by Lula Baxter
I stood there for five minutes as everything fell together in my head. Bruce’s odd willingness to take it slow with me. His sudden, piqued interest when he found out I was a virgin. His eventual suggestion that we wait until marriage to have sex, because it was a “Campbell tradition.” That one alone should have clued me in.
Suddenly, I was angry. I stormed down the hall and knocked hard on the door. On the other side, I could hear the grunts of surprise, the panicked whispers. It filled in so many blanks. Bruce was aggravated when he opened the door, then irate when he saw who it was. Behind him, Conrad just smirked.
“I just don’t understand.” My mother’s voice brings me back to the present. “He stood there and put that ring on your finger, right there in front of us all. Me. Your father. His own parents. My god, do they know?” She’s rambling now, having obviously lost any of her former sense of decorum.
“Mom, just calm down.”
She looks at me as though suddenly realizing I’m here and that’s when she breaks down. “Oh, Astrid, you poor thing,” she cries, bringing her hand up to her chest. “Here I am going on and on about who knows, and wondering what people think and here you are…oh you poor thing!”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, pulling her in for a hug, mostly so I don’t have to pretend to be shocked or upset.
The truth is, I’m relieved. Obviously, when I first got the text and saw the photos I was shocked, feeling my world crumble beneath my feet. Now, I feel my heart lighten, as though a thousand chains had been wrapped around it and have suddenly broken apart. I’m free!
I instantly think of Alexandre. That night has been tiptoeing around at the back of my head since I left his suite, taunting me, reminding me of everything I’d miss out on. I have a sudden, crazy thought that now I can run back to Monte Carlo, somehow find him and…
Except…now I’m thinking about Dad again.
“Did Dad sound okay?” I ask over Mom’s shoulder.
“What?” she sniffles, pulling away to look at me.
“Did he seem upset?”
“Well of course he was upset, Astrid. Who wouldn’t be?”
“I mean, it’s just that if the marriage is off, then the money for his company might…,” I let the rest linger. We both know what might happen.
“Oh,” she says, looking up to the side to fearfully ponder that one. She sets her lips into a firm line and shakes her head, dismissing it. “Don’t you worry about that, Astrid.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” she says, suddenly finding her righteousness again. Helen Hawthorn is back, guns blazing. “Your father and I will deal with that. Right now, we’re going back to the hotel to pack our bags. This trip is officially over.”
Apparently, the “Grand Tour” has been downgraded to a “trip.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Astrid
“Obviously, this is the work of some instigator. When you’re as wealthy as we are, you make a lot of enemies, Ed.”
Ed. Clyde keeps calling my dad Ed, even though Dad hates being called Ed. He says it always makes him think of that old TV show with the horse.
At some point, between Naples and Boston, the photos I saw were leaked on Twitter by someone by the handle CrossBro. What once might have been salvageable is now a public disaster.
The Campbells have deigned to leave their summer home in Nantucket to have this little “clearing up” session. We’re in the living room of their Back Bay home, the very place that Bruce proposed to me.
That night, months ago, my head was in a daze. It was the first time my parents had been invited to dine with the Campbells. When Bruce ended the night on bended knee in front of me I’m sure I was the most surprised person in the room. I had actually been trying to find a way to break up with him before that night. I said yes, of course. I didn’t want to embarrass anyone. I was going to find a way to break it off gently, privately afterward.
Then, Clyde had started talking about the investors he wanted to introduce “Ed” to. Then, Lydia had invited my mother to tea for some women’s association thing she was part of. Suddenly, everything started coming up roses for the Hawthornes.
Tonight, I’m focused on the Jackson Pollock hanging on the wall opposite me. A bona fide Pollock. I’m sure the Campbells have seen that painting so often they’ve probably forgotten it’s even there. One of only a limited number in the whole world and it’s stuck in this living room that hardly ever gets used, instead of being enjoyed by the masses in a museum. I study the splatters of paint, wondering if Jackson’s head was as simultaneously numb and in complete chaos when he created it as mine is right now.
“Surely, Astrid could tell you herself that our son is not gay.” I pull my eyes away from the painting to find Lydia looking at me with a cold smile full of encouragement but heavily laced with a threat.
I want to tell her about Alexandre just to wipe that stupid smile off her face. I wonder if Clyde ever made her body sing the way Alexandre did with mine. I can’t imagine her even breaking that blue-blooded, patrician facade long enough to let her body succumb to an orgasm.
Despite the third degree from both my parents, I haven’t said a word. Every time they’ve brought this whole thing up, I’ve simply repeated, ad nauseam, “I don’t know what to say.” It’s true, I didn’t know what to say and I still don’t. I thought coming back here to Boston would help clear my head and force me to come to a decision once and for all. Now, I’m even more confused than ever.
Protect my family or protect my heart.
“I…,” I look to Bruce who is sitting across from me. His gaze is as steely as his mother’s, but without that silk glove over the fist that threatens to rip everything away from me and my family.
“It doesn’t matter what Astrid has to say on the matter,” my father says firmly. “I know what I saw. I know what anyone with a Twitter account saw.”
“What you saw was a lie,” Clyde insists, getting testy all of a sudden. He seems surprised that my dad is being so unyielding. I’m sure he’s used to getting his way most, if not all, of the time.
I’m still focused on Bruce, whose only reaction to my dad’s words was a twitch in the left side of his jaw. Those blue eyes haven’t once broken their fixation on me.
“Was it a lie?” Dad probes. “Because those photos looked pretty legitimate to me.”
“Edgar, we should give everyone a chance to talk,” my mother says in a judicious tone. She looks back and forth between Bruce and me, willing either of us to say something.
“Listen to your wife Ed, and be very careful with the vile rumors you’re tossing around about my son.”
“Edgar.”
The entire room freezes, both sets of parents looking at me as though I am a rock that suddenly sprouted vocal chords.
“My father’s name is Edgar, not Ed,” I say calmly, tearing my eyes away from Bruce to give Clyde a level look.
He huffs out a breath of air and straightens up indignantly.
“I’d like to have a word with my fiancé,” Bruce suddenly says, now earning his own looks of surprise. I note how he’s stressed the word, “fiancé,” and it’s only then that I realize that damn ring is still on my third finger. I’m staring down at it when he grabs that hand and jerks me up, practically dragging me out of the room.
“Now wait just a second!” I hear my dad’s voice say behind us.
“I think it would be a good idea to let them talk,” Lydia’s cool voice says.
Before I can hear anything more, Bruce has walked me down the hall into an office and slammed the door shut.
“Why the fuck haven’t you answered or returned any of my phone calls?” he seethes.
Even as fierce as his expression is, maybe even because of it, he looks like something out of a Ralph Lauren or Abercrombie & Fitch ad. It’s that Midwestern, cornfed, boy-next-door meets the ease from generations of wealth look. Blonde hair that’s easily tousled when it’s not styled to perfection. A
large, muscular, athletic body with no visible fat but plenty of visible muscle. Regular facial features, nothing too large or small, and a set of striking blue eyes.
Conrad is a lucky man.
Once upon a time, I thought I was a lucky girl.
“I needed to think.”
“What is there to think about?” he asks, actually getting upset. “Or did I not make myself clear before you left for Europe?”
Bruce comes closer to me and I step back, subtly moving my hands behind my back so he can’t grab them again like last time. Something about the movement causes him to stop. He keeps giving me that hard stare for a moment before something inside him seems to break. He practically melts back onto the edge of the desk and perches there, looking down at his clasped hands.
I’m foolish enough to think it’s him finally coming to his senses. “Would it really be so terrible to just…come out of the closet?”
His head quickly rises to give me an incredulous look. “That’s not an option.”
I bite my lip before continuing. “Being gay isn’t a bad thing Bruce. Society is much more accepting of it these days.”
“But my parents aren’t. Or have you not been paying attention for the past half hour,” he says bitterly, bringing his head back down to stare at the floor.
I suddenly feel sorry for him. I’ve certainly betrayed myself for my parents’ sake, but at least I know at the end of the day, if I did come clean, they’d support and love me. Despite the overwhelming evidence against Bruce, his parents still seem reluctant to the idea that he might be gay.
“A lot of parents take it hard at first, but then come to accept and even embrace it.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Astrid, wake up!” he shouts, lifting his head again. “My parents aren’t going to accept it. This is Boston, old Boston. Not San Francisco or Los Angeles or New York. Sure, even parts of this city may be open to it, but have you ever seen them at any of my parents’ parties? They talk may about it like it’s okay, just to be politically correct…as long as it’s not their own son.”
I’ve inched back, step by step, with each word he’s shouted. Now my back is to the bookcase. I clutch one of the shelves with my fingers and feel the band of my ring tap against the wood.
“We can’t do this Bruce. It isn’t fair to either of us. The truth is already out there, which is probably for the best.”
Bruce narrows his eyes. “Was this your doing? Were you the one who originally sent me those photos?”
I blink in surprise. Now I’m the one giving him an incredulous look. “What? Me, send you the photos? So you got them as well?”
Now, he’s the one blinking in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘as well’? Who else got them?”
“All I know is someone sent them to me and my parents.”
“Lord Wilmore?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “But I don’t know why.”
“Obviously, to ruin me and my family. Though I guess I have Conrad to thank for that.”
“What do you mean, Conrad?” I ask, suddenly confused.
Bruce says, staring at the floor. “He’s CrossBro.”
“He’s responsible for that?” I gasp, staring at Bruce in disbelief. Now at least the Twitter handle makes sense. CrossBro. Lacrosse Brother. “Why the hell would he do something like make them public on Twitter?”
“He just doesn’t fucking get it. He’s been urging me to come out, especially when you found out about us. He kept telling me it was the perfect excuse to end the engagement. I showed him the photos sent to me by this Lord Wilmore guy only because I didn’t know who else to confide in. We got into another fight about it and…I guess he thought this would be the thing to make me come around.”
“How could he be so reckless?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“It certainly gives you an easy out,” Bruce says bitterly.
I look up at him and cough out a laugh. “You think my life has been easy since this came out? My parents have been hounding me to learn if I knew the truth. My so-called friends have been reveling in the schadenfreude of it, while pretending to be sympathetic. I’ve been torn in a million different directions, none of which is what you would call an easy out.”
He stares at me for a moment as though wondering what to say to that, then just seems to sag again, his head dropping down to the floor.
“Listen, Astrid,” he says, not lifting his eyes, “This doesn’t have to end things. I’m asking you, begging you, go through with the wedding. It could be a marriage of convenience. Plenty of people do that. You could live your life, do whatever you want, be with whoever you want. We’d both just be discreet about it.”
I’m shocked. He still wants to go through with it after all of this? “That’s not a marriage, Bruce.”
He lifts his head and looks at me with wonder. “You’re so fucking delusional. You think my parents are still together because they love each other? They can’t stand each other.”
“So why would you want that for yourself?”
I can’t help but think about Alexandre. Those twenty-four hours with him were more enjoyable than the entire time I’ve been with the man standing in front of me. I can’t even remember the last time I laughed with Bruce, let alone felt so alive.
“Marriage is a contract, plain and simple. Tit for tat. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” I can sense that old Bruce coming back, the kind that resorts to threats instead of pleas. He narrows his eyes at me. “And from where I’m sitting, it seems your back is a heck of a lot itchier than mine.”
And there it is.
I can even see it in his eyes. He’s played the one card that may get me to cave. “Are you threatening me again?”
“It’s not a threat, Astrid. It’s a simple fact. If you’re not married to me, my father and all his wealthy friends have no reason to back your father in expanding his company. My mother has no reason to invite your mother to all those social gatherings she seems to be so into. And you…you’ll be a social pariah. You said you wanted to go into art? Good luck finding a gallery, art foundation, or art school who will even return your calls. You’d be lucky to teach finger-painting to a kindergarten class, and even then, my parents would make it their mission to take it away from you.”
Why did I ever feel sorry for him? He’s a monster. His parents are monsters. I should say no just so they can’t ensnare us in their wicked web of blackmail and deceit and destruction and unhappiness.
But I can’t.
Bruce seems to sense my momentary weakness, feeding off it like a vampire gaining strength from someone else’s slow death.
“Astrid,” he says, soft and gentle now as he approaches me. “This doesn’t have to be as horrible as you make it seem. You’d live a life of luxury. Anything you want would be yours. All the sacrifices your parents made would finally pay off. All you’d have to do is play the game.”
“You mean lie.”
“Everything in life is a lie, Astrid,” he says, finally close enough to take hold of my arms. “Most people just don’t like to accept the truth of it. Life is nothing but a facade. We’re all just playing the game.”
“I’m marrying Bruce.”
We’ve come back to the living room to make the announcement. Dad is the first to speak.
“Astrid!” he says, jumping out of the chair he’s in to approach me. He gives Bruce a hard, accusatory look.
Bruce just places one arm firmly around my shoulders. I want to shrink away from it but, I stop myself.
Play the game.
“It’s what I want, Dad. Those photos, they…,” I look up at my father, then turn away. I can’t lie directly to his face. “They’re a lie.”
“There! Even your own daughter knows it.” Clyde says, his voice full of smug satisfaction and the tiniest bit of relief. That’s when it hits me, his parents knew the truth all along.
“Of course she does,” Lydia says easily. She’s better at masking her reaction. No doubt from h
er own marriage built on a lie.
I look over at both of them, wondering how Bruce could be cursed with parents like this. It almost makes me feel sorry for him again. Almost.
“Astrid,” my mother says, rising to join Dad next to me. She gives me a pained look. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course she does,” Clyde says. “She just said as much.”
A wrinkle of annoyance touches her brow. I can tell she wants to go into school-teacher mode on him. “Astrid?”
“Don’t do this if you aren’t sure, sweetheart,” Dad says, making sure to give Bruce another hard look.
“I’m sure,” I say pleasantly. “I love Bruce and I can’t wait to marry him.”
Play the game.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Astrid
“So how did you two meet?”
We’re in Nantucket at his parents’ home. This is the first time I’ve been here, which in retrospect is telling. I like it better than their Boston home. There are more windows and the decor is less stuffy. With the sun shining and the ocean so close I can almost touch it, the ambiance is much lighter here.
If only I didn’t have this lead ball in my stomach. It seems to anchor me to this couch I’m sitting on next to Bruce, while the inane reporter from the Boston Register interviews us for the society pages. As if sensing my desire to break free, Bruce grips my hand tighter. It just causes that lovely emerald to sparkle for the reporter sitting in front of us.
“Well, Bonnie,” Bruce says, flashing that all-American smile for her. She actually giggles. Giggles! “It was at a party of some mutual friends of ours, right Astrid?”
I turn to meet his gaze and return a similarly perfect smile. “Sarah and Eric,” I turn back to Bonnie. “Sarah was my roommate freshman year.”
“And Eric is the son of some family friends. I went to school with him,” he finishes.
