Royal Baby

by Layla Valentine

  Paul’s whine came as an unwelcome break from my thoughts. “Aren’t you even sad?”

  “Do you really want to know?” I shot back.

  Anger flashed in his weak, light brown eyes—the same color hers had been. Scrutinizing me with his teary eyes, he shook his head.

  “I just…I can’t believe it, Carter. She was our mother.”

  I looked away. “She left us.”

  Paul grabbed my arm. “She was sick. She loved us.”

  I ripped my arm away. “She left us. She left me to find her—like that.”

  Paul said nothing, his hand still clenched midair, hovering, the tears the only movement on his face.

  It was fine that he didn’t have words. I had enough for both of us. The bottled-up, unsaid words surged forth now.

  “Love? Give me a break, Paul. Abandoning your kids, that’s not love. She loved herself more than she loved us. If she’d loved us, she would’ve stayed. She would’ve kept trying.”

  Paul was shaking his head hard, as if he could shake my words away.

  “No, you’re wrong. She tried. She tried, but he was never around, could never hear what she was trying to tell him. He wouldn’t even get her help.”

  “He was doing the best he could. He was working to support his family.”

  “He was a workaholic who used work to avoid the issues in his own home.”

  Now it was my turn to shoot him a sardonic glare.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, Paul? That you’re mad at me for hating one of our parents, whose grave we’re literally standing on, while you do the exact same thing.”

  Paul’s whole body was trembling, now. With his eyes overflowing with tears, it was a miracle he could see enough to know where to direct his glare.

  “You’re just like him. I should’ve figured that you wouldn’t understand.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said all day, brother.”

  “You don’t even…” he grumbled, casting his gaze back on the stone.

  “I don’t even what?” I asked, but he only shook his head.

  After a minute, he said, “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. He regretted it at the end, you know. Dad. He regretted working so much, building his ‘empire’ at the expense of everything—his morals, his friends, us.”

  I started walking away.

  “Save it, Paul. Save your lies for someone who’ll listen.”

  But Paul was right behind me.

  “I’m not lying. When you went out to the bathroom, when he was in the hospital, he told me. He told me how he’d made a mistake. He shoved a letter at me that he’d written that day. He begged me not to tell you—your work ethic was the one thing he was proud of. His dying wish was that I not tell you the truth.”

  I stopped and spoke to a hole in the dirt.

  “His dying wish was for me to finish the pipeline project.”

  Paul walked in front of me and shoved a folded-up, yellowed piece of paper at my face.

  Slowly, I unfolded it. I had to read it several times; the words just wouldn’t seem to stick, to register. The handwriting was shaky, but unmistakable.

  I was wrong, Father had written. Life is not success, getting more; doing more is not happiness. Working instead of living is not worth it. Life is a meaningful experience. Spending time with loved ones, enjoying what you have, appreciating it all—that is happiness. I never did that. It is too late now and it was too late then, when I lost her. I couldn’t admit it—couldn’t bear to. I killed my wife, and I am so, so sorry. If I could do it all over, I would.

  The last words haunted me. They repeated in my mind, over and over again: If I could do it all over, I would—If I could do it all over, I would—If I could do it all over, I would, would, would.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said softly, his tear-stained hand clasping mine.

  I shoved the letter into his chest, pushing him—my stupid, teary brother with his stupid, contagious weakness—to the ground, raising my fist but not lowering it, yelling into his still-blubbering face, “Fuck you.”

  I left. I drove away from my brother and his truth that couldn’t be, from my past, with its long, grasping fingers, trying to get its claws into my present, trying to ruin everything.

  And as I hurtled down the highway, toward I didn’t know where, away from there, all I knew was that I couldn’t let it.

  I ended up at home. The words chased me up the stairs. If I could do it all over, I would—If I could do it all over, I would. An unending refrain. It continued even as I popped the two antidepressant pills I hadn’t touched in weeks, not since a certain girl had come into the picture. It was fitting that she was here in my head now too, yelling out the refrain herself, triumphant in her self-righteousness. The charcoal and the canvas were in the study where I’d left them.

  The words were only growing louder now, a chant that couldn’t be escaped.

  This mantra was lifting my hands, grabbing charcoal and a piece of paper, having me scrawl out lines, shading, shapes, trees, flames, people with tears but no faces, and, amid it all—amid this swirling, burning chaos—her.

  She was sitting atop the trees, looking at me with eager eyes, and yet she was crying. The funny part wasn’t that her tears spilled down, doused the flames, and joined with the river from the faceless ones. It was that those tears, that sad look in those beautiful eyes, was for me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Donna

  “We’ve bought it, honey. It’s done.” Those were my dad’s first words to me when I got home from the site visit with Carter.

  I stared blankly into their beaming faces.

  My mom nodded and continued. “The papers are signed. We move in in a week!” She grasped my hands. “Donna, we’ll be out of this hellhole in a week!”

  I nodded dully, cast a look around at the food-flecked walls and the body of dust in the corner. Then, finally, I looked at my dad’s newly shaven face, the long slump of a beard now definitively chopped.

  I couldn’t tell them the truth about the money. Nor could I give it back, no matter how disgusted I was with its owner. The letdown would kill them.

  The next few days passed as one day. One sad, listless shuffling from work to home and back to work again. One sad, pathetic checking of my phone every five minutes.

  Nothing. Carter was done with me. Good. I hated him.

  Even Helen noticed the change as, after one of my shifts, I picked at my blueberry muffin. I hadn’t given her explicit details of my encounter with Carter, but she still knew enough.

  “Tut, tut,” she said.

  She patted me with one hand and brushed some of her mousy brown hair out of her face with the other.

  “I did tell you, Donna, didn’t I? I warned you about that sociopathic billionaire.”

  I nodded dejectedly. Pretty much the last thing I needed right now was a reminder of how badly I’d messed up.

  Leaning in, her green eyes sympathetic, Helen said, “Word on the street is that he’s been out every night at his old haunts—doing the usual.”

  Feeling like throwing up, I staggered to the bathroom to find it barred by none other than Kyle.

  With an obnoxious smile, he wagged the keys in front of me.

  “You always forget, Donna.”

  Snatching them, I plunged into the small room and locked it behind me. Glaring at my crying reflection in the mirror, I splashed water on my face until the tears stopped. Once I returned to our table, Helen had her little owl eyes on Kyle.

  Leaning in conspiratorially, casting a look at Kyle, who was standing obliviously behind the counter, she said, “Now, why don’t you give Kyle a chance?”

  I made another half-hearted poke at my muffin with my fork. In my present miserable circumstances, the proposition didn’t seem as ridiculous as usual.

  “Well, you know,” I said unconvincingly. “He’s my boss, and…”

  “And so what?” Helen countered. “Then, you c
ould work less and earn more. Listen, Donna, I think you need someone to take your mind off that sociopath.”

  “Don’t call him that,” I grumbled.

  Taking my hand, Helen let out a “tut, tut” again. “Hey, why don’t we hit up that new bar—the Cruise Room—tonight, the fancy one we’ve been meaning to go to?”

  I withdrew my hand, although I nodded.

  “All right. Why not?”

  With a victorious smile, turning to Kyle, Helen called, “Hey, Kyle, want to go to the Cruise Room with us tonight?”

  A few seconds later, Kyle was at our table, his gaze flicking from me to Helen and back to me.

  “Yeah. You guys are going? Tonight?”

  Helen nodded.

  “Yep. Me and this one are going to drown our sorrows, 11 p.m. So you’ll join?”

  “Definitely,” Kyle said, lingering for a moment before he picked up on my stoic refusal to even glance in his direction. Gliding off, he said, “See you ladies tonight!”

  At my glare, Helen only giggled.

  “What? You never said I couldn’t.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it. I was too tired for this.

  “I’m going to go home and take a nap.”

  Helen nodded.

  “Promise me you’ll be there and not bail, yeah?”

  With a sigh, I nodded again.

  Then, leaning in again, Helen whispered, “Wear something sexy.” Then, her five-fingered wave dismissed me.

  So, with a quick nod to Kyle, I slumped out of there, to my car, and drove home.

  Back at home, I only gave my parents a half-hearted “hi” before high-tailing it to my room.

  Once there, I realized my mistake. I’d thought I wanted to be alone, but alone was the last thing I needed right now. As I stared dully at the peeling tulip wallpaper across from me, Helen’s words kept replaying in my head: I warned you about that sociopath.

  All I could see in that wall’s tears and coils of crumpled flowers was the aforementioned sociopathic billionaire—his shy, pleased smile as I had rejoiced in his cookie gift, the bowled-over way he had looked at me in that sequin dress. I could almost feel the stroke of his hand on my back, that solid way he had held me. And now, I was never going to see him again, never hear his voice again. Unless…

  Before I could stop myself, my fingers were dancing over my phone, tapping out the number I’d come to know so well. At the last number, I paused, staring at my barely visible reflection in the black of my phone’s background.

  What was the right thing to do? As soon as I knew the answer, it was too late; I was tapping down the last number and then the phone was ringing, my heartbeat hammering out in time to the rings.

  One ring, then two, then a female voice answered with a chirpy, “Hello?”

  “Hi…Could I speak to Carter?”

  A pause, then she asked, “Who is this?”

  I hung up, my gaze returning to the peeling wallpaper. Somehow, it had worsened since my short call; it seemed about to drop down onto the floor.

  Who could that have been who had answered? A friend? A girlfriend? It hadn’t sounded like Carter’s secretary, and anyway, why would his secretary or anyone else have access to his personal phone?

  I sank back into my bed and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. Whatever happened tonight, it couldn’t make me feel any worse than I did now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carter

  Going out tonight wasn’t a good idea. Even as our car pulled up to the Cruise Room and Skylar and I finished the last of our beers, I considered just leaving him there and having the driver take me home. I didn’t want to go out tonight; I didn’t want to do much of anything tonight.

  Yet, when I glanced out the window into the opaque night, I realized that this, as forced and uncomfortable as it was, was still better than being alone.

  “It’s time!” Skylar boomed.

  Tossing the cans behind us, we stumbled out.

  A few steps inside the bar, I smiled. I’d forgotten how aesthetically pleasing the place was: the art deco, swanky furniture, the red-lit yellow walls, the plush seats. Even its clientele looked more upper-class than usual, with flapper-like dresses and nonchalant expressions.

  Best of all was that it wasn’t too busy yet. Good. We could order a few more drinks without having to fight the crowd.

  Immediately, Skylar and I hustled over to some bar stools and asked the pretty bartender for some vodka oranges. As she got to work on our order, Skylar put his arm around me.

  “Still down about the latest broad?”

  I cast him a startled look. I hadn’t told him much about Donna, just that I had been seeing her a lot lately and had stopped. For a musclehead, Skylar was surprisingly perceptive.

  “No, I… Okay, maybe a little,” I admitted.

  Skylar nodded.

  “Don’t you worry, bro. I knew you’d be sad, so I invited some friends.”

  Drawing away, I shook my head.

  “Skylar—no, man. I’m really not in the mood.”

  But Skylar was already sliding cash to the glass-bearing bartender, telling her to keep the change.

  I stood up.

  “I mean it. I feel really shitty, not in the mood for that,” I told him.

  Pursing his lips, Skylar nodded. Then, patting the bar stool I’d been on a second ago, he said, “It’ll be more for me than you. You don’t have to do anything. I mean it.”

  A few drinks later, when vanilla musk wafted between us, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy and excited at the same time.

  “Skylar…” a tall Asian girl with a short lace skirt cooed, lacing her arms around him.

  “Kyra,” Skylar said, smirking at me over her shoulder.

  “This is Tracie,” she told us, gesturing to her friend, a shorter redhead with breasts that were practically falling out of her top.

  When we hugged, I realized the vanilla musk was coming from her.

  “Sooo,” Kyra said, linking her arms in both Skylar’s and mine. “Why are we not in a booth again?”

  So, Tracie linking her arm in my free one, off to a booth we waltzed, slumping into it with a haphazard expulsion of giggles.

  What seemed like seconds later, Skylar had ordered a bottle, the champagne was flowing, and we were toasting.

  “Like,” Kyra said, leaning into the table, so close I could see every one of her perfect white teeth, “I can’t believe you’re, like, Carter Ray. The Carter Ray.”

  Her glassy eyes scanned mine, expecting something; I wasn’t sure what.

  “Yeah,” was all I could think to say, and yet, this seemed to please her.

  Smiling devilishly, she declared, “Don’t think I haven’t heard all the juicy rumors. I’ll have to be careful around you.”

  Though, really, it was Tracie who should have been careful. Neither she nor I said much, but we didn’t have to. Our legs that were pressed side by side did the talking, while the endless downing of drinks didn’t hurt.

  As everything slowly grew more and more blurry, I thought of her. Donna. Of what she was doing now, if she missed me. If I called her, would she answer? Why would I call her, though?

  The answer was the sad swirl in my gut as I surveyed the bar. This whole place, as handsome as it was, was full of lonely people laughing loud to scare away the silence, of dressed-up people more practiced in the art of pretending to have fun than actually having it. And then, there was me, the loneliest and worst pretender of them all, the one who had the most reason to be happy and yet…

  That was why I was going to call her. Donna was the only one who had ever made me feel like I belonged, who had ever made me almost forgot who I was, forget that I was unhappy.

  “I need a minute,” I mumbled as I stumbled out of the booth. The others’ response was uproarious laughter. They didn’t know that I wouldn’t be coming back.

  Outside, the night was cool and full of passersby, smoking, fleeting and content. I dialed her number slo
wly, enjoying not knowing whether she’d answer yet. What would I do if she didn’t pick up?

  It rang. Once, twice.

  “Hello?” Donna said behind me, and I turned around.

  The call still on, the phone clutched in her hand, she gaped at me.

  She looked hot as hell—a short red dress and red heels to match, her eyes lined in black.

  “Carter,” she said.

  A frowning girl pulled her to the Cruise Room’s door.

  “C’mon, we’re gonna be late!”

  But Donna held her ground, didn’t budge.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The friend paused. Then, throwing up her hands, she disappeared inside. Donna turned to me, running her hand through her hair.

  “You were calling me.”

  I nodded. “I want to talk to you.”

  She stared at me blankly. “I called you today.”

  “I left my phone with my assistant. Had a meeting. Why?”

  Her eyes lit up, but next thing I knew, my arm was being grasped.

  “Hey there, handsome.”

  It was Tracie, her red lips curled into a sultry grin. Suddenly noticing Donna, she turned to her, cocking her head at her as if to say, “And who are you?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Donna

  I left Carter and his stupid redhead and hurried inside. My head was throbbing with nerves and angry questions: Had I really been so easy to replace? Why call me when he was with another woman?

  The answer came as a twist of my lips as I sat down at the booth Helen was waiting for me in.

  Because he could. Because it was another one of his games. Carter Ray was a heartless man who liked playing with people like they were his own personal dolls.