by Laura Carter
As I watch Hilary Swank playing a young widow, dancing around her apartment in her dead husband’s clothes, singing along to the TV through her hairbrush, with drips of Ben & Jerry’s decorating my white string vest, I ask myself what on earth I am doing. I didn’t lose someone who loved me enough to marry me. No, sir, I dodged a bullet.
My resolve wanes when Hilary Swank receives the first love letter, written by her husband when he was dying and signed P.S. I love you. I blubber away, opting to drink directly from the wine bottle, rather than topping up my glass.
Halfway down my bottle of sauvignon blanc—now room temperature—I start to think my sister is right. Why should I be the one in tears? Why should I be crying over spilled milk? Brooks is like the worst kind of milk—full-fat dairy. He deserves to curdle and smell like cheese.
I take another mouthful of wine from the bottle wedged between my crossed legs, then place it on the coffee table. I minimize the P.S. I Love You screen and pull up my blog.
In the blog title box I type: “BROOKS ADAMS: HOUND DOG.”
Ha, that’s funny. I take a much-deserved drink of wine and start to type.
I’ve learned a lot about Brooks Adams over the last week or so. Like, how he has two left feet and his hips move as if they’re stuck between steel girders. How he has tantrums when he can’t get his own way and needs anger management when he’s hungry.
In the last couple of days, I’ve also learned how he can lure women in, put them under a spell. He can be the guy singing country tracks on his guitar and the man who likes black-and-white movies.
My biggest discovery came last night, when I realized Brooks Adams is a lying, no-good scumbag.
I take another large gulp of wine before writing the next part.
I fell for the act. Shame on me. But once Brooks had left his mark on me, he turned to another woman, or his other woman.
I interlace my fingers and push my hands out until my knuckles crack.
The worst part is, if Brooks is reading this, he’s still trying to deceive me. He still thinks I don’t know that he carried this woman to his bed last night and kissed her good-bye this morning.
[IMAGE]
If you’re reading this, girl with the pink hair, and Brooks did the dirty on you, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you existed. I have never, nor would I ever, intentionally cheat. If you’re reading this and you, Pinky, did the dirty on me, I consider you the filth that lines sewage drains, just like your lover.
Well, Brooks Adams, you ain’t never caught this girl and you ain’t no friend of mine.
Ha, that’s witty. Very funny, Izzy. Very funny.
I’m too drunk to bother with spell-check, so I move my cursor to the Submit button. There’s a part of me that knows this is childish and petty. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to humiliate the man I had come to respect. But I remember, he was lying to me the whole bloody time, and I click the button to publish the post.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the moment to come, the moment when I feel a thousand times better about this whole situation. It doesn’t come. In fact, I think I feel worse. Now the world knows I’m a fool, as well as someone who has to try all the worst tricks to get people to buy her book, someone who doesn’t even follow her own advice.
I finish the wine and ice cream and watch the credits roll on P.S. I Love You. Then I hit play on Bridget Jones’s Diary, because at least she will understand how I feel.
Chapter 23
brooks
Kit stands outside the boxing ring, talking to Drew and me as I hold pads for Drew to hit.
“Just to recap. She was in the full Agent Provocateur–type getup. She’d lit candles all over the apartment. You’re more into this woman than any other woman I’ve seen you with. If the way you two argue is anything to go by, she must be like fire between the sheets.”
“Too far,” I tell him, absorbing a hook from Drew.
“Sorry. But the point is, this was going to be a hot night, and you just left her there, with no explanation.”
“Cady was sick, Kit. She was wasted. Anything could have happened to her.”
He shakes his head. “Man, your daughter has a lot to answer for.”
Drew stands down and we all move to the ropes. “Come on, Kit, we’ve all been where Cady was. Brooks did what he had to do.”
“Would you have left Becky like that? God knows if Madge put stockings on for me these days, I’d feel like I won the jackpot.”
I help Drew unstrap his hands. “Yeah, well, Cady got her karma,” I tell Kit. “She was pretty sick. Again. And again. And again.”
“And Izzy just didn’t show up today?” Drew asks.
“Not seen her. It gives me a good idea of how pissed she is. I’ve been stuck here but trying to call her all day. At first I think she was sending me to voice mail; then she turned off her phone altogether.”
“How do you know if she sends you to voice mail?” Kit asks.
“It was a different number of rings each time before it transferred.”
“Huh. I’m going to look out for that. I’m sure Madge does that when I call from work.”
“To be fair, buddy, we all do that to your calls,” Drew says.
“Ah, I’d probably send me to voice mail too.”
For the first time today, I smile.
“What are you going to do, Brooks?” Drew asks.
I shrug. “I know I should have told her about Cady. I just wanted to be uncomplicated Brooks, you know? The man she was into.”
“I can speak from experience when I tell you, Becky once kept things from me for the same reason, and it didn’t go well, buddy.”
I nod and bring my forearms to rest on the ropes. “Yeah, well, I’m going to tell her everything tonight, as soon as I can get away.”
“Oh my God! Are you fucking kidding me?”
All three of us turn to face the door and see Cady storming toward me, red faced with eyes like thunder.
“I know you didn’t just swear at me, kid,” I tell her.
“You deserve it! I can’t believe this! How could you do this to me?”
“Whoa, Cady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The goddamn blog!” She thrusts her phone toward my face, making me step back. When I take it from her, I see the heading:
BROOKS ADAMS: HOUND DOG
Then the picture of me carrying Cady into my apartment last night. The blog post makes it sound like Cady is my lover and I’m a cheating scoundrel.
Rage gushes over me like a tidal wave, bowling me over so I can see nothing else.
I knew I offended her, but this?
“Oh my God, my friends are going to see this and think I’m sleeping with my dad!”
“Cady, calm down. Your name isn’t in there and your face is cov—”
“It’s my goddamn pink hair! My boots. My skirt. Everyone will know it’s me.”
I glance around the boxing room, thankful that there are only a couple of other people working out on bags, both wearing headphones. Although Cady is screaming loud enough to wake dead cats in Dumpsters.
“Kit, lend me your phone?” I dial Madge and ask her to have Kerry take down the blog. “Tell her if she doesn’t do this, I will bury Izzy and that fucking book in lawsuits.”
During the call both Drew and Kit have a chance to read the blog. “You really pissed her off,” Kit says.
“Yeah, no shit,” Drew adds.
“Cady, I’m sorry. The blog is coming down. Your friends won’t have had a chance to see it. As for the pink hair, you’ll change that in a week anyway.”
“This is not okay, Dad! If you want to dance for cameras and fuck her, that’s one thing, but—”
“Enough, Cady! Enough. I’m going to straighten this out, but don’t you forget who you’re
talking to. Let’s go. I’ll take you home and you can go tell Alice what a shitty dad I am.” God knows it’s true.
As we walk back to my block, my anger doesn’t wane; it heightens with every goddamn step. What a typical Izzy, shithead thing to do. I should have known better. Being mad at me is one thing, but to go public with this shit…
When we’re home, I send Cady straight to the basement garage and tell her to wait in the truck while I head upstairs, too irate to put off confronting Izzy.
I hammer on her door. “Izzy, I know you’re in there. Izzy, goddamn it, open the goddamn door!”
She eventually appears, with one eye closed and her hair falling out of the knot on top of her head, like I’ve just woken her up. “Brooks.” It seems to take her a second; then memories of her blog post must come back to her. Her eyes widen and she rubs the back of her head. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out with your girlfriend?”
“What am I doing here?” I push through the door and slam it shut behind me. Izzy takes a step back but she doesn’t wilt like a flower; she straightens her back and folds her arms across her chest. “Are you out of your mind? Even if I did have a girlfriend, which I don’t, you just put our personal lives on your fucking blog!”
Her wince tells me she knows it was a stupid thing to do, but she doesn’t admit it. “Maybe you should think about the consequences of your actions before you get your dick out of your pants. And don’t bullshit me about not having a girlfriend. I saw you carrying her into your apartment last night, as if you were newlyweds, and I heard you tell her you love her this morning. You played me for a fool, Brooks Adams. And do you know what hurts the most? I fell for it. Call me naïve or stupid or whatever, but I actually thought you had feelings for me. But no, it turns out I was just a fuck.”
“God, you’re incredible. You were never just a fuck, Izzy, but now, I wish I had kept my dick in my pants, because you are exactly what I was afraid you were. Just a spoiled rich girl who needs to have everything her own way and fuck other people’s feelings.”
“How dare you! You are the one who cheated on me! Or her, but definitely someone.”
“I didn’t cheat on anyone, Izzy. She’s my goddamn daughter.”
She leans away from me, her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Cady. The girl with the pink hair. She’s my eighteen-year-old daughter. She went to a party and got drunk. I had to pick her up. That’s why I left.”
“You have a daughter?”
I scoff. “If she’ll still call me Dad after this. You just plastered her picture all over the Internet and made out like I’m sleeping with her. How damn stupid can you be?”
“Stupid? How can it be stupid if I didn’t know who she was? I mean, bloody hell, Brooks. You have an adult daughter and you didn’t think to tell me? How could you not have told me that? Oh, I get it. Just play with me and ship me back off to London, right? There was no need to tell me anything about your family. Who is the mother? Are you…together?”
“Jesus. Back to me having an affair. I’m not even entertaining this, Izzy. I should have told you about Cady but maybe, deep down, I knew the kind of person you are and decided not to bother.”
I watch as her eyes fill and she rolls her jaw. “Great, yeah, put this on me being a shitty person. I’ll take the blog down, and please tell Cady that I’m sorry. But you’re still a liar, Brooks Adams, and I want nothing more to do with you.”
“That makes two of us.” I turn and walk out of her apartment, leaving her there with tears in her eyes, my own throat locked tight with emotion.
Cady and I don’t speak as I drive her home. She looks out of the window and I maneuver around the bright headlights of cars, my elbow on the window ledge, my fist propping up my temple. All I see is Izzy. Tears in her eyes. Smelling of wine.
I stop on the corner of Alice’s cul-de-sac and Cady climbs out of the car without speaking, slamming the door behind her. I watch her until she makes it inside the house and closes the door behind her, not once looking back.
Well, Brooks, you royally fucked this one up, buddy.
I stick the car into gear and just drive, to anywhere, nowhere.
Chapter 24
Brooks
Day 10.
When I walk into Studio A, a small group of reporters—two I recognize and two new—are already gathered. Izzy doesn’t meet my eye or speak to me as she loads a salsa video. Once the video is loaded, she leaves the room.
After my workout, I shower. As she said would happen, now that I know the moves, I can build up a sweat doing her routines. I head up to my office and stop in the corridor when I hear her soft, high voice singing to the gentle strum of my guitar. I lean back against the wall and listen. Each strum and each word peels back a layer of my anger and bares my feelings for her. I have to force myself to remember that she’s childish and petty and this whole thing is just one big game to her. A game she is playing to win.
As she sings about feeling alone, I recognize the lyrics. Not because I’ve heard the song before; I haven’t. I recognize the sentiment. That she can feel alone in a crowd of people.
Of course, if you write blog posts claiming the guys you are sleeping with are also sleeping with their daughters, it is a surefire way to make yourself lonely.
I don’t have the energy for this. No more. I seek out Elliot—one of my best trainers—and ask him to cover Izzy’s session for me.
In my office, Izzy is frantically scribbling on a piece of paper. Crossing out words, writing down guitar chords. She stops when she sees me and puts the guitar down, returning to her desk and her blank laptop screen.
“Elliot is going to take your session this afternoon. He’s one of my best and he has your notes.”
She lifts her head but her expression is unreadable. She nods, then stands and walks out of the room.
* * * *
I hold the punch bag that hangs from the ceiling of the boxing room as Drew pummels his fists, knees, and shins into it. Kit is slumped on the floor with his head between his legs, recovering from his session.
“Give me a left-right-left. Nice. Right-right-left. Good hit.”
As I talk Drew through his usual routine, throwing in a few different patterns to keep him sharp, Elliot comes into the room with Izzy following behind. He raises his chin in greeting. Izzy doesn’t look our way at all.
“Give me five knees each side,” I tell Drew, who is now dripping in sweat and grunting through each move.
I watch Elliot strap Izzy’s hands, my entire body tensing when he holds her wrist, his skin on hers. It’s a small touch. I’m mad as hell at the woman. Yet, it riles me. She takes Elliot’s instruction without giving him any grief. I wish the music weren’t playing so loud so I could hear what she is saying. It’s a small comfort that she isn’t laughing or smiling.
“Roundhouse, hook, jab. Five on each side,” I direct Drew.
Izzy starts punching at her bag but her technique is off. Her arms are too straight or too bent at the wrong times. She isn’t punching through the bag. That’s what I’d be telling her right now.
Elliot picks up on it but rather than telling her how to fix it, the bastard moves behind her, his chest to her back. He interlaces his fingers through her right hand and demonstrates technique by moving through the punch with her.
I don’t realize I’m reacting until Drew stops his workout and follows my gaze to Izzy and Elliot. In the same situation, maybe I would be doing the same thing Elliot is now. Would I? Would I hold my client’s hand and move through the punches that way?
My fists ball at my sides. When Elliot is satisfied, he moves back to his position behind the bag. Before she starts up again, Izzy shoots me a glance, her eyes connecting with mine for a second that feels like an hour. Then she’s punching through the bag, her back to me.
I wonder if she’s ima
gining my face as she pummels her fists into the sand-filled bag.
“I should have told her about Cady,” I mutter.
“You should have. But her reaction was shit, man,” Drew says in my defense.
Oddly, I feel an irrational need to justify Izzy’s insane actions. “She was hurt.”
“She could have spoken to you in private.”
“I know. I think she knows that too. She’s mad at me about Cady. And maybe she’s right. I mean, she wouldn’t have got wasted and posted anything if she had known I have a daughter.”
“How is Cady?” Drew asks.
“I’d love to answer that question, but she won’t answer my calls. Neither of them is speaking to me. How the fuck did I get here? You know what the really fucked up thing is? I don’t wish I hadn’t met her.” It strikes me as I say that, just how similar that reaction is to how I feel about Cady and Alice. My life went to shit because I got my girlfriend pregnant. I spend all my waking hours in this gym to avoid being home, alone with my thoughts. Yet I don’t wish I had never met Alice. I don’t wish we had never had Cady. And, even though she drives me crazy, there’s not even a small part of me that wishes I’d never met Izzy.
I watch her drop her arms to her sides before Elliot hands her a bottle of water. Ah, I can still enjoy watching her suffer through her hangover, though. “Hey, Iz!” I shout. “Are you wishing you didn’t drink a bottle of wine yesterday?”
She glowers at me across her shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Someone to lie to?”
“Not right now. Hey, maybe you could take a picture of Drew, Kit, and me and put it on your little blog thing. Tell the world we had a threesome.”
She flips me the bird, then gets back to the bag, punching and kicking harder than she had been just moments ago.
“I take it back,” Drew says. “She’s not childish. You both are.”
He’s right. But those are the first words Izzy has spoken to me in twenty-four hours. I’ve had my fix. Now I can go back to being pissed at her.
