by Lexi Whitlow
I close my eyes, embarrassed by this whole thing. “The first time, in New York.”
She bites her lip. “I see,” she says. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“I forgot about it, until yesterday,” I say. “Kinda slipped my mind with everything else going on.”
Bryn shakes her head in feigned disbelief. “Well, hopefully we won’t have to worry about that happening much longer,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment with my OB-GYN next week.”
That’s news. “Really?” I ask, brightening.
I wouldn’t dare ask her to do that, but I’m thrilled to hear it.
She crinkles her nose. “I hate condoms too,” she informs me. “Just like you do.”
I doubt that, but I’m not going to argue.
“You think everything’s okay then?” I ask. “You’re not… you know…”
“Pregnant?” Bryn asks, bursting out laughing. “No baby, I think I’d know. I’m not pregnant.”
“Thank God,” I say, relieved, shaking my head.
“Good Lord, no,” Bryn agrees. “Not yet. Not anytime soon.”
I suck down a swig of coffee. Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “You want to go see if we can break another one?”
She rolls her eyes at me, shaking her head. “You are incorrigible,” she chides. “You’ve got women coming out of the woodwork, claiming you’re the baby’s daddy, and you’re joking about breaking condoms. That takes a special kind of hubris. I’m cutting you off ‘til we get some reliable protection.”
“That is not fair,” I protest, scowling at her, taking her hand, then pulling her around onto my lap. “It’s not fair, and I don’t think you can do without.”
Bryn laughs at me again, that lovely, tinkling, bell-like laugh that makes me smile and get all warm inside. God, I love her. I love her, and I want her to love me just as much.
Chapter 21
Bryn
I’ve moved from one full-time, stressful job to a different full-time, joyful job in the span of just a few days. It’s amazing the difference a change of venue makes. I’ve spent the entire day at Wake County Legal Aid, getting new staff settled in. A couple of the new paralegals have arrived with prospective cases already in the works. It’s still another week before we officially open for business, but for all practical purposes, we’re operational.
My office is small, dark, with no windows, but the brief I have in front of me is gratifying work. This isn’t my father’s law firm. This is a place of my own making where I’m convinced I can accomplish great things. This first case I’ve got involves a 14-year-old, undocumented boy named Christian Emanuel who was arrested by ICE agents while he was in school. He’s being deported to Columbia. Christian hasn’t been in Columbia since he was two years-old, speaks very little Spanish, and has no criminal background. He’s an honor student.
The facts are that aside from two parents with few resources, this boy has no effective advocates arguing for his welfare.
Now he does. I’m all over this. I’m going to do everything within my power to ensure Christian stays here, with his support network of family and friends, where he can continue his education, and mature into a contributing member of society.
This is why I studied law, earned high marks, and passed the bar with flying colors on my first attempt. It’s work worth doing.
Research into my new case is interrupted by a call from my father.
I answer. “Afternoon. I’m busy. What can I do for you?”
“Busy?” my father asks, surprise in his voice. “I thought you’d be doing early Christmas shopping. What are you up to?”
His flippant condescension annoys me.
“Legal Aid,” I reply. “Real peoples’ problems. What’s up?”
I keep my tone as brusque as possible. I want him to feel the weight of my disapproval.
“We need you to come in for a deposition,” he says, and I hear the hedge in his tone. “And I wanted to let you know that we heard you. The partners and I understand everything you said. We’re making some long overdue changes…”
I’m listening.
“We’ve sent the entire HR management staff on leave,” he says. “We’ve contracted out their duties to a local consulting firm. Off the record, I think it’s likely that our HR Director and a few of his managers will be leaving permanently. In the interim, I’d like for you to meet with our consultants to help create a policy on workplace behavior and a sexual harassment training program.”
That’s rich. Blame the people who just followed orders.
“Daddy, that’s not my area of expertise. I’m sure there are people considerably more qualified than me to do that,” I say. “And what’s more, I don’t have the time or the inclination.”
“Bryn, I want you to be part of this,” my father insists. “I want you to have ownership of it. One day you’ll…”
“One day some partner will buy you out,” I interrupt. “Just like you bought out grandfather’s partners with a gamble and a lie. I don’t want to be part of that. I don’t need to spend my days making wealthy people that much wealthier. I’d rather do some good in the world, even if it doesn’t turn a profit.”
My father doesn’t know what to do with this. He’s lost for words.
“When, where, and what time is the depo?” I ask. “I’ll be there.”
“Tuesday,” Daddy says, resignation in his tone. “Here at the firm. One o’clock.”
“I’ll see you then,” I tell him. “Go ahead and fill my office space. I’m not coming back.”
“Bryn, that’s not—”
“It is fair Daddy. You sent me home, after everything. You told me to go. You didn’t tell Charles to go away until he started poaching your clients. The bar is so much lower for girls. We’re expendable.”
“Bryn, that’s not—”
“It is true,” I say, interrupting him again. “It is, and you know it. I know it too. I also know that my training is valuable to people outside the good ‘ole boys, big money network. My services are appreciated here at Legal Aid. Daddy, I can’t be part of that place you made anymore. I’m going to do what I need to do.”
“We don’t have to settle this now,” my father says, refusing to take no for an answer.
“That’s what I mean, Dad,” I say. “You don’t even hear me. You don’t even give me credit for knowing my own mind. I’ve always done everything your way, but this is my decision. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
* * *
More than anything in the world, what I want to do is curl up under Logan’s arms with a glass of wine, and talk with him about my day. It’s become our ritual, this end of the day catch-up, where we confide, compare notes, and just listen as the other shares the good, the bad, and the middling of the day behind us.
I’ve had boyfriends, but I’ve never had this. He’s a best friend and confidant who is easy to just sit with and think out loud. It’s a new thing for me. I’m not even this open with Claire, and have never been as comfortable exposing my hopes, much less my fears, to any guy—until Logan.
He’s said he loves me, and repeated it a few times. I haven’t gone there because I’m not sure what those words even mean, but after all these weeks together, growing closer, peeling back layer after layer, something in my head, and my heart, is softening. When he calls on the phone I drop everything just to hear his voice. When he texts, no matter how mundane the message, I smile just knowing he’s thinking of me. When we’re together he makes me feel as if I’m all he sees. I count the hours between our kisses, and almost resent the nights when we’re apart. I plan my evenings and weekends so we can be together.
I’ve never wanted to do this before. I’ve never wanted to be with someone else, even just reading or watching a film.
If this is what falling in love feels like, it’s an all-consuming state. It’s wonderful. And it’s terrible. For the first time in my entire life I’m worried he may change his mind about us. The idea of not having him, no
t being able to fall under his arm and tell him about my day—it hurts me to think of the possibility.
The idea that something could come between us scares me.
And—as I learn this evening—there’s always some new thing to throw a wrench into our works. I didn’t expect this new thing, because up until now I always believed Logan was truthful with me. With this new news, anyone would have considerable doubts.
“The girl in Columbus with the five-year-old,” Logan begins. “The test came back with a match to my DNA.”
He shakes his head in disbelief and anger. “It’s not possible. The kid isn’t mine, but the judge sees it differently.”
DNA is conclusive. It doesn’t lie.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “How can it match if he’s not…”
Logan throws up his hands in frustration. “Hell if I know,” he replies. “But Tim didn’t like the way it was done. We’re appealing, demanding two independent labs collect samples and do it all over again. Tim said his lab had questions about the samples provided by their side. They refused to do a cheek swipe. They provided hair and fingernails, claiming the kid was allergic to the cotton used in swabs.”
He shakes his head. “Tim’s going to insist that we actually see them collect the samples this time, rather than just accepting the lab’s analysis of samples they provided.”
Logan looks up at me, his expression grim. “So anyway, after Drake’s deposition tomorrow, I have to fly to Columbus to do that.”
I consider what this means, if the child is his. It’s huge. It means he’s always going to have a connection with some other woman’s child. It means he’ll always have a responsibility that trumps any other, an obligation that can never be left to founder.
“What will you do?” I ask him. “If the new tests come back the same way?”
Logan bristles at the question. “They can’t. It’s impossible. The kid isn’t mine.”
He never denied that he slept with her. He only says that the dates don’t jibe between the last time he claims he slept with her and when this child was conceived. But it was six years ago, and memory gets hazy, details slip.
I remember Logan from high school. He was a swaggering heart throb who had every girl in school swooning as he walked past. He dated a lot of girls, half the cheerleaders and most of the girl’s tennis team. Then he went to college with a scholarship. I used to watch his games and wait for the post-game interviews. The ESPN crews loved him because he was handsome and articulate, and good for ratings. His junior year he got a cover of Sports Illustrated with nine other, equally famous college athletes, all named the Ten Sports Superstars of the Next Decade. The article said that Logan Chandler would enter the NFL draft as a first-round pick, and from there his value to brand managers seeking endorsements would reach the hundreds of millions before he reached twenty-five years old. The writer suggested that with his looks, his talent, and some good fortune, he would be a bigger name with better bank than Michael Jordan or LeBron James.
Does a guy with press and potential like that, at the height of his celebrity, keep a detailed record of every girl he sleeps with? I doubt it. He was probably with a different girl every weekend.
Her complaint in the lawsuit she filed said that he threatened her if she told anyone the child was his.
I’ve heard Logan issue threats, against Charles, against anyone who came after his family. I know he’s capable of that. What would he have felt if someone threatened his multi-million-dollar, NFL future? Given what I know, it’s not a difficult question to answer.
What if the child is his?
If he continues to fight it, deny it, and disparage the child and his mother, what does that say about Logan?
Chapter 22
Logan
“This is going to go just fine,” Mom says, trying to buoy my mood. “Don’t underestimate Drake. He’s got a better recollection of some things than you or me. And with a little back-up, he’ll be clear enough for even the most obtuse lawyer to understand.”
I wish I had her confidence. I’m terrified Drake is going to come off as a babbling idiot, capable of the worst of the worst. If he melts down in the middle of this Q&A, then that’s just the final nail in the coffin. A court won’t look kindly on an intellectually challenged, six-foot-three-inch, big man, with a short fuse.
We’re doing the deposition in the living room because all parties agree that Drake should feel safe, at home. But there will be strangers present for the thing, including Charles Pearson. I’m not looking forward to having that failed excuse for humanity inside my house. But as with so many things, this too, is beyond my control.
While the technicians set up digital cameras and mics in the living room to record Drake’s deposition, Mom and I wait with him in their wing of the house. Drake is watching television. He knows only what we’ve told him: that some friends want to ask some questions about his old babysitter Bethany. When we told him, he had no reaction at all.
“They’re ready for us,” Tim announces, appearing from the wings. “Pearson is here.”
I peel Drake away from his television show, promising that when this is all done, I’ll take him out for ice cream. Everything is a bargain with him. He’s a capitalist to his core. He gives nothing away. He hordes everything for himself.
When we come in to the living room, Charles Pearson is standing by the windows, hands in suit pants pockets, gazing out at the lawn stretched for acres in front of the house. He hears us, and he turns, leveling a smug gaze on me as I move my brother to a chair by the coffee table, where a microphone waits in its stand for his interrogation.
There’s a girl sitting on the other end of the room with a laptop, ready to type the verbatim transcript, and two cameras pointed at Drake’s position.
Tim has our reporter situated behind Drake, ready to type up the conversation as it unfolds.
I absolutely loathe the idea that Charles Pearson is going to put questions to my brother, but it can’t be avoided.
“Let’s take our seats,” Tim suggests. I take mine on the couch, sitting at Drake’s left hand. Mom sits beside me. Charles sits directly across from us.
Tim kicks off with the date, time, case number and other essentials, then asks Drake to identify himself by giving us his full name and date of birth.
Drake laughs, rocking in his chair, his head angled toward me. “You know. You know,” he says. “Logan and Mom know.”
Tim speaks up. “That’s true, Drake, but for the sake of the new people in the room, can you tell us your full name, and your birthday?”
He grins, still rocking, hands flapping gently in front of him. “Drake Brian Chandler,” he says. “And my cake comes every September twenty-eight. I’m thirty. I’m thirty. I’m thirty.”
“Thank you,” Tim says.
And then the games begin. Tim asks Drake about Bethany, and what he recalls of her.
“Mean,” Drake says. “Mean and not nice. She ate my hot dogs and said I was fat. I’m not fat. I have big bones.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Charles presses him but can’t get much more than funny responses. Frustrated, he goes straight for the marrow.
“On August fourteenth, three years ago, Bethany Burgess asserts that she was with you all day at your home on Huntleigh Drive in Raleigh, and that on that day you assaulted her. She asserts that you attacked her, struck her, and that you attempted to sexually assault her. What’s your response to this assertion?”
I see Drake’s wheels turning as his body rocks back and forth. His right-hand flaps wildly, then it stops abruptly for a moment. He shakes his head.
“Nope. Nope. Nope,” he says. “I didn’t. She was mean. Mean. At the zoo. She wouldn’t let me have a Slurpie even though I was good.”
What the hell?
Charles looks puzzled.
“We saw Zebras. Monkeys. Birds inside. And elephants through the binoculars.”
I remember Drake went to the North Carolin
a Zoo in Asheboro when I was in the hospital. It was a big deal for him. He went with Bethany and a busload of other adults with autism and their handlers. It was an event sponsored by the Autism Society of North Carolina.
Charles raises his eyes to Tim’s. “What the hell is he babbling about?”
“August fourteenth,” Drake responds. “We left home at seven in the morning. Got home at eight at night. Mom was worried. I have video. I have video. Elephants and Bethany was mean.”
“You have video of your interactions with Bethany on August fourteenth?”
Tim asks Drake. “Can you show it to us?”
Oh, this is going to be good. Drake keeps reams of video files. He records everything new and unusual. Son of a gun…
