“How could I not?”
“Did I really hurt you that badly, Liam? Did I—”
“Don’t you ever fucking call me that.”
“Did I hurt you that badly?” She repeated, shaking her head.
I didn’t answer.
“This is…This is about Emma isn’t it?” She hissed. “Is that what this is? You’re still holding that shit over my head?”
“Get the fuck out. Now.”
“It’s been six years, Liam. Six. Fucking. Years. You need to let that go.” She opened the door and a sly smile spread across her face. “Things like that happen all the time...As unfortunate as it was, it helped make you the man you are today, didn’t it?”
It took everything in me to stay seated, to not lunge after her.
Seething, I waited for her to leave and walked over to my window—watching as she stepped into the parking lot, as she raised her hands in the air as the officers shouted at her.
Then, just like six years ago, she smiled through the handcuffing process, and laughed when they tossed her into the back of the car.
The black fleet slowly drove away, and a familiar pang hit my chest.
Grabbing my keys, I rushed to the parking lot and slipped into my car—subconsciously telling myself to go home, consciously driving toward the nearest beach.
I put my phone on silent as I hit the highway, and as the seconds dissolved into hours, the city disappeared in the rearview mirror. The buildings appeared farther and farther apart, and eventually the only thing outside my window were trees and sand.
When I finally reached a secluded bay, I parked my car in front of a rock. I opened my glove compartment and took out the red folder Aubrey once tried to open. Then I stepped out and sat on the closest bench.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the photos and promised myself that this would be the last time I looked at them: Me and my daughter walking along the shore of New Jersey’s beach as the sun set. Her smiling as I picked up a seashell and held it against her ear. Me carrying her on my shoulders and pointing to a starry night sky.
Even though I knew doing this would lead to cold sweats and an inevitable nightmare later, I continued flipping through the photos.
Even the ones without me: The ones of her looking sad and lonely at the park, the ones of her looking off into the distance for something—or someone, that wasn’t there.
Emma…
My heart clenched at the final frame in the set. It was a shot of her fiddling with her umbrella, crying. She was upset because they were forcing her to go inside, because they didn’t understand that although she liked being at the park in broad sunlight, she preferred to play outside in the rain.
Emotional Distress (n.):
A negative emotional reaction—which may include fear, anger, anxiety, and suffering for which monetary damages may be awarded.
Aubrey
I looked terrible. Absolutely terrible.
Today was the first full costume rehearsal for Swan Lake and I didn’t look fit for the part at all. My eyes were swollen and puffy—ruined from randomly crying about Andrew, my lips were dry and cracked, and my skin was so pale that Mr. Petrova walked by and asked, “Are you playing a white swan or are you playing a white ghost?”
As much as I tried to force myself to smile through my heartache, I was crying every moment I was alone, eating an exorbitant amount of ice cream and chocolate each night, and I couldn’t sleep for shit.
I still couldn’t believe Andrew kicked me out of his condo so cruelly. One minute he was holding me against his chest and kissing me, and the next he was telling me that he and I had fucked enough—that he didn’t want me anymore, and that he was going to fuck someone else.
What was worse, was that when we returned to work that following Monday, he’d been twice as rude to me. He reassigned me to a case that would take me months to sort, scolded me in front of everyone for being ten seconds late, and then he had the audacity to complain about me smiling as I brought him his daily coffee.
At least I spit in it…
“Are you crying right now?” The make-up assistant tilted my chin up. “Do you know how expensive this stage mascara is?”
“I’m sorry.” I froze my eyeballs to their sockets and held back tears.
“I didn’t see your parents’ names on the guest list for today. Are they coming to the second run through on Saturday?”
“No.”
“I guess they just want to see the full on show with no stops then, huh?” She laughed. “My parents are the same way. I told them about the number of run-throughs we have to do and they said they’ll see it when it’s finished. They’re all about perfection.”
“Unfortunately, I can relate…”
She laughed and blabbered on and on, making me silently count the seconds until she was done.
When she pressed my face with the last puff of powder, she spun me around to face the mirror on the other side of the room.
“Wow…” I whispered. “Seriously, wow…”
I didn’t look like I’d been crying at all. Although my eyelids were covered in dark eye shadow, and she’d dabbed a fake tear trail past my right eye, I looked as if I was the happiest woman on earth.
“Miss Everhart?” Mr. Petrova asked, stepping behind me. “May I borrow you for a second?”
“Yes, sir.” I followed him through the backstage doors and outside to the empty stretching area.
“Have a seat on the bench, Miss Everhart.” He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.
The smoke unfurled in spirals between us and he looked me up and down. For some odd reason, he looked more upset than usual, like he was about to yell at me.
“Mr. Petrova…” I said softly. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I brought you out here alone because I want you to know that you looked fat during practice yesterday. Too fat.”
“What?”
“Even though you danced the part of the black swan beautifully, capturing the right degree of anger and sadness, you failed—fucking failed, with the white swan.” He coughed. “You looked like your mind was elsewhere. Like it was killing you to be happy for five minutes, and to top it off, you’ve gotten fat.”
I rolled my eyes and tuned him out, focusing on the cars whirring down the street. I wasn’t disturbed by his insults anymore. Him calling me fat was nothing compared to the things he said to me last week.
“Miss Everhart?” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“I need you to open that later,” he said, patting me on my shoulder. “It’s very important.”
“Open what?”
“Do you not see the envelope I just placed on your lap?” He put out his cigarette. “Do I need to tell your understudy that she needs to get ready to dance?”
“No.” I picked up the envelope, running my fingers along the crease. “You don’t need to do that, sir.”
“Good.” He walked toward the building and held the door open. “Now, make me believe that I picked the right girl to be my swan.”
“The Walters will be over for dinner next Sunday at six and we need you to make an appearance,” my mother said to me over the phone that night. “I think they’re going to write us a very nice check for the campaign.”
“How exciting.”
“It is exciting, isn’t it?” She practically squealed. “Everything is happening so fast and falling into place quite perfectly. We’re gathering funding, planning the advertising, and…”
I set my phone on the table and made myself a bucket of ice water, wincing with every step I took. I was sure that I would have a new set of blisters at the end of this week, but after the way I danced at today’s run-through, they would be well-worth it.
I completed every jump with ease, matched my peers step for step, and at the end—when the final number called for ten pirouettes, I did fifteen. Everyone in the audience gave me a standing ovati
on, but Mr. Petrova sat silently rubbing his chin.
He stared at me, tilted his head to the side, and simply said, “Today’s practice is over.” That was the biggest compliment he’d ever given.
Smiling at the memory, I carried the ice bucket over to the couch and set it down. I slipped my feet inside and held the phone up to my ear again.
“Oh, and the Yarboroughs…” My mother was still talking. “They’re considering throwing a small benefit in your father’s honor next month at the country club. You’ll need to be present for that and it won’t be casual, so I’d really prefer if you wore your hair in curls please. There will be a photographer from the local paper there.”
“Are you going to ask how my day went?”
“In a minute. Did you receive the dress I sent yesterday?”
I looked at the plastic bag draped over my door. “There was a rough run through of Swan Lake today. It was for the costume designers, to see if everything looked right under the new lights. It was the best run through we’ve had so far.”
“Have you tried on that dress yet? Do you think you’ll be able to do it tonight?”
“Mom…”
“I need to have it tailored for Sunday’s dinner ASAP if it doesn’t fit.”
“Could you just say, I honestly don’t give a fuck about your life, Aubrey?” I groaned as my toes finally felt the effect of the ice. “That would make me feel ten times better right now.”
“Aubrey Nicole Everhart…” She enunciated every syllable of my name. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, but I’m starting to lose my tolerance for talking to you on the phone. Why bother calling if you only want to hear yourself talk?”
She didn’t get a chance to answer.
There was a call on my other line, so I clicked over without mentioning it.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Is this Aubrey Everhart?” It was a male’s voice.
“Yes. This is she.”
“Great! This is Greg Houston. I’m the student enrollment chair, and I was just calling to let you know that your withdrawal from the university has been approved! It’ll be official once you come in and personally sign off on the forms. I personally think it’s great that you’re taking time off to help out with your father’s campaign.”
“WHAT?!”
“That’s a very selfless thing of you to do, Miss Everhart,” he said. “I’m sure whenever you decide to come back, the academic committee will offer you credit for your real world experience. Anyway, I noticed you filled out the electronic forms, but since you live within a fifty mile radius of the school, its policy that you have to sign them manually as well. Also, regarding the credits you’ve earned at the university thus far…”
Everything around me went black.
I couldn’t believe this shit.
I wanted to click over and shout at my mother, to ask how dare she and my father pull me out of college without even telling me, but I couldn’t. I simply hung up and sat still—stone-faced and lost.
There were tears falling down my face, but I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel a damn thing.
I pressed the power button on my phone to prevent anyone else from calling me and pulled out the envelope Mr. Petrova gave me earlier. I assumed it was a long list of insults, or a new diet, but it was a letter:
Miss Everhart,
I just received notice that you were leaving the university at the end of this term. While I am disappointed in your failure to alert me to this news in advance, I am impressed with the growth you have shown while being in my program.
You are still an average dancer, but considering the fact that your peers are all terrible dancers, I guess you can be somewhat proud of that status.
Behind this letter is a recommendation for the New York City Ballet Company. Due to a few unfortunate circumstances, several spots have opened for their current class. This does not happen often, and you would be quite stupid not to audition.
However, if you do audition and are not accepted, it will only mean that you didn’t dance your best. (Or that you gained another unfortunate pound.)
—Petrova.
I flipped to the attached page and noticed that the deadline to audition was in three weeks, that if I auditioned and was accepted, I would be leaving my current leading role behind and would have to start all over again.
Dancing for the NYC Ballet Company had once been a dream of mine, but after I broke my foot at sixteen, I readjusted my version of a dream career; the competition at such a place would be far too fierce for someone who sat out a complete year, full recovery or not.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t fathom going away to New York City, not alone anyway. And I didn’t think I could leave Andrew without at least getting a much deserved apology.
Sighing, I turned on my laptop and logged into my email, shocked to see his name at the very top of my inbox.
Subject: Mock Trials.
Miss Everhart,
For the third time this week, you’ve alluded to our former affairs in the court room. Although I am not surprised by this, I am quite disappointed.
You may regret the aftermath of fucking me, but I know damn well that you loved every single second that my cock was inside of you. (And before you lie and say that you didn’t, think about the numerous times you screamed my name as my mouth devoured your pussy.)
Maybe if you thought about those things instead of your uncontrollable and erratic “feelings,” your defenses in court wouldn’t be so laughable.
—Andrew
I deleted his email and read Petrova’s letter again.
I needed to research the New York City Ballet auditions tonight.
Malfeasance (n.):
Intentionally doing something either legally or morally wrong which one had no right to do.
Andrew
I opened my left drawer, searching for a bottle of aspirin. I hadn’t slept well in over a week, and I was certain that most of that had to do with the half-assed reports the interns were giving me. That, or Aubrey was poisoning my lunch.
I flipped through her most recent report and groaned as I read her handwritten remarks: “I find it very ironic that you can give us an assignment on the importance of trust and relationships, when you have no idea what either of those words mean. PS—You did not “devour” my pussy.”
I tore off her note and tossed it into the trash, reading the next one: “A case that deals with a boss fucking his employee? At least this boss had the balls to come clean and admit that he actually liked her, instead of tossing her away like trash. PS—Yesterday’s extra ingredient in your coffee was flakes of melted super glue. I hope you enjoyed it.”
“Mr. Hamilton?” Jessica stepped into my office.
“Yes?”
“Would you like me to send your Armani suit to another dry cleaning company?” she asked. “This is the third time you’ve sent them those pants. I don’t think that brown stain is coming out.”
“No, thank you.” I sighed. “Just order me some new ones please.”
“Will do!” She batted her eyes at me as she left, and I immediately emailed Aubrey.
Subject: Super Glue.
I no longer drink your fucking coffee, but since you’ve once again proven how much of a novice you are when it comes to the law, I’ll be saving your handwritten note so my friends will know who to charge with my murder.
Grow up.
—Andrew
Subject: Re: Super Glue.
You don’t have any friends. I was your only one. And I don’t care if you save my handwritten note because I’ve saved all of your EMAILS—especially the ones that say, “Come to my office so I can eat your pussy on my lunch break,” or “I love the way your mouth looks when you wrap it around my cock.”
You first.
—Aubrey.
I started typing my response—not willing to give her the last word, but I heard Jessica clearing her throat.
“Something else
I can help you with today?” I looked up. “I could’ve sworn you just left my office.”
“Word around the firm is that today is your birthday.”
“Today is not my birthday.”
“That’s not what HR said.”
“HR is full of shit.” I looked at the coffee mug on the edge of my desk, noticing that the coffee wasn’t even brown. It was orange. “But speaking of HR, could you have them ban Miss Everhart from touching the coffee machines?”
“Doubt it.” She stepped closer. “Between you and me, we’re throwing you a surprise party in the break room. Like, right now. We’ve been waiting for you to take a break but you haven’t, so…Can you step in for a second?”
“Did you just tell me no about my coffee machine request?”
“I’ll handle it after you come to your party.” She smiled and reached for my hand, but I stood on my own.
“I’ve told your grandfather on multiple occasions that I don’t appreciate his employee birthday parties.”
She shrugged and led me down the hall. “Make sure you look surprised. I put a lot of work into this…I always go the extra mile for you.”
I ignored the way she was licking her lips.
She pushed the door open, and all of the staff tossed confetti into the air and shouted, “Happy Birthday, Mr. Hamilton!” Then they began to sing the birthday song—out of tune and terribly off key.
I walked over to the windows where they’d placed a small white cake with blue candles, and blew them out before the song ended.
“Happy Birthday, Andrew!” Mr. Greenwood handed me a blue envelope. “How old are you today?”
“Seeing as though today is not my birthday, I’m the same age as I was yesterday.”
He laughed, still incapable of catching when I was being short with him. Holding his stomach in jest, he motioned for one of the interns to take our photo.
As the camera flashed, I spotted Aubrey standing in a corner with her arms crossed. She was shaking her head at everyone, and when her eyes finally met mine, she scowled.
Reasonable Doubt (1-3) Page 14
