by Emily Bishop
“Oh?” I’d snickered, drawing myself taller. “Only the best for the Rockefellers. And darling, make sure to wear that paisley tie I picked up for you at Ralph Lauren. I can’t abide you looking like a slob, wearing your normal designer fare.”
We’d kissed against the exposed brick wall, his lips grazing at my neck as we imagined this false world that neither of us ever wanted. We lived not for money, but for freedom, for artistry, for the world. Now, we were older, a bit wiser. We understood that a lack of money led you to dull jobs at bars, to working odd gigs across the continent, and shrugging at your filtering bank account. Art wasn’t made unless it was funded. And, at least in Los Angeles, the only artists fulfilling their “dreams” were the ones with thick bank accounts. The jealousy? The rage? It didn’t align with my seventeen-year-old self’s vision of reality.
* * *
“It’s bigger than I remember,” I whispered as Wes parked the car out front, cutting the engine. We gazed up at it as the sun crept deeper behind the house. At the door, Baxter—the same hired hand from twelve years before—lurked, his eyes scanning us. “Although Baxter seems exactly the same.”
Wes cackled lightly. I was grateful that I could break him. Slipping my fingers through his, I gave his hand a firm squeeze. “It’s going to be over before you know it,” I whispered, speaking to both of us. My stomach swam with apprehension.
“Oh. Wait. That reminds me,” Wesley said, slipping his free hand into his pocket. He drew out a black box, popping it open to reveal a glittering diamond ring. My breath caught in my throat. I’d daydreamed about being engaged to Wesley hundreds of times as a girl, each time a bit different: beside the ocean, as the waves crashed against the sand. In bed together, naked, without a care in the world. Here? In front of his father’s mansion, before we embarked on lying to one of the richest men in the world?
“Where did you get it?” I hated that my voice caught, that it wavered with emotion. I wanted to stamp it out. To prove I was up for this.
“I borrowed it from an old friend who got divorced,” he said. “She just moved back to San Francisco from Austin, ready to toss this thing to the pawn shop. I told her I’d give her a pretty decent sum, when I finally got the money from Pop.”
“What a game this all is,” I said to him, watching as he slipped the ring over my finger. My eyes grew watery as I spoke. “What a strange, bizarre game.”
* * *
“You’re damn good at it,” Wesley said to me, holding my eyes with his for a long moment. He tapped his finger atop the diamond, making it flash in the sunlight. “We always did make a pretty fucking good team. When we weren’t fighting.”
I sniffed, drawing myself out of my reverie. “Watch yourself. You know I’m ready to start a fight any second.”
“Oh, I know. I’m always on alert,” he teased.
When we reached the end of the stony path, Baxter opened the door and bowed slightly, his eyes addressing me with a kind of animal mistrust.
“Remy. I can’t imagine it’s been anything less than ten years,” he said, his voice distant, so firm.
“More like twelve, I think,” I told him, stepping into the foyer. I glanced toward the large portrait of Hank near the window. His hands were folded at his waist, his blue eyes centered, and his chin set. In this photo, he looked almost nothing like Wes. They could have been perfect strangers. Men from opposite ends of the earth.
I watched as Wes shook Baxter’s hand, maintaining an almost-too-erect posture. He wasn’t the gruff man who’d bolted into the bar six or so weeks ago, exploding back into my life. Now, he was playing a role, a part. “You’re damn good at it,” he’d said of the game. Jesus, he was good, too.
“Your father’s in the dining room, awaiting you,” Baxter said, leading us through the dark hallway, toward the small, yet regal, dining room. My heart pattered wildly, with my fingers twitching, itching to touch Wesley’s. But I held back, keeping my chin high. I yearned to walk with the regality of a woman meant to walk these halls. A woman like Hank’s fiancée.
A woman who deserved the money in her account to make this film.
* * *
Beyond the table, Wesley’s father stood facing the water, a scotch in hand. His hair was much whiter than it had been years before, and his skin sagged slightly at the cheeks—showing the steady trek of time. Wesley and I stood in the doorway, facing him, as Baxter addressed his employer.
“Sir. Your son and Miss Remy have arrived to dinner.”
He spoke the words as if the old man couldn’t hear us. On cue, he turned, his eyes connecting with mine first. A wave of fear tore through me, and I yearned to step back. Pressing my hand against my stomach, I bowed my head.
“Hello, sir. It’s been a long time,” I spoke, breaking the silence. My words echoed behind us, through the high-ceilinged hallways.
“It certainly has,” he said. He spoke as if he towered above me. “You’re looking rather well, Remy. Although you always were such a pretty thing. Someone I was rather proud to have Wesley dart around the city with, even if he was neglecting his studies.”
I shifted my weight, trying to hide my shock. I hadn’t known the old man had thought of me as anything but an annoyance, a thorn in his side. One of the reasons his son refused to grow up.
“Please. Sit,” he said, stretching his free hand outward. “The first course will arrive shortly.”
Wesley still hadn’t spoken. He reached and brought a chair back, allowing me to sit. I did, feeling that my legs would have collapsed with fear if I’d been forced to stand another moment more. Beside me, Wes sat, still eyeing his father. Silent seconds ticked past. His father poured him a stiff scotch, and they clinked glasses, almost challenging the other to speak. I so wanted to fill the silence, to explode the tension. But it didn’t belong to me.
As the soup cooled in front of us—a dark green soup, with a cheese glazed on it—I brought my hand to Wesley’s on the table. This revealed the glinting diamond ring, so weighted on my finger. His father drew back, tilting his head.
“Dad, I mentioned we have something to tell you,” Wes said, lifting his chin.
For the first time, the old man’s face crumpled up, his eyes glistening. He swallowed sharply, placing his utensils back on the table. Bowing his head, he whispered, “Please. Please tell me it’s true.”
Wesley’s smile was genuine, wide and stretched out across his face. He leaned his head forward, almost playfully. And he whispered the news.
“She’s my fiancée, Pop. And yes. She’s pregnant. With your grandchild.”
16
Wesley
The old man’s reaction couldn’t have been more picture-perfect. A single tear crept down his cheek, almost cinematic—like he’d planned it. He bolted up from his chair and threw his arms around Rem, holding her cheek against his chest. He didn’t have questions for me. Not about how quickly this had all happened, nor about why I’d changed my mind. Rather, his only words were, “Hank would have been so happy for you two. He would have been thrilled.”
Of course, it always came back to Hank. But I guessed I couldn’t compete with the dead guy in the room, and I clapped the old man on the back with a moment of pure joy, or something kind of like it. “You’re going to have a grandkid,” I echoed again, still struggling to recognize the words as truth. “Gonna extend the family line, Pop. Just like you wanted.”
The rest of the night simmered with a kind of electricity I couldn’t have anticipated. Unconsciously, or perhaps not, I held Remy’s hand throughout, watching her glow as she told my dad about the ways her body had already begun to change. “I mean, I’m exhausted all the time,” she laughed lightly. “But then I give myself this excuse to eat a few too many cookies, and I perk back up immediately. This baby has a sweet tooth.”
My dad hung on her every word, inching his face toward her. His dessert remained untouched before him, his hands curled beneath his chin. Despite the nagging voice in the back of my head
—the one reminding me that this wasn’t fucking real, that Rem wasn’t my fiancée and this child was more or less just a scheme to get some cash flow—I found myself interjecting with the occasional enthusiastic remark. Teasing my dad that we’d name the kid after him. Asking what I’d been like as a baby. My tongue wasn’t my own, in these moments. I felt wild. Paternal, even. Fuck, I needed to leech it from my system. But it was a game, and I had to play it.
* * *
“You really played that well in there,” Remy whispered to me in the car. Her skin glowed like porcelain from the light of the moon. “For a minute there, I almost imagined that we’d actually go through with it. With the marriage. The baby. The family.”
“Ha,” I said, drawing myself up in the car seat. “You’re just that good of an actress, Rem. All those years in the movies. You’re starting to even convince yourself of shit.”
That night, I itched to bring Remy home with me. My cock pulsed up, rock-hard and veiny, throbbing in my jeans. But I held back, knowing that diving down that road of sensuality and pleasure—especially as my heart quaked with some kind of anxious, lovey-dovey confusion—was dangerous. I pulled the car along the side of her place in the Mission, gazing at her. She’d fallen asleep, her cheek pressed lightly against the back of the seat and her lips parted just slightly. I eased forward, unable to stop myself.
My lips were just inches from hers when her eyes parted. I pulled back, caught in the act, cleared my throat, and pointed at the door. “We’re here, Rem.”
After dropping Remy off at her place, I scoured through the Mission on foot, before ducking in to see Quintin at the bar. Quintin sulked, his eyes hollow, showing his hangover. Just a few stragglers sat at the bar, their elbows atop the counter and their cheeks sagging. Despite a few of them being in their twenties or early thirties, their faces spoke of old age.
“Q,” I said, strutting through the bar, high on my own luck and the game Rem and I were playing. “Don’t suppose you can pour me one of those beers.”
Quintin gave me a crooked smile. He shook his head, cackling. “Well. If it isn’t the sad asshole who knocked up my sister.”
* * *
I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t pretend you’re not kind of happy about it. Somewhere in that twisted brain of yours, you’re happy our families are linked for good now. Quintin, we’re brothers, man.”
“Fuck off,” Quintin said, his smile faltering slightly. “I know you’re just using her for the cash.”
“Sure. And she’s using me. And right now, I’m using you for a beer,” I said. “Who in this goddamn bar isn’t using someone right now, anyway?” I shifted my eyes across them, waiting for someone to interrupt, to stammer through with their own insecurities. But they held back, their eyes glazed. “That’s what I thought.”
“All right. So now that she’s knocked up, what’s next for you?” Quintin asked, filling a pint glass with beer, sparkling gold in the light. His voice grew more aggressive as he spoke, his eyes growing darker. “You’re probably out on the road now, aren’t you, Wes? All that cash money falling into your account. Means you can dart back over to New York and pick up a few of your favorite city girls and take them out on the town. Or back to your penthouse. While I have to deal with my pregnant sister, all the way back here, alone. Jesus.”
He set the pint in front of me, sizing me up. “Admit that you’re ready to go the minute your dad passes that money to you,” he stammered, waiting. “Admit that your time with my sister is already over.”
To be honest, I hadn’t even considered leaping on my bike till this very moment. I tilted my head at him, an arrogant smile twisting my lips—one that so often worked with Q. That let him in on my game. But this time, the game involved Rem. And his eyes sizzled with anger.
* * *
“Fuck, man. I don’t know. You know it’s my nature,” I said, shrugging. “Don’t know what I’ll do from one day to the next. But Rem, she’s gonna be fine. I got the money coming into her account the second it hits mine.”
Inwardly, my stomach twisted. I imagined blasting away from my kid on my bike, imagined Remy or some nanny caring for him, taking him to school and holding his hand to cross the street and shit. Wasn’t that all meant to be my job?
No. I pressed back at it, trying to align myself with what I knew as my truth. I was this very bastard Quintin spoke of. I didn’t have the capacity to stay.
“Sure. That money’s going to be great for mopping up the tears she’ll shed the minute she realizes you’re still not serious about her,” Quintin continued, railing into me. “The minute she remembers what a scumbag you are, man.”
“Hey,” I said, cutting back. My tongue ticked across my lips, hunting for what to say. Silence hung heavy between us. Finally, words fell out. Words I wasn’t sure I recognized. “Listen. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, all right? It’s been a fucking whirlwind. One minute, I’m drawing up a contract, and the next, she’s actually pregnant, man. I’m still trying to figure out what the hell to think about all of it.”
Quintin’s eyes softened slightly. It had been years since we’d spoken actual truth to one another. We’d been the kind of friends to sit silently beside each other in rough times, rather than offer a single word of guidance or of emotion. Now, with Quintin’s eyes still on me, I brought the beer to my lips, glugging back almost half of it and then wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Shit. Shit, man,” I sighed.
* * *
“Just don’t let it be like last time,” Quintin said, strutting toward the back room. His eyes were dark as he curved his head around at the closet doorway. I felt them slice through my skin. “Maybe try, for a single second, to show you have a heart.”
After the pint, I walked back to the Chevrolet and drove the long way back to the cabin, blaring the radio. At a stop sign, I slid my eyes toward the car in the right lane, beside me. In the front seat was a pretty redhead, her hair slipping past her ears and her eyes shelled with large glasses. When she spotted me, she brought her glasses down over her nose, ogling me. But immediately, I felt my eyes fall back to the road, unconscious to her beauty. She was a specimen, sure. A woman I might have liked to take out, had I been on the road. But my mind still stirred with thoughts of Remy and my father. How he’d placed his hand on hers, over the table, and looked at her with more compassion and love than I’d seen since before Hank had died. “You’re going to be a remarkable mother, Remy,” he’d whispered. “I can’t imagine anyone better.”
Dad’s secretary dialed me up a few days later, informing me that the first meeting to sign the papers to make me partner would be the following day. “Pen it down in your calendar, as they say,” she said, her bright and chipper voice ripping through the phone. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to miss it.”
As if I had anything else.
Since the night with Dad, Remy’d come down with a bit of a cold. Unsure of the protocol about staying over—and very conscious that we needed to keep up that “barrier” we’d discussed—I’d stopped by only for a few hours at a time, bringing her soup and salad and making sure her feet were up and tucked beneath a crocheted blanket. “You’ll tell me if you need anything. Anything at all,” I’d said, my voice firm.
* * *
“Sam’s got me, too,” she cooed back, her eyes peering up at me, almost childlike, from the couch.
“Don’t you dare work too hard on your script.” I shook my finger, teasing. “Because it’ll just make you sicker, you know.”
“You sound like my brother,” Remy had said, rolling her eyes.
En route to the meeting with my father, I texted Remy. “I can’t believe I’m about to sign this. It’s all for us, baby. It’s finally happening.”
In response, she’d texted back, “I’m so proud of you.”
The words had seemed so genuine. They felt almost like a smack, making my eyes close. My head fell back in the taxi. Nobody had said the words to me before. Certainly not whe
n I’d nearly had to drop out of high school for bad attendance. Not when I’d abandoned Remy and my first real chance at creating a life and a love. And not when I’d rushed out on all those gigs, those women, across the country, so sure that whatever lurked around the next corner would be better.
“Finally feeling better,” she typed back. “And good thing. I have these auditions for the movie today. Sam’s playing the lead, but I need a mother character. And, of course, the man she falls in love with.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to hire some handsome devil,” I returned, my fingers typing furiously. “I can’t handle the jealousy.”
“Wesley, remember. I’m just a few months from becoming a whale. He won’t look at me twice.”
“He better not.”
* * *
The taxi dropped me at the front of my father’s office building. All glass, five stories high, it gleamed at the edge of a large, bright green field. Just a bit outside of the city, its parking lot offered a host of top-caliber sports cars, driven by the dweebs inside. The ones who “made the magic happen,” according to my father. They’d been the kind of guys I’d scorned in high school. Now, they ambled into the office in tweed suits, speaking wildly into Bluetooth headsets.
