by Grea Warner
***
My face was waffling with hot and cold waves as I felt my blood pressure try to regulate in light of the latest news I had just found out. At the same time, I was attempting to follow the contrasting jovial conversation around our dining room table full of family. We were celebrating Ella’s impending graduation and my homecoming. Garrett’s hopefully good news would have to wait—test results pending.
My father’s glare was direct and to the point. He knew what my sideways and downward glances while sitting at the table were all about. There ought to be an official name for the art of discretely looking at one’s cell phone. It was one I, obviously, had not mastered.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. I meant the comment for just my father, but the whole table stopped talking about Ella’s career options and instead looked at me. I imagined my cheeks having a bright pink tone, despite not wearing blush. “I ...” I couldn’t sit there any longer. It wasn’t just my face. My whole body felt like prickly fire pins. “I’m sorry. I need to make a phone call. It’s important. I apologize, Paw-Paw and Maw-Maw.”
“It’s fine, honeybun, go ahead,” my mom’s father replied.
My father continued to watch me as I rose from my seat, but he didn’t say a word. I’m sure it was a sign of respect to his elder and my mother. He would do anything for my mom.
“Ella’s gonna be a garbage truck driver or work for a porta-potty service,” my brother luckily jumped right back into the previous conversation, teasing our sister.
“I just missed making assistant manager of the cookie shop, thank you very much,” Ella repelled back. “And there’s the possibility at the real estate place ...”
Her voice faded as I went toward the back door with an eager, dark brown Newfoundland hound on my heels. He needed the back yard as a place to do his business and run. I needed the air and privacy to follow up with Ryan’s text.
I really need U to call me. He had written. Your name is out there.
I had known instantly what he meant. And my instinct was to, indeed, call him right away. But first I scoured the web for articles with my name.
It didn’t take long to discover what Ryan had said was true. A couple of publications were citing a “source” who came forward to identify the woman who was holding hands in the Napa region with Ryan Thompson. The dramatic writing made it almost seem like there was a crime scene and I was some type of murderess. Not only did the source say my name was Bethany Lenay but also that I was from North Carolina. Plus, I already had a nickname—Twitter Girl. They had connected me to my Singer Spotlight audition and the conversation Ryan and I initially had on the social media outlet. The clincher—as if there needed to be one—was the source said the affair had been going on for a few weeks or so. Of course, it was longer than that, but someone knew for a while at least.
As if Ryan’s text wasn’t disconcerting enough, the additional facts that were out there were stomach-knotting, vomit-worthy worse. I was going to have to tell my family for sure. They had to be prepared, and they deserved to know from me before hearing it from anyone else. Because, after all, there is no finer gossip than Sunday church gossip. No matter the whole truth behind the stories, it was bound to be disgraceful for both my father and mother. The only slight upside was, my real last name wasn’t used.
When searching any further online was only going to aid in a potential future ulcer, I cut myself off and did what I had said I was going to do. I called Ryan. All previous reasons not to talk with him were thrown out the window. I needed to talk with him. I needed to hear his voice. I needed whatever reassurance he could possibly provide.
“Hi,” was his solitary, solemn answer.
“Hi,” I echoed back with the same delivery.
“You looked online, huh?”
“I did.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” I also knew it wasn’t him who needed to harbor the blame.
“Where are you?”
“Home. Everyone is here—even my grandparents. I stepped outside. Ryan, what ... what should I do?”
Our back yard wasn’t big, but it was wooded. I felt as if the trees were absorbing my pain. And I wondered how much sadness they had seen in their long history.
“Beth—” Hearing my desperation, he broke on my name before recollecting himself. “If this helps, no one is going to get your number. They’re not going to get your family’s number. Your last name is not out there, and the show is strict about not releasing any of that.” He said it to be reassuring, but there was still too much that was already out there.
“I’m glad it will be hard for the press to contact me. But a lot of people—real people,” I emphasized without deliberately trying to be spiteful, “know me by Lenay, not Opala. Or, they know both. Ryan ...” His name came out of my mouth like a plea for help.
His sigh that time showed his pure frustration over our entire circumstance. “I will respect any decision you make about who you tell and how much you say. I’m not saying anything, though. If I even pick up the phone by mistake—no comment. I have a call into the team. They’ll give some advice on how to proceed.” Even though he couldn’t see me, I nodded, and he spoke again. “We were lucky no one connected you until now. I think besides the sunglasses, it was because of your hair. Your hair was so different on the show than it is now.”
“You didn’t know what happened to that short-cropped blonde when I showed up at your office.” I recalled our first meeting and, for a moment, my heart warmed with the memory.
“Yep.” I think his did, too. “And that is the only real physical reference anyone had of you since you don’t really post photos or took the few down. They didn’t make the connection.”
He had been right. He had been smart. He did know the crazy media world. But there was still a hole in the plan.
“So, obviously, whoever leaked my name is someone who knows me on a more personal level. But who would do that? And who knows that an affair has been going on for a while? No one. No one, Ryan! Who do you think the source is?” The possibilities had been feverishly circling around in my head since reading the story. “It’s making me sick.” I practically cried, and I swear the trees moved without even a trace of wind.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out, too. I know you are ...” He hesitated but then went for it. “It’s not Willow, is it?”
“No.” And I reaffirmed with a second confident, “No.”
“No, I don’t really think so either.” His voice had remained calm if not sad. “She has your back for sure.”
I did an internal chuckle at the flashback of my friend defending me that night at the bar. It, without a doubt, was not Willow. Really, though, who else knew about Ryan and me?
Like a thorn in my side, I came up with an alternative possibility. I struggled for an adjective I could live with saying out loud, especially at my parents’ house. “What about Kari’s ever-so-pleasant mother?”
I knew Ryan agreed with my characterization of his former mother-in-law, but he denied the possibility of her being the nark. “Irene definitely doesn’t want it out. She wants to still pretend in the fairytale. She’s living her own failed Hollywood career through Kari. And the pretense of a healthy marriage? She does that with her own, too.”
I found that interesting and sad all at the same time. But it was not, by far, my top priority. I wracked my brain for people who not only knew what I looked like but also knew my singer name.
“Ryan?” A new option popped into my mind. “How about Anamaria?”
“It’s not Ana. When the initial photograph went out, I talked with her. She had no idea. I had to tell her everything because she is taking a lot of the heat via the office right now. But she is completely loyal. She has proven that time and time again with numerous client issues in the past. I completely trust her.”
The idea of Anamaria made me think of others in his world. “Morrison?”
“As much as I would like to bla
me him since he was playing Mr. Huggy with you, anyone in the business would not do that ... at least anyone who is reputable and wants to keep working. And Morrison is top-notch. Look, we could go through a bunch of names ... people ... and still not figure it out. And believe me, Bethany, I’m upset. I’m pissed. If I can do anything about it, I will. I just don’t want you making yourself sick over it.”
“I already am,” I admitted.
“I know. I know you are.” In a weird way, his voice sounded both worried and reassuring.
“Ry, I have to tell my family everything. I don’t want them blindsided by it.”
“Absolutely.”
“Blindsided by what?” I practically jumped on my sister’s voice—I hadn’t heard or seen her come outside at all. “Oooo ... what gives?”
“Ella!” My mom’s voice was even louder. “Where is your sister? Where’s the dog?”
I first looked at Ella, who had the spill-the-secret gleam in her honey-brown eyes. I then directed my attention to the open door where my mom was crossing the family room. “I gotta go.” I spoke into the phone.
“I know. I hear,” Ryan answered back.
“Bethie!” my dad called out, and the four-legged furry creature bounded toward the open doorway as if my name were his.
“Call me.” Ryan’s voice sandwiched my dad calling out my and my sister’s name.
“Ella!”
“Oh, goodness, girls. Get inside.” My mom brushed her graying-before-its-time hair away from her face and waved us in from the family room’s doors.
“Good night,” I managed to Ryan before hanging up.
“What is this blindsided business?” Ella whispered.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now,” she verbally bounced back. “I’m going out.”
“What?” I jerked my head. “You’re leaving now? Everyone is here.”
“For you. For your homecoming.”
I heard the jealousy in my sister’s voice. But the funny thing was—and she could never see it—I was, in a lot of ways, jealous of her. Growing up, she was the one who got to do everything without restrictions or fear. Did she push those boundaries when she shouldn’t have? Absolutely. But she had that freedom.
“I’m home for your graduation,” I justified.
“Bethie! Ella!” We both semi-turned toward our father’s voice.
“Tell me,” she prodded.
“I will later if you promise not to say anything right now.”
My sister followed up my plea with a negotiation tactic Ryan would have appreciated. “Cover if I come in late, then.” It didn’t matter that we were both over twenty-one, our parents still had rules.
“Yeah, okay.” And I walked into the house.
I managed to make it until after dinner before looking at my social media accounts or searching the web again. There weren’t a lot of comments, but the ones that were there weren’t kind. And I was sure they would only grow.
As if knowing that was exactly what I was doing or because he was looking at them himself—both equally likely—Ryan texted me. Make your accounts private &/or turn off comments.
I will :(
I’m so sorry. Clear your mind. Get some rest, please.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The only one of Ryan’s requests I was able to fulfill was switching my accounts to private. Clearing my mind? Impossible. Resting? Forget it. I did neither that entire night, not only worrying about what people who didn’t know me thought of me but also anticipating what my family would.
I decided to delay telling them until morning because there were just too many around well into the night. I wanted to tell my parents when it was only the three of us. Garrett had long since taken the bus to high school. And Ella—whom I had put off by feigning sleep when she got home in the middle of the night—had just left for her shift at the cookie shop. I knew my siblings would need to know, but I simply didn’t want too many voices and opinions in the initial conversation. It was going to be hard enough without excessive Opala chatter.
For as good as I was at connecting words to convey messages in a lyrical format, I did a horrible job relaying exactly what was going on with Ryan and me. I stumbled. I restarted. I showed the photo. I looked down.
I wanted their approval. I wanted their advice. But what I got was what I feared the most—their disappointment.
My father’s voice even elevated, which was a rarity. “My daughter—the daughter we raised—is involved with a married man? And someone in a power position?”
Yikes! Oh, no. I totally failed trying to describe my relationship with Ryan.
“No ... no,” I began to explain. “First of all, we’re more like partners. You know we wrote some—”
“Oh, my gosh!”
All three of us swiveled to spot my sister at the entry of my dad’s home office. We must have been so involved in the incredibly awkward conversation that we hadn’t even heard her return. But there was Ella—a combination of surprise and interest decorating her face.
“Ella, what are you—” our father started.
“Hmmm ...” My sister smiled a smirky grin at me. “You did get some beach bod. Married ... really? And this power thing? What exactly does that involve ...?” She purposefully let her comment fade, and I looked at her with eyes and mouth wide open.
“Oh, sweet merciful.” Our mother gasped, and I was even more mortified, thinking she may have actually understood what Ella was referring to.
“Kidding, Mom. Relax.” Ella lifted her eyebrows at me.
“You three know how to take turns on your mother’s and my nerves. I’m going to lose even more hair.” My balding dad made me feel even worse, knowing I shouldn’t be “taking a turn” since they were already so worried about Garrett.
“Yeah, but I never—” Ella stopped herself and looked at me with what I swear was a little bit of awe. “Whoa. So, who’s the dude?”
“Caye ...” Our father looked to our mom for help.
She tried. “Ella, why are you here?”
“I forgot the shirt.” My sister was very organized with some things, but when it involved homemaking and finance ... not a clue. “You know we have that special promo one tha—"
“Yes, yes. I washed and hung it up. It’s downstairs. You are going to be late. Get it and go,” our mother replied. “We need to talk with Bethany.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll even go out the basement door.” Ella saluted me and said as she left, “Scoop ... later.”
Later, I thought, I will be regurgitating the little bit of breakfast I had managed to eat before the big reveal. Later, I thought, I will be disinherited as part of the family. Good luck finding me. Later, I thought, my world will spin me completely out of control.
Ella’s interruption didn’t help matters. I think, if anything, it only added to my father’s frustration. At least, he did move on from the power comment.
“Okay ... you wrote together. He’s helped you out. But this Ryan guy ... what kind of guy does that to his wife?” The second part of his dialogue—the question—was slow and deliberately to the point, just like most of his sermons. It was also riddled with disgust.
“Daddy, you didn’t hear everything. It’s not like—"
“I don’t know you.” He actually turned from my direction.
“You do know me.” I almost cried.
And my mom tried to play peacemaker. “Barry ...”
“Where did we go wrong?” He looked at his wife and then turned back to me. “Thou shall not steal ... though shall not commit adultery ... though shall honor thy father and thy mother ...”
I could recite all of that, too. And I noted how he was being selective in his choices and how he rearranged the order of the commandments. “I know you’re disappointed in me. But I didn’t do any of those things. I promise.” Besides maybe coveted the Thompson house, but that was not at all the issue.
“All right, Bethie.” Strangely, in dire circumstance
s, my mother’s anxiety seemed to flip and she could be the rational one in charge—it’s that mom lifting a car off a child thing. When it’s over, though, she lets the anxiety crumble to an extreme. “Let’s sit. We all need to sit.” I think she needed to sit.
They listened as I managed to get the whole story out a little more fluidly. I even told them the part about me telling Ryan I loved him and knowing he felt the same way but not wanting to hear it. I was pretty much in my no holds barred state of mind.
My father was going to interrupt a couple times, but my mom gave him a look. It’s funny. I had seen him counsel so many others—with situations worse than mine—and he was always so calm. But when it came to his first-born baby girl? Nope. Not so much.
Toward the conclusion of the tale, they were both much calmer and more receptive. But that didn’t mean they didn’t have concerns. Heck, so did I.
“He’s how old?” my father questioned.
“Thirty-three.” I knew the age difference was a strike, but there was a twenty-year difference between them and Ryan, so they were old enough to be his parents, and in relation to everything else they feared ...
“He’s divorced.” That was definitely one of them. “The bible—"
“Daddy,” I interrupted immediately. “What about the immorality and adultery? Yes, I listen in church.” He couldn’t help but smile a little, and my mom did, too. “It wasn’t him. He, in fact, has been loyal to her. Even in the decision to keep the divorce a secret.”
“All right, Bethie girl, but he already has kids,” was his next point of concern.
“He does.” Fact.
“You’ll want your own. You’re young,” was his counterpoint.
“It doesn’t always work that way,” was mine.
I looked from him to my mom—they knew that. And I’m sure it really wasn’t a major bone of contention with my parents. Their concern was for my well-being.
