Beneath the Scars (21 page)

“I don’t think. I know.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I still do.”

“You might not after I tell you.”

“And I might very well love you more.”

The startled look on his face told me he never expected to hear those words.

“Megan—”

“Tell me, Zachary. Tell me your story and let me judge my feelings. You want honesty?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me yours and I’ll give you mine.”

His eyes searched my face. “I promise you I’ll listen with an open heart,” I pleaded in a soft, reassuring voice. “We can’t move forward until we get through this. You know that.”

He sat up. “All right, but not here, not in our bed. I need to have a shower and I’ll meet you in the living room.”

Grabbing some clothes, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Our bed.

I wondered if he realized those were the words he used.

He paced, walking around the room, adjusting pictures, shifting small items the slightest fraction to the left or right, only to push it back to its original place. He stood in front of
Tempest,
staring in silence—a frown on his face, shoulders rigid and unyeilding. From my place on the sofa I watched, forcing myself not to get up and touch him, not to raise my voice and call to him. He had to come to me. He had to be the one to open the dialogue. He traced his initials in the corner with one long finger, over and again, eventually lowering his arm, resting his hand on the mantle. A deep shudder flowed through his body and he turned to look at me, defeat already in his stance. I couldn’t take it anymore and held out my hand to him, pleased when he reached out and took it, coming to sit with me on the sofa. He stared down at our entwined hands, then lifted them and kissing my palm before pulling away. He leaned forward and took one of his peppermints from the bowl on the coffee table. The familiar sound of the candy wrapper being opened made me smile.

Without a word, he offered it to me, unwrapping a new one for himself when I took it out of his hand. The fresh flavor of sweet mint filled my mouth, reminding me of his taste when he kissed me. “You eat these, a lot.”

He grunted in agreement. “When I woke up…after…my throat hurt and I had a funny taste in my mouth all the time. One of the nurses gave me this kind of peppermint and I liked it. It wasn’t as strong as some kinds and I enjoy the sweetness.” He bit down, his jaw flexing as he chewed on the mint. “I kind of became addicted to them, I think. Mrs. Cooper keeps that brand in especially for me.”

“They are good,” I agreed, hoping he would keep talking.

He fell silent again. The cushions shifted as he moved, his long legs stretching and bending. An irregular beat was tapped out by his restless fingers, but still he said nothing. He shifted forward, his arms resting on his thighs, staring into the fire. I could feel the tension starting to build in him, his lips thinning in a grimace, his face becoming determined, so I slid closer.

“Zachary—”

“I don’t know how to do this, Megan.”

“What can I do?”

“Maybe if you asked me some questions? Could you do that?”

“Are you sure you want to do this today?”

His eyes, tormented and worried, but determined, met mine. “Yes.”

I slipped my hand into his.

“Okay then. Together.”

He nodded.

“Together.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Zachary looked anxious as his hand clutched mine in a tight grip. So, I kissed his cheek gently, trying to let him know I was here and ready for whatever he had to say. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I was sure I could handle it. I prayed I could. I also tried to think of how to start the conversation in such a way he wouldn’t immediately shut himself off.

Looking around the room, my gaze landed on his painting. “Have you always painted?”

“No.”

I tried again.

“What did you do before you started painting?”

His inhale of air told me that maybe wasn’t the best question to start with, but I forged ahead. “You must have done something?”

“I was an actor.”

That surprised me. I racked my brains trying to remember his name, but came up with nothing.

“Sorry, I guess I’m not familiar with your work.”

He shook his head. “Given our age difference that doesn’t surprise me. Since you would have been about thirteen when I was at the height of my career, it’s hardly a shock. You were probably far more into boy bands than older movie stars.”

I had to smile at his remark; he was right. I loved music and books when I was younger—I wasn’t much into movies. The same held true today.

“Besides, my professional name was Adam Dennis.”

My eyebrows rose. Adam Dennis—that name rang a bell.

“You won an Oscar.”

“I was nominated.”

“I think I saw some of your films.” My brow furrowed as I tried to remember. All I came up with was a vague image of a tall, slender young man playing a single father. “You look different now.” I held up my hand. “I don’t mean your scars.”

He snorted. “I was young, Megan. Younger than you are now, for most of the films I made. Yeah, I’ve changed. I filled out, I’ve gotten bigger.” He flexed his arms, causing the muscles to tighten and clench. “It happens when everything you eat isn’t monitored.”

“They watched what you ate?”

“I was a leading man. My appearance was carefully controlled; the length of my hair, my weight, the clothes I wore, all of it. I hated all that shit.”

He stood up, pulling away. “I do remember your name, Zachary. You were huge.”

“Emphasis on
were
.”

“Why did you use a different name?”

“It’s common. My agent thought Zachary was too long—and I hated being called Zach. I still hate it. It was my mother’s idea to use my middle name and flip Adam to be my first. Dennis was her maiden name so she got that in there.”

“Are you parents still alive?” He seemed alone in the world.

He shrugged, but I saw the pain that crossed his face while he struggled to remain composed. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to them since I was eighteen.”

“Why?”

“I grew up in England. I was born late in life for my parents. I wasn’t exactly a welcome surprise, but as luck would have it, I was a good-looking kid. So, my mother started taking me to auditions and got me signed with an agent. I worked a lot as a child.” He barked out a humorless laugh. “Earned my keep, so to speak.”

He leaned against the wall; his gaze fixed on a spot over my head. “When I was in my teens, we moved to the States. I got a part in a popular sitcom.”

“Did you like that?”

“I had no choice. I went where my parents told me to go. My father fired my agent and did that job; plus he acted as my manager and my mother was my handler. I just learned the lines and did what I was told. My happiness or what I liked never came into play.”

In my head I pictured a young Zachary trapped in a world he despised. “So you weren’t close?”

Bitterness tinged his tone. “Not even remotely. All I was to them was a paycheck. A way to live a particular lifestyle they enjoyed.”

“Surely they loved you—they were your parents,” I protested.

“My mother loved herself. She was a manipulative shrew, Megan,” he spat. “My father did what she wanted because it was easier than arguing with her. She used anything she needed to in order to get what she wanted: anger, tears, threats. It didn’t matter. The only thing my father loved was the money I brought in.” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. “What
my face
brought in, because that’s all I was to them—a good-looking face that made money.”

My stomach rolled at his cold voice. He could have been talking about complete strangers instead of his parents.

“When I was eighteen, I severed all ties. I left them the house, and I walked away. I fired my father and mother—from both my professional and private life.” He pushed off the wall, pacing. “
Fuck
, what a scene that was. My mother sobbing because she knew the gravy train was gone and my father trying to convince me he hadn’t stolen all the money I’d made over the years.” He stopped his pacing, staring at me. I saw the hurt he denied, written all over his face. “All I was to them was money. They used me. Neither of them said a single word about losing me as their son, only that I couldn’t walk away from them and leave them with nothing. My mother actually had the nerve to tell me how much she had sacrificed of herself over the years, always putting me first.” Zachary threw his hands up in disgust. “I guess she forgot about what I had sacrificed: friends, school, a regular life. I never knew what it was like to have someone who liked me for me—Zachary. I never had what other kids had—a chance to be a kid, get a part-time job, make mistakes—I had to be perfect all the fucking time. Live up to the image they created—or suffer the consequences.” He stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping. “Do you know what I missed most, Megan? What I wanted most of all?”

I shook my head, my hands balling into fists from the pain in his voice. “No,” I whispered. “Tell me.”

“Hugs. I’d watch other kids on the set get hugged by their parents or their agent. Sometimes they’d have a friend on the set. I never did. Not once. Between acting, being tutored, and all the bloody lessons they insisted I have, I never had time for friends. My mother hung around the sets for appearance sake but she didn’t care about what I did as long as she got her designer bags and big house.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Your mom…didn’t hug you?”

He sat down beside me. Cupping my face in one hand, he squeezed my cheeks lightly. “‘Look at this face,’” he crooned snidely. “‘My million dollar face.’” He withdrew his hand.

“That was the only time she touched me and that was what she would say—every single time. My face, Megan. She loved my face. Not me.” His bottom lip trembled a little. “What a stupid kid I was, right? I knew they didn’t love me, yet I still wanted their affection.”

I wanted to weep. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, kiss his ravaged face, and tell him he wasn’t stupid. I wanted to hold him until that kid felt how loved he was now and could start to heal, but he stood up and started pacing again. “Don’t, Megan,” he pleaded.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t feel bad for me. The entire time I grew up I was ignored by them. There was no guidance or care. I was a commodity. That was all I was to them; a mistake they used to their advantage. They lived a great life, thanks to me, and when I walked away that was what they mourned—not the loss of their son, but the loss of the money and the lifestyle they didn’t want to give up.” He grimaced and pulled in a deep breath. “They didn’t care about me or anyone else, but I was the exact same way. My parents were shit, but I was a
great
student. I treated everyone like crap. I was the perfect image of a spoiled brat. I was catered to on set. Everything I wanted, I got. People did what I told them to do because of my name—because they knew if they didn’t I would probably get them fired. And on occasion I did.”