“Carol, right?” the tall man inquired. “Aaron and Daisy Roth. Remember, we met the kids’ freshman year? I’m so glad to see you looking so well!”
He seemed genuinely astonished that I should look good. I felt myself blush. My eyes slid away from him to find Daisy eyeing me with an expression of sympathetic curiosity. Trying to place just where I’d experienced this particular kind of look before, I realized with horror that she was looking at me much like people did when Mike died. Like I was an object of pity.
Confused by both his effusive words and her physical reaction, I could only stammer, “Nice to see you both. What’ve you been doing since graduation, Daisy?”
“Oh, I’m working for an immigrants’ rights organization.”
Aaron smiled at his daughter. “Saving the world one day at a time, this one. And your son?”
“Real estate. Like his mama. Just bigger, bolder, better.”
“Good for him. Amazing to see your kids grow up to be their own whole adult human beings, isn’t it? I’m so glad you got the chance,” he added emphatically.
My confusion only mounted, which must have been apparent on my face because Daisy reached out and laid a gentle hand on my arm. “It’s all right. Justin told us about the cancer. How brave you were.”
“The cancer?”
Now it was the Roths’ turn to look confused. “Your diagnosis, freshman year? Right after we met?” Aaron looked embarrassed. Hurried to explain. “I’m sorry if Justin was supposed to keep it quiet, but I lost your card. When I asked Daisy to ask Justin for it, he told us the sad news.”
“Not so sad after all, though!” Daisy piped. “You look wonderful. So healthy.”
“Thank you. I am. Very nice to see you both. Good luck, Daisy.”
Abandoning my plan for a walk in Central Park, I reversed my steps and returned to my hotel room where I placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Collapsing onto the unmade bed, my mind spinning, I desperately tried to make sense of the scene that had just unfolded.
Justin had lied to Daisy. Had told her I had cancer. Had indicated I was so sick that Aaron and Daisy were shocked to see I was still alive. Why would he do such a thing? I curled into the fetal position. Was my son wishing me dead? I felt sick.
I lay there for a long time. The light brightened, then deepened, as the hours passed. Even in the shock of this revelation, I recognized that there had been a spark between me and Aaron Roth, even now, all these years later, and with him believing I was virtually back from the dead.
It dawned on me. Justin must have told this lie to keep Aaron from contacting me. Of course that was it! Justin was just starting school, forging his own identity, yes, but still enough of a boy to want his mama to be 100 percent his, if and when he needed her. As this understanding flooded my body, I uncurled and sat up. Of course. He panicked, told a lie, and then had to live with it.
In his first year of school, I’d asked after Daisy once or twice (a backdoor channel to Aaron, of course), feigning a casualness I didn’t quite feel, but Justin shrugged and said they didn’t really move in the same crowd. I knew Justin to be a straightforward young man for the most part, no more prone to white lies or evasiveness than anyone else. Now I wondered if he’d deliberately avoided her after his impulsive action, embarrassed by his lie.
That night I went to the bar at Nobu and picked up a photographer from Belgium. He was almost twenty years younger than I was, which was kind of a turn-on. But his hands were clammy and his dick a pencil, so I kicked him out and slept alone. After checking out the next day I drove home to Long Island.
I entered quietly and laid my keys down on the hall table. “Justin?” I called. “I’m home.”
He came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hi. Good weekend? Full of culture? Or is that really just your group’s code word for cocktails?” His eyes twinkled as he teased me.
I embraced him fully, taking him by surprise. “Whoa, Mom. What’s up? You okay?”
“I’m just always happy to see my boy.”
“You want some breakfast? I was just scrambling eggs.”
“Sure.”
I followed him into the kitchen. Justin cracked two more eggs into a bowl and whipped them into a froth with a fork.
“I ran into a college friend of yours,” I threw out casually, taking one of the two seats at the oval kitchen table.
“Oh yeah? Who’s that?”
“Daisy Roth. She was with her dad.”
Justin’s back was to me but his spine stiffened. He cracked his neck. Two precise pops. “How’s she doing?”
“Good. Working with an immigration group of some sort.”
“She always was kind of a bleeding heart.” Justin poured the beaten eggs into a hot pan sizzling with butter. He turned to face me. “Want toast?”
I looked into his eyes. They were clear, untroubled. Was it possible Daisy got the story wrong altogether? But then I remembered Justin’s spine going taut, the crisp cracks of his neck. I screwed together my courage to ask the question.
“No, thanks. Listen, sweetheart…”
Before I finished my sentence, Justin interrupted. “Mom, look, no way to say this but to say it. I’m moving to L.A. I got accepted into business school. And I’m going.” He looked at me defiantly, like he was prepared for a fight.
“Congratulations! Oh my god. Which school? I’m so proud of you. When do you start?”
Confusion crossed Justin’s face. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“I thought you liked having me home. I’ll be three thousand miles away.”
“Oh, honey, I love having you here. But you have to live your own life. I totally understand that. Have I ever stopped you from doing what’s best for you?”
The eggs began to smoke. Justin turned off the pan. I pulled a bottle of prosecco from the fridge to toast Justin’s acceptance. We began to discuss his program, and apartments in L.A., and whether Justin should ship things out to the coast or just buy new there.
We never spoke about the Roths again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ANNIE
“Why do you think Justin married me?” The words slip from my mouth and I regret them instantly. What could Will possibly say that would soothe the roiling well of hurt and insecurity consuming me?
“And don’t tell me he loved me,” I snap at Will’s obvious struggle to come up with the right words. The fact that I know there are no “right words” only makes me angrier that he can’t. “As we’ve already established, love just isn’t enough.”
“You had him from the moment you met him, I know that much,” Will finally offers softly. “And while he flirted and charmed everyone, everywhere, as you well know, he was different about you. From the beginning and until the end. I don’t know how to explain it any more than that.”
I try to speak. My throat catches. I tightly grip the purse on my lap, my palms becoming moist against the leather.
So Justin was “different about me.” The phrase massages my bruised ego, my need to be special to the man I loved wholeheartedly and married. But the Justin that Will describes is a user, a manipulator who used his charm to get what he wanted. So what did he want from me?
With sickening realization, I accept that it always felt too good to be true. That Justin Childs, tall, handsome, magnetic, an ambitious entrepreneur, one of this earth’s golden boys, wanted me, thought I was pretty enough, talented enough, interesting enough. I’d thought I’d blossom under the umbrella of his love, that his magic would rub off and that one day I’d be worthy of him. I thought he saw that potential in me, and was patient and loving enough to wait for me to bloom.
Now I just wonder what he wanted. How I was used.
Will brakes for a red light. A beautiful fat tabby cross
es the street and I remember Birdie Tonks and her “kids.”
With a sudden rush, I become unequivocally convinced that Justin had absolutely nothing to do with saving Birdie’s cats. That he decided to claim ownership the very moment he heard me mention an anonymous savior. Yet I had believed him, been delighted at yet another expression of his devotion, even acquiescing to his request to keep quiet about his benevolence.
It consumes me, this revelation. When else in my relationship with Justin was I manipulated like this?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WILL
When Sunil calls me back, he delivers a bombshell in response to my casual first question. I ask if there was anything that had struck him odd or strange in our financials in the last few weeks and he replies: “Did you know that Justin bought a boat?”
No, I most definitely did not.
The vessel is registered to our company, which is another shock.
“Why didn’t you say anything to me before?” I ask, not without edge.
“You two talked about everything. I didn’t think I needed to.” I can almost hear his shrug through the phone. “I guess it does seem a little weird now.”
“It didn’t seem weird before?” I explode. “We make VR games! Why the fuck would we need a boat?”
“Look, Will, Justin did a lot of crazy things, we both know that. He told me the boat was for entertaining clients.”
“When did he buy it?” I snap.
“Just under two weeks ago.”
“For how much?”
“Eighty-five K.”
“Jesus! Where’s it moored?”
“Marina del Rey.”
“What kind of boat is it?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice level. I’m seized by something so powerful, the top of my head tingles; I can feel the blood rushing in my veins. I pull over and put the car in park.
I glance over at Annie. She’s rigid in her seat.
“What do I know about boats? I know numbers,” Sunil says in response to my last question. “What’s up, Will?”
“I’m not entirely sure, man,” I reply. I owe him some transparency. He’s been a friend since business school and I recruited him into the company. I hesitate. “Look, Sunil, we should meet tomorrow morning early, okay? At the office. I’m going to need a deep dive into the books, including the details of Justin’s recent expenditures. Please tell me now that there’s nothing more outrageous than a goddamn boat.”
“That depends on what you mean by outrageous. You know better than anyone how fast and furious things’ve been flying lately. But why all the questions? You’re making me nervous.”
I can’t fault Sunil. Justin did impulsive, “crazy” things all the time, but there was always a reveal, an upside, something we didn’t cotton on to right away, but that Justin saw playing out four steps down the line. As a result, I just let his freak flag fly, we all did. He’d brought us on this magic carpet ride and we trusted him.
Also, we’ve been moving at the speed of light as we ramped up to our launch. There’s no reason Sunil would have thought it was on him to tell me about the boat because Justin told me everything. Or so we both had thought.
“Okay. Look. Everything will be fine. Text me the slip number. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I hang up the phone, sick with self-disgust. Duped by a liar, I am turning into a liar. I turn to Annie.
“Did you know Justin bought a boat?”
“He didn’t even like the water.”
“And how do we know that?”
“Because he said so…” Annie trails off. “Point taken.”
With remote fascination, I realize my hands are trembling.
“Are you okay, Will?” Annie’s brow creases with concern.
I’m not okay. The revelation of the boat tipped the scales. I am a patsy, a dupe, an idiot, a goddamn fool. Parents who lied to me my whole life, and a best friend and partner who I now believe lied to me from the day we met until the day he died.
Nothing about this is okay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CAROL
I take myself out of my rectangle of an apartment and down to Venice Beach. There are many much nicer beach destinations in L.A. I could have gone up to the pale, open sands of Zuma, for example, or splurged on the expensive-but-worth-it parking at Paradise Cove, or marveled at the rocky beauty of Point Dume. Today I crave the seedy, hippie-homeless vibe of Venice.
It reminds me of New York a little, as if a tiny slice of Times Square at its squalid peak is squared up against the Pacific Ocean.
I park my car in an all-day lot and amble over to the boardwalk. It’s a hot clear day, the kind of perfect weather for which L.A. is famous, and as I had hoped, it’s brought out all of humanity. I’m hoping that being among a crowd will help me feel a little less lonely.
Vendors hawk original “art,” palm readings, dream catchers, wind chimes, ceramic pipes, swimsuits, sarongs. Storefronts promote fast and easy medical marijuana cards, an impossibly wide selection of hats, fantasy figures constructed from repurposed auto parts, or T-shirts and shorts emblazoned with rude images and crude slogans.
Pedestrians clog the walkway. All sorts of conveyances are out as well: scooters, skateboards, bicycles, tricycles and unicycles, roller skates and roller blades.
An ancient, barely clothed man pedals by on a Frankensteined portable home constructed from a bicycle, two shopping carts, and a complex arrangement of tarps. His ink-dark skin glistens with sweat; grizzled iron gray hair cascades down his back.
A tubby family of four passes me, slurping on enormous ice cream–stuffed waffle cones. Tourists, I gauge, based on Dad’s bulging tummy pack, the teen daughter’s sunburn-blistered shoulders, and Mom’s tightly clutched “theft-resistant” travel bag. The son, whom I guess to be about eleven, topples his ice cream from its cone. It lands on the hot cement with a splat. Straggling a few feet behind the rest of the family, he scoops it up and plops it right back, lapping away without missing a beat. A short bark of laughter escapes me as he catches me watching him and gives me a victorious smirk.
I leave the boardwalk and go over to the skateboard bowl. These kids are death-defying as they soar into jumps and twists only to smack onto poured concrete if they miss their board on the descent. I watch a gamine-faced girl with a determined jaw fly high, twist in the air, and land hard. No helmet. I hear her head whack the pavement. She lies still and silent and my heart thumps wildly in my chest.
I cannot bear any more death.
The girl stirs. Another skater, a Latinx boy with no shirt and oversized shorts, leans over to give her a hand up. I turn away, suddenly sickened by this play that could be so dangerous. The frailty of existence has never felt more overwhelming.
I stumble onto the beach proper and sink down onto the sand. The ocean gleams in front of me, frothy white waves lapping at the shore, huge blue swells beyond. I try to calm myself by timing my breaths to the ebb and flow of the water. I try to find a reason to live.
Slowly, gradually, I give myself over to the understanding that there actually might not be one single reason that I should continue my existence on this planet. Who would miss me? Who would care? Besides, why do I deserve to live when everyone else in my life has died?
I don’t. In fact, my life of loss and sorrow is only what I deserve.
I push myself up to standing and start to walk, relishing the difficulty of propelling my muscles against the sand’s resistance. I begin to consider how I might kill myself. Self-immolation? Appropriate but messy. Pills? That seems easy enough. Pills, I decide.
Lost in my own wicked thoughts, I plow right into a man lying on a beach towel, tipping over onto my hands and knees with a sharp “Ow!”
“Are you all right?” he asks with a heavy accent. Not Mexican. South American maybe?
&
nbsp; “Clearly not,” I mutter more to myself than in reply. I twist to look at the man I stumbled over. “You?”
“I’m fine. But where is a beautiful woman like you headed in such a hurry?”
I take a good look at him. Mid to late forties would be my guess. Fit and proud of it, as evidenced by his form-fitting bathing trunks. Broad facial planes obscured behind large mirrored sunglasses. A ready smile. He tips his sunglasses down and his eyes meet mine.
Electricity courses through my body. I’m wildly attracted to him, suddenly desperate to feel his body on mine.
“Actually,” I offer, demurely dropping my eyes. “I think I hurt my ankle.”
That’s all it takes. He helps me “limp” off the sand. I find out he’s staying at a boutique hotel just down the beach. We walk there, his arm around my waist as I limp beside him, my body lingering against his. We order ice for my ankle and margaritas. Two rounds later we’re in his room. The sex is raw and messy and urgent. We come at each other ferociously once, rest, and go again.
He falls asleep and I slip out.
It’s gone night. The cool air feels wonderful against my heated skin. I keep a wary eye out as I make my way back to my car, which strikes me as ironic. Here I am contemplating suicide and yet primal survival instinct takes over to keep me on the alert for predators.
I am still considering the pills. But it’s not time yet. I’m not quite ready to die I realize; I still have appetites, after all.
Besides, Will and Annie are sure to be asking questions; perhaps the police still are as well. Before I take my own life, I must be sure that Justin’s legacy is protected, that my precious boy is allowed to rest in peace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ANNIE
The marina looks idyllic. Tethered brightly white boats bob on blue water, the sun glows hot, the air shimmers. I don’t know much about boats, but the ones docked here seem designed for weekend pleasure; they’re on the smaller side, mostly sailboats, a few motorboats and speedboats. They are graced with an array of tantalizing names: Witch of the Water, Donna’s Daydream, Reel Obsession, Seaducer.
Convince Me Page 12
