“Okay? I woke up to find my boyfriend has gone rogue, how do you think I’m doing?”
He sounds exhausted. Sighing, I can picture him running his fingers through his hair, a five o’clock shadow plastered on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I had to.”
“Had to what, Grant? What was so important that you had to take a call in the middle of the night and bugger off?”
“You heard that?” he asks.
“Yes, I heard that. Didn’t hear much else other than an I’m sorry. What are you sorry for?”
“I can’t tell you that, not over the phone. But I will.”
“When? Some day? Because let me tell you something, some day is creeping up on you pretty fast. Whatever it is you’re putting off, you’re going to have to face it.”
“What makes you think I’m putting something off?”
“C’mon, Grant. I was born, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re obviously hiding something. What is it, huh? A lover, a mistress? Am I just one in a slew of girls you’ve got lined up and down the East coast?”
“Raven, please. It’s not like that at all. You know you’re the only one for me.”
I scoff and shake my head. “At this point I don’t know what to believe. You said in your note that you had to run off for business, so since I’m your assistant, tell me—what sort of business are you on, Mr. Huffman.”
He says nothing. There’s a long, drawn out pause that sends my stomach fluttering into knots to the point where it feels like I’m going to be sick.
“I’ll send a car tomorrow to drive the three of you to the airport. I’ll see you at work.”
“Just tell me one thing,” I plead, and I hate that my voice sounds like that because I don’t want it to sound like I’m begging him for anything.
“What’s that?”
“Tell me you’re not with another woman.”
Silence.
Awful, dreaded, silence.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
“I’ll see you at work, Raven. I love you.”
Grant hangs up before I can say anything else, his words reverberating in my mind.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
The only problem is, I don’t know how to feel about him anymore.
- 23 -
Raven
By the time I get to the office on Monday morning I should be cooled down. I’ve had a couple of days to simmer and digest everything that’s happened, but when I step off the elevator and head toward my desk, the last conversation I had with Grant echoes in my mind, and when I see his office door closed I drop my purse on my chair and barge through it, ready for a confrontation.
Except none comes.
Grant isn’t anywhere to be found. His office is the way we left it after those hellish days dealing with the McCreedy account. There are papers and folders still on the floor, his iPod sits in the corner, and his desk—the same desk where he took me for the first time—sits disorganized and bare where my ass was when he angrily fucked my brains out.
“Grant?” I call out, thinking he might be in the bathroom.
Creeping over, I find that he’s not there either. The entire room is void of his presence, yet it reeks of him at the same time. His cologne, his scent, his mark is all over the place, and I collapse into his chair and sigh, wondering where I’m supposed to go from here.
God bless Tito and Frankie for trying to help me through it. They were saints this past weekend after Grant left, trying everything in their power to take my mind off things. We played Cards Against Humanity, watched The Little Mermaid, ate loads of ice cream, and talked until the wee hours of the morning about everything and anything except Grant. Mostly about their upcoming nuptials, which they still haven’t set a date for.
Yet through it all he was there, in the back of mind as I wondered and thought the worst, and now? Seeing him not even at work, what am I supposed to think?
“Um, Miss Young?”
I blink, and look to see a guy standing in the doorway, dressed casually in a pair of khakis and an untucked dress shirt. He’s offering me a crooked grin as his eyes scan the office, and I’m sure he must be wondering what happened, but I don’t have the energy to explain anything, so I just sigh, “Yes.”
“Sorry to intrude, but I saw that the door was open.”
“Can I help you?” I ask, rising from Grant’s chair and walking over to meet him. It’s only then that I recognize his face, and when I do my demeanor shifts. “Sam,” I say apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Sam’s our mail guy, in charge of delivering everything on this floor. Usually he just drops it off at my desk, but since I’m not at my desk…
He holds out the bundle of envelopes, asking, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, glancing over the mail. “Sure. Thanks for these.”
One piece in particular catches my eye, so I thank him once more and shut myself in Grant’s office before he can say goodbye. I’m sure whatever he thinks he saw will be the office gossip within the next hour, but I don’t care.
“JHBM,” I murmur.
These are the same initials I found online in reference to the only thing I could dig up on Grant’s past, and now they’re staring back at me from the top right hand corner of some nondescript envelope.
My heart races with confusion. It’s obviously addressed to him, but this might give me a little insight into what’s going on. Do I open it? Do I wait for him to come clean?
I grab the phone, thinking if I call Tito he might be able to talk me out of it, but who am I kidding? He’d want me to open it just as much as I want to open it.
Fuck it, I’m opening it.
I am his assistant, after all.
Tearing into the envelope, I pull out a single sheet of paper. Apparently the JHBM initials I found online stand for Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.
“That puts that mystery to rest,” I mumble, reading down the page.
Dear Mr. Huffman,
As of September 1st our rates for long-term care will be increasing by 5%. Since you have already pre-paid without the use of insurance, your current credit may be depleted sooner than expected.
We ask that you please make the necessary arrangements so that we can continue to offer the best care possible without interruption.
Please call our offices before August 31st to receive your current credit balance, and to hear about our pre-paid discounts that can save you money.
We look forward to continuing to service all your health care needs.
Sincerely,
Julie-Ann Bright
Accounts Receivable
I read the letter again, and again, and again. It only adds to the confusion I feel inside, leading to more questions than answers. Long-term care? No insurance? What the hell is that all about?
Grabbing the phone, I dial Grant’s number but like the first time I tried in the kitchen of the beach house, there’s no answer. I haven’t heard from him since before Tito and Frankie took me out to breakfast. He’s not at work, I know he’s not at home, and seeing as how the only other places we’ve ever been are Drake’s and the beach, my options are limited as to where I should start looking for him.
Fingering the letter from Johns Hopkins, my mind furiously calculates all the locations he could be. When I look at the paper—when I see those four initials staring back at me—a lightbulb goes off.
He’s in Maryland.
And I don’t know why I think that because what sort of hospital calls you in the middle of the night, but when that thought enters my brain, the hairs on the back of my neck instinctively prick up, and if I’ve learned anything in this world it’s to always trust your instincts.
“Fuck it,” I say, reaching for the phone.
I dial another number and wait for the call to be received. A gruff, manly voice answers, “Yes?”
“Abel, it’s Raven.”
“Ah, Miss Raven. How can I be of service.”
“I’d like you to make preparations for a flight. I’ll be leaving to meet Mr. Huffman in Baltimore as soon as possible.”
There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line before Grant’s driver/bodyguard asks, “You…know about Baltimore?”
“I do,” I say quickly, biting my tongue so as to not ask the questions I’m dying for answers to. “Mr. Huffman and I have no secrets.”
“Very well, Miss Raven. I’ll notify the terminal and pick you up in twenty minutes. Is that sufficient?”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Abel.”
“Till then, Miss Raven.”
He disconnects and I sit there, phone still in hand, staring into space. Grant likes to call himself a risk taker, but that little white lie I just told Abel proved to be my biggest risk to date.
Meeting Mr. Huffman in Baltimore?
He didn’t deny it, so it must be true.
Grant’s in Baltimore.
And soon I will be, too.
Stepping outside of the building into the hot August haze, I search the street for Abel and his black SUV, but he has yet to arrive. Throngs of New Yorkers stride the sidewalk in front of me as taxis honk at one another, and I stand there, chewing my nails while patiently waiting for Grant’s driver to show up.
I think about what I’m going to say to Grant when I see him. Different scenarios play in my mind, but the reality is I have no idea what I’m walking into, so thinking about all the various ways to react to something I can’t even fathom does nothing but make me anxious. Is he sick? Is someone else sick? I mean, every thought imaginable runs through my mind, and I know when I get to Baltimore it’s going to be nothing like I expect.
“Excuse me?”
The voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look to see a scrawny man around my age standing in front of me. He’s dressed rather dingy, in a pair of blue jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, and he holds his hands behind his back.
I gaze back at him rather disapprovingly, thinking maybe he’s a homeless person. Not that there’s anything wrong with homeless people, other than the fact they don’t have homes, but I’m not in the mood to be badgered for change this morning.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Are you Raven Young?”
I flinch. Okay, now this maybe-homeless person knows my name. What the fuck?
“Yes.” I reply.
A wide smile breaks out on his boyish face and he brings his hands around front of him. It takes me a few moments to register that he’s holding an expensive looking camera, and before I know it, a flashbulb is going off in my face and he’s shouting, “I found her!”
“What?” I ask, totally clueless.
The next thing I know, there’s a horde of people running down the sidewalk, coming at me with picture cameras, television cameras, microphones, and I think one guy even has an iPad on a selfie stick, I’m not sure. They’re all screaming over one another so it’s hard to make out what they’re trying to ask, but I hear bits and pieces of it before I start to try and slink my way back inside the building.
“…relationship with Grant Huffman?”
“Is it serious?”
“…are you getting married?”
“…carrying you out of Drake’s.”
“…you love him?”
Son of a bitch, it’s the bloody paparazzi. I knew one day they’d manage to dig up some dirt on my relationship with Grant and eventually figure out it was me he was seeing, but this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
“Get away!” I shout, batting them off like flies as I open the door.
Thankfully Bruce is working the security desk, and he seems to have a good grasp on handling situations like these. When I get the door open enough, he pulls me inside and steps out onto the sidewalk, towering over everyone. His voice is muffled through the windows, but I can still hear him shout in that deep, baritone voice of his, “Everybody get the hell out of here. This is private property owned by Grant Huffman and you’re trespassing. Failure to do so will result in the authorities being called, and arrests being made.”
I appreciate his efforts, but this is the media we’re talking about. Freedom of the press, and all that. The crowd doesn’t seem fazed by Bruce’s threats, and they continue to howl all around him, snapping pictures of me through the glass while I try and shield my face with my purse, but it’s useless. Most of them have already snapped the pictures they need, and soon my image will be all over the gossip websites.
The only saving grace is they have yet to snag a picture of Grant and I together, but I’m sure now that I’ve been outed, it’ll only be a matter of time.
“Get back,” someone calls out, but it’s not Bruce’s booming voice this time. It’s firmer, almost parental-like in nature.
The crowd of photographers parts and I see Abel making his way down the middle like Moses parting the Red Sea. His eyes are fixed firmly on mine as he gestures for me to come out of the building, extending his hand for me to take. The paparazzi sees this as the perfect moment to snap more pictures, so when Abel leads me back through them and into the waiting SUV, there isn’t much resistance because they’re too busy clickity-clacking their little cameras.
Fucking vultures.
Abel slams the door shut and has a few choice words for some of the braver individuals with microphones and TV cameras. He shoves one of them out of the way and hauls himself into the driver’s seat before speeding away, cutting off a couple of irate taxi drivers in the process.
“Thanks, Abel,” I say, feeling anxious and out of breath. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He glances at me in the rearview and nods. “You have to be aggressive with those people, otherwise they’ll never stop. They would’ve camped outside on the sidewalk all night if it meant getting a shot of you.”
“I think they got plenty,” I sigh. “Do you think Grant will be—”
I catch the last word before it comes out of my mouth. What does it matter if Grant’s mad over a few gossip columns and pictures? I’m the one who should be mad. Still, just having a thought like that tells me that despite his secretive nature—despite what he’s hiding in Baltimore—I still care about him, and how he feels.
I just wish it went both ways.
“I think he’ll be fine, Miss Raven,” Abel says as we head toward JFK.
I clear my throat and look out the window.
Will he be fine?
Will any of us?
- 24 -
Grant
Pacing up and down the hallways of Johns Hopkins was a ritual of mine in the beginning. Now it’s become a nightmare I feel like I’ll never wake up from. One long corridor that goes on and on, stretching endlessly like the ocean.
The ocean.
The beach.
Raven.
I lean up against the wall and wait for her arrival. The flight from JFK to BWI takes about an hour. From there, it’s another twenty minute drive to the hospital.
I check my watch.
Any minute now.
I don’t know how she found out about this place, but it was only a matter of time. God bless Abel for calling me after speaking with her. Sometimes I think he’s the only person I can trust. I instructed him to let Raven have her way, and arrange a car for her when she gets to Baltimore. I also instructed the hospital staff to give her no resistance. To let her find me on her own.
I didn’t want to tell her like this, but I’ve no other choice. If I try and block her approach, it’ll only add fuel to a fire that’s already burning out of control. A fire that I let get out of control. There’s no one to blame but myself. If I’d just been honest with her from the start none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be standing here with my heart ready to explode in my chest. I wouldn’t be standing here with palms that feel as if they’ve been dipped in sweat.
I wouldn’t be standing here waiting for my entire world to come crashing dow
n.
Again.
Pushing off the wall, I make my way down the vinyl floor, my shoes echoing off the cream-colored walls. I think about what I would have done different in all this. When I would have told Raven. It could have been when we first met, or the night of Tito and Frankie’s engagement party.
The morning after.
Or it could have been in the middle of the night after I got the call that beckoned me here. I could have woken her, taken her hand, looked her in the eyes, and cracked open my heart for her to see.
I could have.
But I didn’t.
Whether it was fear, ego, depression—it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I didn’t, and when I round a corner, there she is coming toward me. Her face is a mixture of confusion, anger, consolation; she’s never looked more beautiful, and I’ve never been so scared.
“Grant,” she whispers softly. “What’s going on?”
I expected her to lash out. To yell and scream and demand answers. Instead, she shocks me by displaying compassion. Raven always shocks me.
“Raven,” I begin. “How did you find me?”
“Didn’t you want to be found?”
I stare, unsure of how to answer. I guess in a way I did, because it means I don’t have to hide anymore, and whatever the outcome, at least she’ll know the truth about me.
Raven reaches in to her purse and pulls out a letter. Handing it to me, I take the single sheet and read it over, smirking. It was a mistake. That’s how she found me. A letter that was supposed to be mailed to my home address, rather than the office. A simple twist of fate, and now here she is.
I can’t help but laugh, which isn’t helpful to anyone.
“Is this funny?” Raven scolds. “Because I don’t think my boyfriend cutting out on me in the middle of the night to come to some hospital is very amusing.”
“No,” I shake my head, tucking the letter into my pocket. “It’s not funny at all, Raven.” My tone turns serious, and so do I.
Made In America Page 18
