italian food. Win.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 |
The next weeks blurred in my memory. At some point, I returned to the doctor, and was told my body had done what it had needed to do. He counseled me to wait a few months before getting pregnant again. I just stared at him, nodding dumbly. Sure thing, doc. I'll get right on that. He waited a beat and asked if I was interested in birth control. I told him no. I laid in bed trying to sleep most nights, my hand on my stomach, staring at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck was happening to my life. The last two months rewound in a constant loop in my thoughts. I couldn't stop thinking about Stephen, couldn't shake him from my thoughts, and that was even worse after all that had happened. I thought about the media, and how nasty it had gotten, and how frightened and invaded I still felt. I thought about being pregnant. What a horrible phrase, "miscarry" is. Like dropping a slippery gallon of milk on the kitchen floor--that's a 'miscarry'. Like somehow it was my fault (although secretly I thought it was. I cringed when I remembered our tequila night).
I promised myself I wouldn't call him again, as badly as I wanted to. The universe had sent me a giant get out of jail free card, and I knew I needed to use it. I found the strength to block his number, but he hadn't contacted me either. The number block didn't stop me from laying in bed at night, feeling alone and sorry for myself, and missing Stephen so badly my body ached, wishing life could be different for me. I knew I was doing the right thing, but it hurt so much, and it seemed like an insurmountable task. Get over Stephen? How about you just get over having a pulse, or a right arm? Impossible.
One afternoon in late September, nearly two months after the infamous hotel room night, I got a phone call from my mother. I actually answered it this time, and she asked if we wanted to go grab a bite to eat. It was unusual for her to do that, a warning sign blinking in my head, but I took her up on the offer. We picked a small Italian place, and I swung by to pick her up. Lucy was delighted to see her grandparents, and after a quick chat with my father, we headed out, leaving him to watch her. I was on guard, knowing she had a specific reason for this meal, even if she pretended she didn't.
We had never really discussed what had happened to me, beyond one extremely awkward conversation when I returned to Florida, filled with silences and a futile attempt for me to explain that "it just, you know, happened." I know it was embarrassing to my family, who were still very active in the church. It was shameful of me, and the result negative publicity storm had affected their lives too. I knew they were fielding questions from other church members, dirty looks across the aisles, and I loathed that my choices had done that to them. On top of all the media attention, their only daughter had gotten divorced (I remember my mother telling me "well now, you're not REALLY divorced. I mean, legally yes. But spiritually, you and James will always remained married." The word "annulment" was verboten their home). I had really fucked up, and I knew it. I hated feeling like a guilty child when I was around them, and our relationship in the last two months had been very strained. I had never told her about the miscarriage, as badly as I had wanted to do it--I couldn't recall a moment in my adult life when I wanted my mother more, but there was no way I was going to put her through that. I was expecting to get reamed over eggplant parmesan.
We made light conversation about my business, and Lucy's preschool. I asked how church was, and she talked excitedly about the formation classes she taught for children. Then, at the midway point through our dishes of mussels and pasta, she spoke.
"Kathryn, I brought you here for a reason."
I finished chewing, and took a fortifying sip of win. Here comes the guilt police.
"I want to talk about that... actor man."
I choked on the wine, coughing into my napkin, and took a gulp of water. She was calmly twirling pasta on her fork, clearly enjoying my discomfort, a small smile on her face.
"I know you better than any other person on this earth. We don't talk like we used to, and that hurts me. But what hurts me more is seeing you waste away your life on someone who can't, or won't, give you what you need to be happy."
I felt the tears swelling in my eyes, and I stared down at my napkin, struggling to hold it together. I didn't know anyone who could make me cry easier than my mother, who always knew exactly where to hit me at, when she wanted to. We didn't have a great relationship because we irritated each other so easily, but she knew me well.
"Mom..."
"Kathy, we want you to be *happy*. Love isn't like this. Love doesn't desert you when they flip your life upside down. I don't know what inspired you to become involved in a married man, and I blame myself for that. Maybe at some point, I didn't support you the way you needed to be supported, or lift you up the way you needed to be lifted up. But now I am here, and I am saying to you--it's time for you to move on."
I still hadn't lifted my eyes up from my lap, and I felt the words right in my heart. She was right. I knew she was right. Her words touched me, and I found myself crying openly, wiping my tears with the rough cloth napkin. I suddenly wanted to tell her about the miscarriage, but I knew instinctively that she would never forgive herself for not being there for me with it, even if that was because she hadn't known.
"You were doing so well there for a while after your divorce. I know James was cheating on you, we all know. And as much as we feel that you two should have tried to work things out, I was so pleased to see how well you were doing." I wanted to interrupt her and tell her, "I was doing so well because I had Stephen!" but I kept my closed in a tight line, fighting the tears.
"I want to see you happy like that again. Ever since we... found out about this... man, you've lost the light in your smile. I know you're hurting baby. I know all the attention has been hard for you."
The tears came harder, even as I wanted to laugh at her attempt to talk about Stephen. I felt like a teenager again, my mother comforting me after my high school boyfriend move away to college. I met James shortly after that.
She didn't know the half of it. I took another drink of water, trying to calm down and stop crying so we could talk.
"Mom, I love him." My voice was shakey though, and betrayed how I felt.
She was poking at her pasta. She shook her head.
"Impossible." The irritation bristled up in me, the old frustration at my mother's stubbornness and bad habit of acting like her opinions are cold facts.
"That's not impossible!"
"I just told you, love isn't like this. He's married."
I felt throwing my mussel shells at her.
"Gee, really? You know, I hadn't really picked up on that fact in the last few months. Perhaps I should have read more newspapers." Loving daughter and mother moment, gone.
"Don't turn your sarcasm on at me. You know what I mean."
I was silent, picking the meat out of the shells and scooting the little piles around in the sauce. My wine glass was empty, and I wanted more. As much as I was so easily irritated at my mother, I knew she was right.
"Still, that doesn't mean we don't love...each other." I felt uncomfortable speaking for him in this conversation, because that was not a word we had ever uttered to each other before. But I felt reasonably confident that even if Stephen no longer cared about me (a fear that spread like lava in my stomach when I thought about it, growing hotter each day) he did at one point, and I had photographic proof, damnit.
But my mother didn't see my point, and instead got flustered, throwing her napkin down on her laps and leaning across the table.
"Are you telling me you are still involved with this man?" She said man like it was an insult. I rolled my eyes and looked for a waiter, intending to ask that she just cut the crap and bring the entire bottle of wine to the table.
"I am not involved with Stephen anymore." I shot back, emphasizing his name. She brushed it off with a gesture.
"Well, good."
We sat in a stony silence, picking at our food.
"Move on with your life, Kathryn. Do it for yourself, and do it for your daughter. He is not for you." She said calmly, and I knew it was the end of the discussion. The waitress popped up a few moments later and asked how things were. I asked for the bill, my appetite gone.
As I drove my mother home, we found other things to talk about, my embarrassing affair pushed back under the family carpet for the time being. But even as I felt my anger flash at her, I knew she was right. When I got ready for bed that night, instead of having my usual cry fest, I smoked a bowl and picked a sci-fi novel up, deliberating setting my mind on something else. Stephen was gone. Life moved on. My heart may not, but I couldn't control that. I made my choice. I always felt better making a choice.
Stephen
"Stephen, I want a divorce."
She standing at the doorway of my home office. I spun around at the desk, away from my email and stared at her. Her arms were crossed, and she was giving me a level look. Steely. Ice cold.
I can't speak. I stare at her, gaped mouthed.
"What?"
"I can't be held responsible for the dead look in your eyes anymore. Everyone can see it," her tone rising, "I can't believe it. People sided with you. I shouldn't be surprised, because you are so fucking charming."
I still said nothing, the thoughts processing like mud in my skull. A divorce. A divorce. A divorce? After everything, 4 months after it all settled down, now she says it? I hadn't spoken to Kathryn since our conversation in my office, and my lame apology. As far as I assumed, she dropped me like a rock, and I knew I deserved it. I tried to find happiness in that fact, that our silence meant she was moving forward away from me, but it was hard going. I was frustrated, because I was relying so heavily on the writers at work to pick up my slack. I still loved going to it each day--as long as I had curiosity, I would find show material. But it felt harder to put "him" on each night, and I began to fear that it was affecting my performance. I asked Jon about this one evening over beers, a few weeks before Evie showed up at the office door.
"Stephen, no one can tell how miserable you are."
"I can tell dude."
"Well, so can I, but seriously, I don't think it's coming across on the show. You know the network is still watching you like a hawk, and they haven't said a word about it to me."
The bar was quiet and empty on a Wednesday night, and we picked one near our houses across the river, not in the city. We sat next to each other at a corner table, holding beers and absent minded watching the sports selection. The bar was decorated for Christmas, but cheaply, with lights strung up loosely through the rafters.
"Obviously I've had to fake it before. We've both had to, when we have real life shit to deal with. But this is different."
"How so?"
Because I've resigned myself to the rest of my life trapped in a bitter marriage, while the woman I feel like I should be with walks the face of the earth without me, and the shadow of my indiscretion poisoning my career. That's what I wanted to say to him. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic.
"Because it fucking sucks," was what I responded with. He stared at me, silent, thinking.
I finished my beer, and nodded at the bartender for a second one. We came here frequently, and I knew he knew who we were, but he kept it cool and silent, the way a good bartender should.
"Stephen, man, I know this has been hard for you. You don't talk about it, and that's cool, you know? I'm here for you in whatever you need to talk about. But I think you need to try and move on from this as much as you can. Reconnect with Evie, put the time into your kids. It's been months. This has hurt your career and your family enough, don't let it get worse."
I heard his words, my eyes landing on a neon beer sign across the pool tables from us. I felt a sharp ping of fear. It's been months, and I loved her as much as I did the day I saw her in the hotel hallway. Could I do it? Could I really spend the rest of my life with this? I didn't see what other option I had. When I was alone...my thoughts always strayed to her. I couldn't forgive myself for what had happened to her, and how deeply I was responsible for it. I had accepted that I loved Kathryn like I had never loved Evie, and it absolutely slayed me inside to know she was gone. But I took that as punishment for what I had done. I was trapped. I deserved that pain. For not the first time in my life, I wish I had my father to talk to.
I just stared at Evie, remembering Jon's words. I had taken his advice, and we had gone on a trip to Vermont a few weeks before, just the two of us over the weekend. It wasn't perfect, and we fought like cats and dogs, but it was an improvement. I found Evie's mouth sharp and hurtful, and her demeanor cold, but I tried to find the young woman I had married so long ago there. It was going to take work. But if the marriage is what I had, I was going to throw everything I had at it. We even managed to have sex for the first time in ages, and it wasn't half-bad, considering what I had to compare it to (nothing compared to Kathryn, I thought bitterly). I thought things were looking up, and this was the last thing I had expected her to say.
She stared back at me, waiting for a reply.
"I don't know what to say..." I began, slowly. "I want you to be happy. If that's what you want, I understand why. I won't fight it." What else could I say to her? She had every reason in the world to want me gone.
"I had my suspicions you had found someone else. I honestly didn't know when you would have found the time. I wasn't that surprised when I found out. But those pictures." She stopped, turning away from me to stare at a calender on the wall, her jaw tight and locked. I stayed silent. She had never spoken on this. After everything I had put her through, the pictures were a subject that never ever got brought up between us. I was too ashamed.
"I'd almost had rather they caught you with your pants down. It might have been less embarrassing."
Stab, right in the gut. Evie, one point. Stephen, straight to hell.
I stood up slowly, taking a step towards her, "Evelyn..."
"Time was Stephen, you used to look at me like that. I know how she feels. But this just needs to stop."
I froze solid on the carpet. Guilt washed over me.
"I don't want to do this to you."
"I know. That's why I'm doing it to you."
And before I could open my mouth to reply, she had turned away from the doorway, her feet retreating up the hall and the bedroom door shutting behind her. I was left standing in the office, the only sound the thudding of my heart.