When I Let You Go (Let Me Book 6)

by Lily Foster

  That explained why my father was shrieking, red faced and spit flying, as he cursed me as an ungrateful, filthy whore.

  It also explained why my boyfriend had a busted lip and looked in the opposite direction, obviously shaken up but dismissing me coldly when I went to approach him before class that next morning.

  “If you ever want to meet up to talk, Liv, just grab coffee sometime or whatever, call me.”

  I hung up, sure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be reaching out anytime soon.

  My family was fractured beyond repair.

  “You look great, Mom.”

  And she did. No makeup, hair down, dressed in some comfortable but chic cotton stretchy getup. The kind probably advertised as dye and chemical free, made in an ethical, sustainable and sweatshop children-free way. And yes, there was a spiritual crystal or some shit dangling from a silver chain around her neck. Gesturing to it, I smirked. “Source of your chi or chakra or whatever?”

  Clutching it and smiling, she answered, “It was a lot of new age nonsense. And I’ll admit I was rolling my eyes that first day. But then…I don’t know, it made perfect sense to me.” She focused on her napkin, unfolding it slowly and placing it in her lap before looking me in the eye, calm and direct when she said, “I needed this…I’ve been struggling lately, Dylan.”

  “Struggling how?” I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea of what Margot Cole’s struggles entailed.

  She took one of my hands in both of hers as she leaned across the table and whispered, “It’s my cross to bear, not yours.” Leaning back, she smiled, adding, “And as silly as it sounds, a week of doing nothing but meditating and reflecting did make me feel all peace, love and harmony.”

  We shared a quiet laugh, toasting as we sat across from one another at our regular corner table. But this whole thing wasn’t sitting right with me. Maybe it wasn’t my place and maybe everything with Kasia was making me more emotional in general, but I couldn’t just pretend anymore.

  “Dad had no idea you were gone.”

  “That’s because I moved out last month. I’m renting a place in Sag Harbor.”

  “What did he do?”

  She shook her head. “Your father is a good person, a good man…Don’t ever think otherwise, Dylan. What’s wrong between me and your father has been years in the making. I played my role in it just as he’s played his.”

  “Yeah, right…This is on him.”

  “How?” she snapped. “It really does take two, Dylan.”

  I gritted my teeth, so pissed off at him and also angry at Mom for letting him off the hook again. I had no doubt there was a pretty young thing behind this split.

  “It’s true. I’m as guilty as he is. I looked the other way for years. I enabled him, allowed this deception to go on in our relationship. And I was angry, but I’m not anymore. Now I’m taking ownership.”

  “You’ve always deserved better, Mom.”

  “So did you. You deserved better. We haven’t been the best role models as far as marriage goes. And I put those same ridiculous expectations on you. I’m very sorry—”

  The waiter came with our appetizers then, forcing us to take a breather for a moment as he recited the entrée specials and jotted down our order. I was anxious to reassure her that everything good about me could be traced directly back to her. Margot Cole was the epitome of the devoted mother. But she spoke before I could gather my thoughts, and given the events of the past month, what she said left me temporarily speechless.

  “I saw an article last year in one of my magazines. It was a reflections piece profiling successful young female entrepreneurs. That girl you once dated was featured…Kasia, remember her?”

  Do I remember her?

  That girl I once dated?

  My mood was suddenly borderline murderous at the casual way my mother referred to her. As if she was some folly, a girl I fucked around with and then moved on from without a glance backward.

  “Even way back then,” she went on, “when I was feeling generous enough to acknowledge her, I knew she was something special…motivated and independent. I think that’s why I struggled to accept Kasia at first. In a way,” Mom smiled wistfully, “she reminded me of a younger version of myself. Maybe I didn’t like being reminded of how I’d changed, of everything I’d lost.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I admired her and I disliked her for the very same reasons. She was strong-willed and knew her own worth. She wouldn’t compromise herself—not even for you. I wasn’t as courageous at her age and I regret some of the choices I’ve made.” Swiping a piece of bread through the broth beneath the steamed mussels, she added, “Admitting that at the time would have meant taking a good, hard look in the mirror. I guess I wasn’t ready for that.”

  My head was spinning. All this time, and now she brings up Kasia? But she was oblivious to my inner turmoil—kept right on talking. “I don’t think I ever interfered…I mean, I don’t think you would have listened to a word I said on the matter anyway. But I hope my opinion never factored into anything where she was concerned. And,” she added with a smile that seemed forced, “you did wind up with a beautiful, smart and accomplished woman in the end.”

  “Accomplished?”

  She looked down at the table as the busboy approached to clear our appetizer plates. No, she couldn’t look me in the eye as she made that glowing reference to my wife. “Well, the gallery doesn’t run itself.”

  I scoffed, “It certainly doesn’t.”

  She looked up at me, tapping her finger nervously in response to my tone. We both knew that art gallery was nothing but a vanity project for Cecilia. Sure, she was into it for the first year—liked the whole busy career girl thing. But once it wasn’t fun anymore, she was out. And I was still paying a full staff to keep up this illusion that Cecilia Cole had some purpose in life. The place never once came close to turning a profit. When it came down to it, though, I didn’t begrudge Cecilia the gallery. She deserved that and so much more. Like for instance, in that very moment she deserved for her husband to give her more than simply a passing thought. She was hardly ever on my mind, even when I was annoyed with her.

  I blurted out, “She’s sick, Mom.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed. “Cecilia?”

  “Kasia.”

  “You’re still in touch?” Margot Cole, society gal, was now back on the premises and she seemed a tad nervous. She might have been having a mid-life kumbaya moment, but she still didn’t want to upset the natural order of life in our world.

  “No, we’re not in touch.” Mother nodded, the relief obvious in her expression. But then she leaned over and took my hands, encouraging me to tell her more. “I just kind of found out accidentally.”

  “Poor thing. What’s wrong?”

  “Brain cancer. She,” I faltered for a moment, “doesn’t have much time.”

  “Sweet Lord,” Mother whispered. “What will you do?”

  I still wasn’t sure. “I want to see her but I don’t have a place in her life, you know? She has a family. At the same time though, I want a chance to say goodbye.”

  “You still care about her.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Care about her, dream about her, love her.

  “Then say goodbye. I think you’ll regret it if you don’t, honey. Just be careful.” She looked around at the Christmas decorations that now, two weeks past the holiday, seemed dreary. “It must be a terrible time for them all. I imagine they’re hurting.”

  I was eager to change the subject, unwilling to think about the many people who most certainly were hurting, feeling the deep loss of Kasia even before she was gone.

  “What’s going to happen with you and Dad?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I can’t say I’m ready to face him yet. I don’t plan on moving back in with him, Dylan.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “For me?” She laughed, knowing that it was my father I was asking about. H
er expression became pained. “Yes, there is someone else. And I think it’s different this time.”

  “How old is she?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “That’s not important.”

  I took that to mean she was my age or younger.

  “I’ll talk to him, Mom.”

  Looking at her plate intently as she twisted the fettuccini on her fork, she spoke with conviction. “You will not speak to your father on my behalf.” She let the fork rest back on her plate without taking a bite and held my gaze. “I’m not looking for a reconciliation. I want…Well, I’m not sure what I want, but I’m taking some time to figure it out. I’m not afraid anymore, Dylan.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of…keeping up appearances, or concerned with what people think of me. For the first time in my life, I feel the need to be honest. When I finally get around to returning my friends’ phone calls, I’m going to state the truth. I’m not afraid of the ground falling out from underneath me anymore.”

  “Good for you, I guess.” It came out sounding like a question.

  Absolutely no drinking.

  That was the first rule they laid down when you were hired, and it was the rule that pretty much everyone ignored. They ran down the list of regulations—no drinking, no taking selfies with patrons—and interspersed them with vague mandates such as: keep the guests happy. You were issued two uniforms. In my case that was two black bandage style dresses that barely covered my ass cheeks and basically showcased my cleavage in a way that was obscene. Andy was the androgynous female manager who assessed me from head to toe that first day, then summarily informed me that I would be given these two dresses and no others. I took that to mean: eat cheeseburgers and pizza at your own risk.

  I nearly clobbered my friend Nell as I left the club that afternoon. “Why didn’t you tell me she was going to practically molest me?”

  She was doubled over laughing. “Did she tell you that waxing was a job requirement?”

  “Yes! And she looked at my crotch while she said it! What the hell? I feel like I’ve just been hired to work the pole at Scores instead of checking coats at the Standard.”

  “Count yourself lucky. When I modeled the uniform, Andy literally manhandled my tits to show them to their best advantage. And you won’t be knocking it when you’re coming home with no less than two bills every night you work. Quickest, easiest money you’ll ever make in this city.”

  Like Nell needed it. I don’t know why she did this whole self-imposed starving artist routine. She did study art, so maybe she felt the need to suffer, but if we were stating nothing but the facts: Nell was the only child born to two very wealthy parents, she’d attended the best private schools and now attended NYU, never once wondering how she would float next semester’s tuition or pay the rent. But Nell was as good as gold in my book. After Larson—after it became clear that he could no longer, um, look after me—Nell basically came to the rescue. I lived with her for months. It was comical; her parents traveled so much and the apartment was so big that they weren’t even aware of the situation.

  Nell was a cocktail waitress at Le Bain. She had the attitude for it. It’s not like I conjure up the innocence of an Iowa farm girl or anything, but I don’t quite give off the experienced, street-smart vibe either. I think Andy took one look at me and decided I’d be more comfortable in the sanctuary of the coat check room, far away from the lunacy.

  But not tonight. Tonight I was tempted when the other manager, Devon, asked if I was interested in working the floor. I said yes. And tonight I was not abiding by the rules. In fact, I did a shot before I even stepped out of the staff room.

  Between stewing over my failed reconciliation with Olivia, worrying over Kasia, and plastering on a brave face as I played with Kasia and Jake’s children, holding them so close at times that I probably did more to scare them than anything else—with all of that going on I was just about unraveling.

  I needed to drink, to dance, to forget it all for a while. I needed to go just a little bit wild.

  “No, she doesn’t need you to buy her a drink.” Fixing me with a pointed look and poking me in the side, Nell teased, “In fact, we take your drink orders, remember?”

  She was smiling—keep smiling was one of the dumb rules laid down by the all-powerful Andy—but my Nell was not her usual, playful self. Flashing an amused, mega-watt smile to the three young Goldman guys who were now flanking me, she took my arm and firmly led me away and back towards the staff room.

  “That wasn’t polite,” I said, giggling.

  She rounded on me as she closed the door. “What’s come over you?”

  I could feel myself teetering on my obnoxiously high heels and made a conscious effort to steady myself. “Nell, I’m good, really. It’s just been a shitty week.” I sucked in a breath, knowing the tears were threatening to spill, again. “I just need a break from my crappy reality.”

  She drew me in for a hug. “I’m all for that, but let’s take it down a notch. Those junior analyst douchebags were all over you. Getting taken advantage of isn’t going to make you feel better, you know?”

  I did know better, I did. But I also liked the feeling of being reckless for a change.

  “No more drinks, ok?”

  “I promise,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back as we went back out onto the floor.

  I was steering clear of her. Trying to anyway. When I suggested the Standard Grill, it’s like the words were out of my mouth before I could think it through. I was jonesing for a Veronica sighting, even though the odds of running into her were slim. I was like an addict looking for a fix, and my drug of choice was Veronica. I lied to myself, though. Telling myself I wanted to see her just so that I could check up on Kasia. And that was true to a certain extent. I needed to know.

  How is Kasia?

  How long does she have?

  How long do I have to get off my ass, get over my fear and reach out to her?

  Sitting alone late at night, nursing a drink long after Cecilia had gone to bed, that’s when I’d admit to myself that I wanted to see Veronica for other reasons—reasons that shamed me.

  And now I knew who she was. I’d no sooner think back to that first night, imagining myself pressing her up against the bar, letting her feel how hard I was for her as I let my hands roam over her body—a woman’s body—before an image of her as a little girl would assault me, a younger Veronica giggling and acting silly. It left me feeling physically ill.

  Cecilia and I were out with our friends, Tripp and Delia Parker—two of our oldest and dearest. I think Cecilia planned these nights with an ulterior motive. Did she really believe that if I was surrounded by her version of a happily married couple who procreated at the rate of bunny rabbits, that I would somehow see the light?

  Delia had just popped out baby number five. Five! Apparently, having a brood to rival the size of the Kennedys was now de rigueur among our set. I sipped my whiskey in earnest as Delia regaled us with the most boring stories known to man. Even Tripp was nauseating, acting like he didn’t care while you knew he was positively pleased as fucking punch, casually mentioning that their eldest was excelling at Collegiate. Excelling? The kid was nine.

  Delia was drunk by the time our dinner plates were being cleared. That’s what happens when you order seared scallops over linguini, instructing the waiter to omit the pasta and shooing him away as if he was placing a grenade on the table when he approached with the bread basket. Have to make sacrifices if you want to keep your man interested, right? I felt like telling Delia to give up, that it didn’t matter. She might as well enjoy a big ol’ plate of lasagna with garlic bread to boot, because pretty much everyone knew Tripp was nailing his boss on the side, a slightly older, very attractive and accomplished woman. And for Cecilia to talk about them the way she did, like they were the ideal family? Made me fucking gag. Cecilia of all people knew what Tripp was really like. Or had she conveniently suppressed the memory of spreading
her own legs wide for Tripp? I knew from Melanie that Saint Cecilia was always down for it back when Tripp was madly in love with his soon to be bride.

  I look over at Cecilia sipping her martini and can barely conceal my hatred. In this moment I hate her for so many things—her faulty moral compass and her hypocrisy among them.

  Hate, guilt and love. The three always seem to be hopelessly intertwined for me. I hate that Cecilia wants me, adores me, even though she must know deep in her heart that I do not feel the same. She’s always known she was my second choice, that she was second-best to Kasia. I went to Cecilia in a moment of weakness, licking my wounds when everything fell apart. She knew, but took me in, no questions asked. Bound herself to me faster than you can say the word desperate. She ignored the fact I was irrevocably broken. Ignored my angry outbursts and reckless behavior. She has never even once, to this day, asked what happened between me and Kasia. In fact she’s never mentioned her name. She pretends, and I hate her for it. She’s given up her life to be Mrs. Dylan Cole, and her loyalty and devotion have always felt like a chokehold. I hate Cecilia for settling, for giving up on herself. By pursuing me, she chose to miss out on a good life with a man who truly loves her. I know I am not a good man and I feel guilty for failing her. And as fucked up as it sounds, she is my wife and I do love her. I want what’s best for her—and I’m not it.

  I was so antsy I could barely focus on the conversation. Tripp was talking nonstop, something about the ski house he was renting out west and the epic rager he was planning over Super Bowl weekend. I liked Tripp, but sometimes he sounded like an absolute asshole. I’d be skipping that epic rager. When one of Tripp’s old college friends came over and joined us for dessert, I saw an opportunity. Studying my phone and raising my hand in silent apology to take a call, I faked a business “situation” so that I could shoot upstairs to the rooftop club where the focus of my obsession worked.