by A. Zavarelli
“What about him?” Matt asked.
I sat back down at my desk and scrubbed the heels of my hands across my face. This was even harder than I thought.
“About what he would have wanted for Nicole.”
Chapter Fourteen
Brighton
“How are you?” Norma asked.
I stared out at the garden, taking it all in since I hadn’t the last time I was here. The rehab center really was beautiful. I still couldn’t believe that Ryland had done this for her.
“I’m good,” I lied.
“Doesn’t look like it.” She sat back in her chair and bobbed her foot up and down. “You’re getting a little hefty.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. Okay, so I guess some things hadn’t changed. Norma could still be as blunt as ever.
“I’m not getting hefty, Norma. I’m pregnant.”
Her eyes widened, and she stared down at my belly in shock. “You are?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “Four months now. But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Especially not Ryland.”
“Is it his?” she asked.
“Of course it is,” I scoffed.
She held her hands up and gave me a gentle smile. “I didn’t mean it that way, Brighton. I’m just surprised. I can’t believe you’re going to be a mama.”
“I know,” I agreed. “I’m scared.”
Her expression softened, and she reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“You’re going to do great,” she insisted. “So much better than I ever did.”
“Thank you,” I murmured. “I’m trying to do what’s right, but sometimes, I don’t even know what that is anymore.”
She nodded in understanding. If there was anyone who could relate to my predicament, it would be Norma. I never really cut her any slack for that, but I knew how much she both loved and feared Frankie. And he didn’t want her, so she dealt with it in the only way she knew how.
“I wish I could tell you what to do, Brighton,” she said. “But I hardly know myself. I guess that’s part of life, is figuring it out as you go.”
“Yeah I guess so,” I agreed.
We fell silent for a moment, and I fidgeted with my hands in my lap. There was something else I needed to ask, but I was half-afraid to.
“Have you heard anything from Brayden?”
She frowned, and right away, I knew I was justified in being worried.
“He’s called a couple times since you told him where I was. But he’s not real happy with me.”
“Of course he’s not,” I sneered. “Because the only thing he’ll see in the whole situation is that you’re taking Ryland’s side. He can’t see past anything else.”
“That sounds about right,” Norma agreed quietly.
She looked sad, and for the first time in a long time, I knew she needed my reassurance.
“You’re doing the right thing, Norma,” I said. “You’re taking care of yourself right now, and that’s all that matters. If Brayden can’t see that, then that’s his issue, not yours.”
“I know,” she agreed. “But I’m just… I’m worried about him, Brighton.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I was too.
“How’s he paying the rent now that you’re gone?”
“He’s not.” She glanced down at her hands as she twisted them in her lap. “He said he’s living in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” The word came out as a whisper. “With who?”
She didn’t reply. But I didn’t need her to. Brayden wouldn’t have told her who he was there with, but it was obvious to both of us. And it scared the hell out of me.
“You don’t think he’s getting tied back up with…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. How could he keep doing this to his family? For someone who said he cared, he didn’t seem to think about how any of his actions might affect us.
“I don’t know for sure,” Norma admitted. “But, he’s just like his father. Thinks he’s too good to get a real job. I’m afraid to even ask him what he’s doing.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said, sounding more confident than I actually felt. “You just focus on getting healthy, Norma. Okay?”
I gave her a watery smile, and she returned it. “Okay, Brighton. I love you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ryland
When I was a child, my mother used to take me down to the pier every weekend and spend an entire day devoting herself to doing whatever I fancied. Sometimes it was sailing, often times the aquarium, there were even the occasional bouts of watching sea lions frolic about.
Whatever the occasion, we had a tradition, she and I. She’d always take me to Dreyer’s after and let me stuff my face with ice cream till’ I wanted to puke. I must have sampled every flavor and topping combination my tiny brain could conjure up about a dozen times over. But not Katherine.
She preferred vanilla. Plain old, nothing added, boring as hell vanilla. I couldn’t comprehend such a thing in my child-like noggin. There were so many other flavors. So many different possibilities. When I told her so, she’d laughed and stroked my cheek in a way that mothers do.
“Someday, sweet Jacob,” she said. “Someday, you’ll get it.”
Sitting in my office- twenty years later- I finally got it. I leaned forward to brush the pads of my fingers over the framed photo of Brighton’s pretty face. This dirty little habit of mine was starting to rival Norma’s.
It all made perfect sense to me now, what my mother said. Vanilla was pure and unsullied. Cleansing to the palate, you had to savor it to appreciate it. I could sip at Brighton’s vanilla sweetness for a thousand years and never be fully satisfied. I’d always replenish her, though. I swore it. I’d break her a thousand times if only so I could put her back together again.
Piles of work were strewn about my desk, forgotten and ignored. Everything was out of order and inviting chaos into my life. Care factor? Nil. The drive for what I did disappeared off a ridge along the Pacific Coast Highway on a night not too long ago.
Today was July 29th. My birthday. Did it surprise you that I was a lion? It shouldn’t.
Birthdays had ceased to exist for me six years ago. I doubted Brighton had any special mark of this day on her calendar. But if she had, I wondered what she’d have gifted me. She was thoughtful and attentive. It wouldn’t be anything expected in circles such as mine. Seven fold ties or cufflinks made from the tusks of endangered species. No fine Cuban cigars or two-hundred-year-old bottles of scotch would spew forth from her hands.
Brighton would give something from the heart. Something that mattered.
I had an inkling of a few things that would’ve pleased me. Her waltzing into my office in white lingerie, getting down on her knees and sacrificing herself at my alter. Oh wait, she’d already done that. Still, there was nothing like a good old fashioned reenactment.
Would I have taken it all back if I could? That first day in the hotel room when I’d unknowingly altered my course so drastically. Probably not. I wasn’t a saint, never would be. Those memories with Brighton were a lot like a penicillin shot. Painful, but necessary at times. They still made something in the vicinity of my chest stir every now and again.
From what you know of me, I’d gather you’d assume I was more than a little twisted. And you’d be right.
I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I was a normal twenty-four-year-old who brought women flowers and took them to dinner. I never even considered being anything other than respectful towards them.
That was how my mother raised me after all. To woo and charm and play by the rules.
Then life happened. And brick by brick, my sensibly constructed mortar kingdom disintegrated before my eyes. My reality check was that life didn’t play fair. Life took. And people took. And every day that I woke up empty fucking took… something. I was forged in the fire of blood and misery. The sadist inside of me created someone in his image. Or perhaps he only brought to life the monster always lur
king there. I’d never really know for certain.
But Brighton loved the monster. She’d admitted as much. So what good would it do to pretend I was anything else? Why show up with wine and chocolate when you know your girl wants leather and filthy words?
And yet there I sat. Thirty years old in my sad office with my sad paperwork. Alone.
I wanted her to text me. To say something. I’d been waiting all day. It was a foolish notion. She didn’t even know it was my birthday. I knew when hers was. I’d buy her the world, but somehow I doubted it’d make a lick of difference.
For the last six years, I’d been alone on this day. It was never an issue. Indeed, I preferred it that way. But tonight, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with her.
And I was sick of waiting.
Chapter Sixteen
Brighton
Something warm skimmed over my neck, and I shivered as I nuzzled closer. I knew that scent anywhere. Whiskey and Ryland.
I smiled, because I was dreaming, and in my dreams, I could still have him.
“Baby girl,” he murmured. “Just let me hold you.”
I felt his warmth against my back, and I sighed against him. His heartbeat was as strong as I remembered, soothing me in a way that only he could. It felt so real. His hands were on my body. Stroking my hip, my ribs, my arms. I was falling deeper, and I knew I was going to lose him at any moment.
“Ryland,” I whispered.
“Yes, baby,” he replied. “I’m right here.”
His hands drifted over my belly, and I felt him pause. This was my dream so it could be anything I wanted. I imagined him telling me how happy he was. That we never had to be apart again, and he would take care of us. I would let him this time. Because it was just a dream.
***
I woke to sunlight streaming through the cracked blinds, and I whined. I really needed to get those fixed. Stretching out my sore muscles, a smile crept across my face. My dream had been so real last night, so very…
The scent of amber and cinnamon floated up from my pillow, and my breath hitched. I didn’t imagine that. That was real.
I shot up, clutching the blankets around my chest. Ryland was sitting on the end of the bed. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the picture of the sonogram they’d taken in the hospital. The one that I kept in my dresser drawer.
Oh, God.
My heart squeezed in my chest. He knew.
I waited for what felt like forever. He knew I was awake, but he wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t say anything. And I didn’t know why.
He was disappointed. Horrified. That could be the only explanation.
Finally, he stood up, his blue eyes meeting mine. I was afraid to look too deeply for fear of what I’d see there.
“How did you get in here?” I whispered.
“Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could get in here,” he roared. “And you’re fucking pregnant! How could you not tell me this?”
That was anger in his voice. Definite anger. And anger equated to disappointment. Right? My eyes burned, but I wouldn’t let him see me cry.
“It’s none of your business,” I bit out.
“None of my business?” he growled. “I’d have to disagree, Brighton. I’d say this is very much my fucking business.”
“I knew you’d react this way!” I yelled. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
He laughed darkly, and the cold Ryland was back, just like that. No more apologies, no more sweetness.
“No, you didn’t tell me because you wanted to punish me. You wanted to take this away from me. Well, I’ve got news for you, Brighton. That’s not going to fucking happen.”
“What are you saying?” My lip wobbled.
“Get your things together.” He walked towards the door. “You’re moving out of this shit hole. Today.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ryland
Have you ever had one of those moments where you felt as though time itself had suspended? Where you had to drag your sorry ass out of bed every morning with a mental pep talk you knew was complete drivel? Even the simplest gestures robbed you of precious energy. Dignity notwithstanding, I took comfort in the robotic voice inside my head instructing me what to do. How to perform the most basic of human functions.
Time to brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Should probably feed yourself something between shots. Gym? Meh…
How about jacking off in the shower instead? Nada. Not even energy for that. Ladies, we had a crisis on our hands.
The last thirty something days of my life had been a perpetual merry-go-round of this bullshit. People moved and spoke around me. Even to me, probably. Couldn’t say for certain. The silence in my ears was deafening. The colors in my world had evaporated into a haze of gray. Nothing made a lick of sense anymore.
My company. My life. My purpose.
For me, success wasn’t measured by the sum in my bank accounts. It was a welcome side effect, sure. But I had the drive and ambition to succeed in any chosen field. It wasn’t cocky, just fact. When you want gravely enough, you make it happen.
I had wanted more than anyone.
Now that my ruthless plotting had bled away, only scabs remained. I’d never given it much thought, what success meant to me. Many people believed my father to be successful. I still recall how cruelly I’d laughed at the mockery of the word after tragedy befell him. A tragedy of his own making, nonetheless.
If you’d asked me six months ago, I would have stood by that arrogant proclamation. I was too attached to the notion to let it go. My father had not been successful in his business. That was sorely obvious. But as I watched the clouds swirl and disintegrate outside of my high-rise window, unsettling clarity descended upon me.
He had everything he ever wanted. Two ostentatiously beautiful houses, boats, cars, family holidays in Europe. Plenty of materialistic things. But it was family. The thought was so simplistic, and yet it struck me down with the weight of its importance. My father had everything that couldn’t be measured with gold. The most exceptional wife and mother a man could hope for. The perfect children he’d always boasted of. When I pictured his face- before his financial troubles- I remembered how blissfully fucking happy he was. A fool’s paradise, as they say.
Only now did I grasp that the successes I’d thought mattered amounted to jack shit.
I swiveled around in my chair and edged closer to the window, pressing my palm against the glass. The sky was overcast and foggy, pouring down big fat tears of misery on the city of San Francisco. I fixated my attention on the tiny people milling about on the streets below, wondering if any of them could relate to how I felt at this moment.
Probably not.
The Jane and John Doe’s down there lived in another existence. By all outward appearances, they seemed content, but were they really? Husbands worked their fingers to the bone and whisked their mistresses off to hotels for afternoon trysts. Trophy wives racked up credit card bills in the hunt for the next best item that would fill their vacuous lives. Children splashed in puddles with their Wellies while their nannies scolded them and smiled. I couldn’t actually see these things of course, but it was how I imagined it in my head. Let me run with it, will you?
This was not the way I was raised. My parents were legitimately and freakishly happy. But there were times when I’d caught a glimpse of my father’s worried face as he hunched over his desk with a glass of bourbon late at night. There were signs. We’d all just chosen not to see them. He'd taken the weight of the world on his shoulders, as that’s what fathers do, right? And we were all happy to let it continue on without a hiccup.
Perhaps if I’d done something, said something. Things could have been different. It was a quandary I’d faced many times in my head. I’d picked it apart and dissected the remnants so many times nothing but bone dust remained.
It was easier to hate my father for what he’d done than to acknowledge I’d failed him. To admit I should’
ve stepped up to the plate and showed him what I was capable of back then. It’s funny how these little blips in life can change everything. How now, six years later, I questioned everything I thought I knew about my parents. The utterly terrifying news of being a father would do that to a man.
My child was inside her.
A tangible and very real slap in the face.
Why, you may ask? Did you take me for one of those men who wouldn’t own up to his responsibilities? Because I may have been many things, but I wasn’t a goddamn scoundrel. If you must tar me with any particular brush, don’t let it be that one.
Brighton did.
She’d given me no choice in the matter. Deemed me unfit the moment she found out, from the gist of it. Slapped me with the sperm donor label and sentenced me to a cardboard box, only to rot in a storage unit somewhere for the next eighteen years.
I couldn’t see past my anger this time. Rational thought was of little consequence when it hissed and popped inside of me, sizzling about like grease inside a frying pan. It was only a matter of time before I caught fire.
Like a bad movie reel, the words played on in my mind. She hid this from me. She could’ve plunged a stake through my heart, and it would’ve hurt less. As it were, it felt like she’d unloaded an entire clip of hollow points inside my gut.
I’d be the first to confess I had questionable morals. My track record wasn’t the best, probably. I wasn’t proud of all the things I’d done. I hated what I’d done to her. Knowing now she was pregnant when it happened? It gutted me. GUTTED ME.
These words weren’t for show. I hadn’t been this fucked up since fate punched a ticket to a front row seat at my family’s death. I didn’t get the feels often. Maintaining a balance of carefully numb and indifferent was a coping mechanism. My cavalier fucking attitude worked for me. Shutting the door on grief, I let it fester deep inside of me like cancer.
