Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “What if he manipulated her?” Greg suddenly asks his publicist. I frown, wondering if Jonathan has been muttering in his ear.

  Naomi cuts off Corbin, “That’s something for the legal team, and we shouldn’t inspect a bullet when no one has pulled a trigger.”

  I rise with my daughter in my arm, and the room falls to silence. I manage to capture Greg’s gaze, even if he aches to look away. “I’m not going to beg you to trust me,” I say calmly. “What I can ask is that you acknowledge the intelligence of your own daughter. She hasn’t been duped by me; in fact she’d leave me at the hint of infidelity. I’ve shared more with her than I ever have with you, so know that she’s not blind by any means.”

  I pause, more cautious as Samantha fixates on Jane in my grasp. I adjust my daughter, her eyes almost fluttering open from her nap.

  Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think we should focus on how to bury this, and not what we think of it right now.”

  Samantha’s strict bun pulls the follicles of her hairline. “It might be best for Jane to stay with us in the meantime—”

  “No, she’s safe with us,” I cut her off, my defenses and guards beginning to lift higher than before. I feel Rose boiling beside me, looking murderously at her mother for even suggesting to take our child away from us.

  I sit again, and I pass Jane to Rose, who pulls our daughter protectively to her chest. Jane only stirs to hold onto Rose’s arm like she’s clutching a teddy bear.

  Greg watches Jane. “Is she in a loving environment?” His doubt leeches each fucking word. I rub my lips, pissed, so pissed I could scream. I could drum my chest and stomp my feet, but no matter how much I’d want to do it, I see no logical point in the actions.

  Rose’s face twists, bouncing between rage and hurt. “How could you even ask that?”

  “I’m a concerned grandfather. I love that little girl.”

  He’s suggesting that his love outweighs ours. I remember how I delivered Jane with my own hands. How Rose held her every night she cried. How we’ve spent sleepless months without complaint. How we’ve tried to minimize Jane’s exposure in the media, redirecting the heat on us. How we’ve treasured every milestone she’s made.

  How do you measure love?

  Is it by the things we’re willing to do? By the sacrifices we’re willing to make? If it is—then I love my daughter madly because I would cripple my world to give her something to stand on. I would implode Cobalt Inc. if I had to, the foolish choice. But a wise woman once said that love is worth every foolish choice we make.

  Would Greg Calloway bulldoze Fizzle for his granddaughter? Not a chance.

  Rose straightens even more. “Be a concerned parent first and trust me, your daughter.”

  “Please, Rose,” Greg says, not one to raise his voice, even if he’s already accomplished that once today.

  I hug Rose closer to my side, and she exhales a couple times, trying to move past her father’s doubt. There is no solution here.

  I rotate to Naomi, ready to speed this beyond accusations and blame. “Our marriage is real and consensual. The sex tapes aren’t fabricated”—she jots notes as quickly as I speak—“and we had a child to start a family together. The only truth is in the past.”

  Rose scoots to the edge of the couch, keeping her hand in mine. “What’s our best defense?” she asks Naomi.

  “A public statement from both of you,” she says. “There’s a lot of evidence that says your marriage is a ploy.” She thumbs through her folder. “Mr. Cobalt, your Instagram is littered with photos specifically of your wife with you, but she’s glaring at you in almost every one.”

  How I like it.

  “They love each other,” Lily interjects. She flushes when every eye pins to her. “That’s what their love looks like.”

  Rose nearly smiles, tears beginning to collect. She mouths to Lily, thank you.

  “Well,” Corbin butts in, “it looks like hate.”

  “Fuck you,” Ryke slings a curse from the window nook, Daisy sprawled on his lap.

  My lips lift.

  “I’m here to state what everyone in the public is thinking,” Corbin reminds him.

  “And I’m here to flip this around in a positive light,” Naomi states. “Don’t delete any of these photos, Mr. Cobalt. It admits guilt. Try to add a variety of images, maybe date nights, photos of your wedding rings, and yes, continue to post ones that you normally would. There’s a fine line between justifying yourself and trying too hard to appear like something you’re not.”

  The increase in PDA bit us in the ass for that last reason. I respect Naomi’s counsel, so I ask, “Should we acknowledge the striptease or anything the media has spun around on us?” Normally I’d be more specific and say that I went down on Rose, but her father is in the room. He needs time to cool down, and I’d rather not make it harder for him to like me again.

  “GBA News had a body language analyst dissect those photographs,” she explains. “And they found reasonable doubt in Rose’s stiff posture. In almost every frame where you’re in public—where you kiss her, et cetera—she seems uncomfortable.”

  She hasn’t been the best actress, but she tried and we couldn’t have known this is what it’d come to.

  “Hey,” Daisy chimes in, her husky curled beside Ryke, “that’s not her fault. You know, not everyone enjoys kissing in public.”

  “But why these past four months more than ever before?” Corbin asks. “The media is going to latch onto the timing.”

  Rose pulls back her shoulders. “We were trying something new, to spice up our relationship since we’ve had a child.”

  We’ll never utter the real truth: that we were enticing the media—on purpose. As far as Rose and I are concerned, the only one who will ever know our secret is Ryke Meadows.

  Naomi nods. “It’s a decent defense, and it’s better than staying quiet. We’ll add that to your written letter. It’s not something you’d need to say at a press junket.” She’ll type the letter. We’ll read it and approve. That’s how this works. “I know you have some family pictures of Jane on your Instagram, but you two should post more. In addition, you both should work on tweeting about parenting. People like these comments. It makes you relatable.”

  “Loving comments,” Corbin clarifies, “not sarcasm or anything that can be taken out of context.”

  Rose huffs. “I have no idea what you mean.” She combs her fingers through Jane’s hair affectionately. She does know, almost entirely. She hates talking about it. I’ve seen regret flash in her eyes at comments she’s made before, taking a concept too far, not meaning the degree of what she says.

  She speaks her mind often, and she’s penalized for every single word, even the ones said in haste, the ones layered with fears, the ones bleeding with rage. I love all of her opinions, the passionate ones, the dramatic ones, and everything in between.

  “At ConnorCobalt,” Corbin reads Rose’s old tweet off his legal pad. “Every time the little gremlin wails, my ovaries kill an egg. I’m going to be barren soon.”

  The people that know Rose laugh. Her mother and father remain quiet.

  “It was a joke,” Rose says, her voice breaking at the end. She stares harshly at the ceiling, more upset than I thought she’d be. I can feel her confidence waning.

  My smile fades. I massage her tense shoulder and lean closer to whisper, “It’s not your fault, Rose.” None of this is her fault. Everything is being distorted.

  “She should be allowed to be herself,” Ryke interjects, sitting up on the window nook. Daisy slides off his lap and pets their dog.

  “Not at the cost of her reputation,” Samantha says. “You wouldn’t understand—”

  “I understand. I fucking understand more than you even want to know—and this entire thing is about turning them into people they’re not.” He points at me. “Let them be whoever they want to fucking be—the end.”

  If only it was that easy, my friend.

  “Yo
u live off a Hale Co. trust fund,” Sam chimes in, reminding everyone about the money involved in my decision. “We’re trying to protect companies that can be hurt by public perception. I don’t think you have a say here.”

  “Fuck you,” Ryke fumes, standing off the window nook.

  Lo hesitates to block his brother from a physical altercation, but Ryke hasn’t charged Sam yet.

  Naomi takes advantage of the brief silence and reroutes the topic. “The sex tapes are a good form of defense, even if everyone is trying to brush them under the rug.”

  Corbin taps his pen to his legal pad. “They’re not brushing them anywhere. Everyone believes that the tapes are just another stunt to cover Connor’s tracks. And frankly, I’d buy into it too.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” Loren interjects.

  “No,” Corbin says, “the public doesn’t know Connor as intimately as all of you. They know what they see, and what they see alludes mostly to a well-coordinated stunt. My suggestion—to clean everything quickly and easily—you need to deny these claims against you.”

  Rose tenses even more beneath my hand. I can’t speak right away, but Corbin isn’t finished.

  “You’ll say that you’ve never had sex with a man before. You’ll say that these guys were friends of yours and they just want a quick payout by tabloids. You’ll say you’re heterosexual and in a healthy, loving marriage with your wife.”

  To fix this, I must lie.

  I already know this. I’ve thought a hundred steps ahead of them, and I wait for Naomi to offer me a different version of the same hurdle.

  “Fuck all of you,” Ryke says words that I feel but can’t articulate.

  “If you don’t have anything constructive to add, I think you should leave,” Corbin tells him.

  Lo shoots a withering glare his way. “You’re our goddamn publicist, not the king of the castle, so stop acting like you have authority to banish my brother into another room.”

  Naomi abruptly stands. “I have an alternative.” She procures a paper from her folder and passes it to me. I graze over a long list of sexualities: bisexual, pansexual, polysexual among other terms. “Pick one,” she says.

  As if it’s as easy as ordering an appetizer off a menu.

  The room deadens, all eyes shifting to me. The paper is heavier than they may realize. My entire twenty-seven years of existence I’ve wedged myself into parameters that other people construct—to blend in, to appease men and women alike.

  To me, these terms are just another parameter—and I’ve never enjoyed stepping into this box, to pretend to be someone else when what I feel is so simple, so rudimentary. I admire other people who can identify with these words, but it’s not what I feel.

  I’m attracted to people, to the all-encompassing passion of the soul, of the body and the mind.

  And I shouldn’t have to be labeled to make sense. My sexuality shouldn’t be of priority to anyone but me. If I’d only slept with women, no one would care, but they’ve learned differently, and now they’re bothered, incensed—confused, doubtful.

  So to appease them, I have to step into that cramped box. To make sense to them, I have to declare something I don’t feel.

  I know who I fucking am, but very few people truly know me. Now I have to choose which Connor Cobalt millions of people will see.

  The fake one: I’ll give myself a label. I will be what they need me to be. In doing so, I make good with my father-in-law and eliminate doubt that shadows my love for Rose and her love for me.

  The real one: I never say one way or the other. The public will be left to wonder. I destroy relationships with Greg and Samantha, possibly damage my friendship with Lo. My love for Rose and her love for me may always be questioned.

  My nineteen-year-old self wouldn’t have flinched at this ultimatum. I would’ve faked my way through the rest of my life, through the rest of my days, and I would’ve lost that last shred of humanity I’d let Rose keep safe for all those years.

  Be real, Richard.

  I placate people. I appease them. What happens when I stop, for a moment, to live in the comfort of my own skin? I may lose everything. But what if this is the sacrifice I have to make for Jane? What if I’m supposed to abandon who I am, to live a lie, so that she may live in peace?

  The variables, the costs, the benefits, the lingering what ifs lead me to confusion—to a head-on collision with fear.

  I rub my forehead that begins to perspire.

  “It shouldn’t be this hard,” Samantha says.

  “Have you ever had to declare to the world that you’re straight?” I ask her. “Has anyone looked at you differently for it?”

  Her lips tighten.

  “No, I didn’t think so.” I fold the paper into fourths, everyone watching me keenly. “Heterosexuality is the norm. Maybe when you have to stand at a podium, with cameras at your face, and say one word that will change the way people perceive you—you’d understand that this isn’t easy, not even for me.”

  Rose squeezes my hand in support, and when I look at her, I detect the pride glowing beneath her yellow-green irises. She says she’d stand by me no matter what I’d choose, but Rose champions every part of me that makes me me.

  This is no exception.

  “Then tell everyone that you’re straight,” Samantha says, “and no one will look at you differently.”

  “Mother,” Rose sneers.

  “Don’t chastise me, Rose. I’m saying what everyone is thinking. I understand that we all have our secrets, but there are some that shouldn’t be mentioned aloud.” I’ve changed in her eyes, and she’d probably cast me back into a closet if she could, plug her ears and reverse time, so that I’m the person she needs me to be all over again.

  This is who I’ve always been, even if she couldn’t see it.

  Ryke steps towards the furniture, his gaze darkened, and Daisy clasps his wrist, to keep him stationary. “Yeah, he shouldn’t tell the fucking truth because you can’t handle it? He shouldn’t be himself because it makes you squirm?”

  This subject rouses him more than others. He hasn’t ever needed to be an advocate for me before, but it’s nice to see that he would. I’m grateful for it.

  “Enough,” Greg says. “I think we’ve all voiced our opinions, and Connor has the final say-so.”

  I pass the paper to Naomi. “You’ll write the formal letter, stating that I love Rose—all that we’ve discussed here—but you’ll leave out any acknowledgement of whether or not I’ve slept with the three men. I need time to decide what I want to say before we hold a press conference.”

  Corbin lets out an exasperated sigh. “Silence admits guilt.”

  “You can tease the press conference so people know I plan on speaking.”

  He checks his calendar. “We’ll schedule it for April 10th.”

  That’s in one week. “Mid-May,” I rebut. I need time. “You don’t realize but these guys are holding non-disclosure agreements, and if I claim that I’m heterosexual and they show them to anyone, I’ve just moronically trapped myself. So I need time to sort out my legal affairs.” I can’t sue them for breaking the NDA, not unless I want to admit that I’ve slept with them. It’s complicated.

  Corbin looks to Greg, and my father-in-law nods in acceptance of this open-ended conclusion.

  Naomi closes her folder, and Corbin clears his throat, “One last thing…” He spins his pen between two fingers and then points it at Lo. “We need to clear this up.” He motions to me, then back to Lo.

  “And what’s that?” Lo grits his teeth.

  Corbin glances at his notes. “You were videotaped kissing in Mexico last year—”

  “It was a dare.” Lo’s voice is a serrated edge. “Everyone knows this.”

  “In March during St. Patrick’s Day, you were photographed pinching his bare ass—”’

  “He’s my friend.”

  “During Princesses of Philly, you two often made remarks about ‘blow jobs’ and ‘masturbating’
and ‘coming’ with each other, not with your respective girlfriends.”

  Lo sits on the very edge of his seat, pointing a threatening finger at Corbin. “And no one gave a shit back then, so stop trying to turn it into a problem now.”

  “I represent the mass majority of people outside this house, and they’ve already begun analyzing your friendship. If we don’t squash this soon, they’ll start claiming that you’re sleeping with him and that Lily, your wife, is actually with Ryke, your brother, that your son isn’t really yours. All I’m trying to do is minimize the ramifications.”

  Lo stares faraway at the ground, eyes daggered like why? How could this even happen?

  It happened because there’s a stigma that I can’t even shake.

  “My suggestion,” Corbin says, “is that you two never cross paths in public. Don’t talk. Don’t touch. Don’t tweet each other. Don’t so much as look in the other’s direction. It’s probably best if Connor does the same with Ryke.”

  My stomach is unexpectedly in knots. I remove my suit jacket, uncomfortably hot all of a sudden.

  “People view your friendship differently now, Loren, and you don’t want them to get the wrong impression.”

  According to the Calloway’s publicist, I’m not allowed to have straight male friends. Our jokes aren’t held at the same standards any longer. Everything I ever say to Lo and Ryke will be riddled with questioning and doubt. Are you attracted to them? Do you want to sleep with them?

  No.

  But who will even believe me now?

  Ryke rakes his hands through his hair, disheveling the thick strands. He’s so incensed that he leaves the room, banging the door to the kitchen. I hear him say something like nothing has fucking changed. And yet, it all has.

  Daisy and Nutty, their white husky, race after him.

  “Lo,” I breathe.

  He raises his head barely to meet my expression, and I see how reddened his eyes have become. I’ve seen him at his lowest point in life. I’ve watched him get sober and watched him relapse. I’ve carried him, barely alive, in my arms. He’s seen me shed tears after the birth of my daughter. I’ve seen him smile after the birth of his son. We’ve been through two weddings, five of his birthdays, even more holidays and trips around the world.