by P. Dangelico
“What is it?” he said, resentment filling his eyes. For a second, I thought I saw fear, but that had to have been a figment of my imagination coupled with lack of sleep.
Reaching in the tight front pocket of my jeans, I pulled out the diamond Tiffany wedding band and placed it on top of the envelope. Deep breath.
“Divorce papers. Don’t worry, they’re clean. I don’t want anything.” Once again, I waited for him to say something, do something, but his face remained completely inscrutable. “You can send those back to my lawyer…I’m…I’ll be out of town for a while.”
“What do you mean?” He looked genuinely perplexed. His brows drew together and stayed there.
I wasn’t going to explain it to him. Nor did I have any energy for an argument. I had no fight left in me. Maybe that’s what it took, for all hope to be lost before I could finally see beyond the fog of pain and grief, to come to the conclusion that we were essentially as wrong for each other now as we’d been over a decade ago.
“I mean, I’m done…this is my last day.”
“You gave two weeks’ notice––or have you forgotten? That’s two more days.”
“I’m done, Scott. I was here till midnight last night tagging each property with any pertinent information Katherine will need. You heard her, she’s got it all under control.”
Disbelief popped up on his face, then it changed to panic. “I may need you to answer questions when I go over them.” He gave me his best glare, which didn’t work. “You owe it to this company. At the very least to Frank.”
Shoving my hands into the back pockets on my jeans, I began to slowly back away. “Good luck with everything…I…I wish…”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet…” Fighting tears, I forced my lips to curl into a semblance of a smile. I shrugged. “You can have Manhattan.”
“Sydney…”
“I wish things could’ve been different…and…” My chin trembled. “And I’m sorry,” I forced out, my voice on the verge of cracking. As soon as I stepped out of the open doorway, the tears broke free and slid down my cheeks. I did what I’d come to do. I’d said goodbye.
Scott
Clutching a wine glass filled to the top, Devyn walked into the family room and fell into the oversized armchair next to mine. My parent’s townhouse was comfortable. Not my taste; my mother was partial to prints. But it was a home meant to be lived in. All the furniture custom made to accommodate my father’s size. Nothing the kids couldn’t play on. Besides the collection of surrealist art my mother had been accumulating for decades, nothing that couldn’t easily be replaced.
Dev stretched out her long legs and crossed her ankles. We’d both gotten our height and dark hair from Dad, but Devyn had my mother’s bright green eyes and sharp feline features. Smirking, she gulped her red wine.
“Mom said you won’t sign the divorce papers.”
Across the room, seated at a small table, my mother stared at her hand of cards with a mischievous smile. She was playing with Fallon, my oldest niece, while Carly, Jessie, and Lola watched TV. As if she’d heard us, her head moved to the left, her chin lowered, and her bright green eyes examined me from over the rim of her chunky red eyeglasses. I’d seen that look before. That was pity in her eyes.
We hadn’t said much since the funeral. That was two months ago, and we still hadn’t spoken about Dad being sick, hadn’t discussed my impending divorce, hadn’t fought over the fact that she’d known. I was still fucking bitter about it, but I wasn’t going to take it out on a seventy-year-old grieving widow. Even if she was a battle ax.
Still, I felt cheated. Out of time. Out of closure. Out of saying good bye to my father. Had I known, I would’ve been here. Had my wife told me, I wouldn’t be carrying around this guilt with me now. It was like Charlie all over again. I’d done right by the old man, though. He wanted me to run Blackstone and here I was, running Blackstone. The Lazy S was under Ryan’s care now and seemed to be doing fine without me.
Problem was, I wasn’t doing so hot without it.
I tore my eyes away to get a good look at my sister. She’d flown in with the kids for the weekend. Both of us had stayed close to home since my father had passed, both worried about Mom adjusting to life on her own. On that front, we needn’t have. Midge was handling it better than I was.
“When’s John flying in?”
When she didn’t answer right away, I threw Dev a sideways glance. A few rogue gray hairs along her hairline were the only hint she was older by five years. And the responsible one now. That hadn’t always been the case. Not so long ago she was the wild one, going from one boyfriend to another––something that used to drive Franklin batshit crazy––until she met John. Until she ran him over with her bicycle on her way to class and broke his arm. It so happened he was the TA of that class.
“Late tonight. They’re going public in a few days and he’s working out the kinks on the latest update.”
John had engineered his first app and sold it when he was still in grad school at Stanford. By the time he hit twenty-five, he’d made a fortune and was on his way to making more. My father had always been disparaging of John’s success because, according to Mr. Subtlety, most Silicon Valley success stories were “total bullshit” and would eventually be revealed as such. I’d liked John from the get-go. He was a decent guy who loved my sister and put up with her family. Mostly, I liked him because he didn’t give a precious fuck about earning my father’s approval.
“How does Mom know?”
Devyn hooked a lock of chin-length hair behind her ear and sipped her wine. “She spoke to Sydney.”
Not the answer I wanted, but the one I was anticipating. I returned to gazing at the bottom of my tumbler of Macallan.
“I didn’t know they were close.”
“You didn’t? How surprising.” Her delivery was so dry it forced me to take another drink. “Remember when Mom found the breast lump four years ago?”
I vaguely recalled it, but nodded nonetheless.
“I can see by the blank stare you don’t. Anyway––” my sister chided. “Carly had the chicken pox. It was bad, too. So nasty. Much worse than when Fallon had it, so I couldn’t leave her with John. He’s hopeless when it comes to illness. And Dad is…was––” she corrected, catching her mistake. She made a face, like remembering Dad hurt. “Dad was worse. He couldn’t stand to see Mom look vulnerable. So it was Sydney who went with her to get the biopsy. She took her to all her doctor’s visits.”
The news sunk down to my gut and threw a party. I felt sick. Even worse, it sounded like something Sydney would do. Quietly. Without fanfare or needing to take credit.
“It’s been a load off my mind to know she was here for them––” In the pause I could feel my sister watching me, the side of my face burning from her examination. “You know I love you, little brother––”
Here it comes, I thought and smiled bitterly. Those words never preceded anything good.
“But if you can’t forgive and forget, you have to cut her loose. You have to give her a divorce. It’s not fair to her.”
“Why aren’t you mad?” I pinched the bridge of my nose where the pressure was building.
“Who is there to be mad at? Dad? I mean, let’s be real, I loved him to pieces, but he was an asshole most of his life. It makes sense he’d be an asshole right up to the end. This is so like him––”
That got a chuckle out of me.
“––I don’t get you. Mom knew and I don’t see you upset at her. You’re not threatening to never speak to her again.”
I glanced at my mother who was still heavily immersed in her game of cards with my thirteen-year-old niece.
“I can’t believe you guys taught Fallon how to play poker.”
“She taught herself, dude.” Dev shook her head. “It’s a strange new world out there. Be glad you don’t have kids.”
An image of Sydney dancing in the kitchen in Wyoming with a
baby in her arms slammed into me so hard and fast it made my heart brace. I sat up stiffly and ditched what was left of my drink on the coffee table while Devyn eyeballed me.
“You alright?”
“No.” Placing my elbows on my knees, thumb running along my bottom lip, I let the idea sink in. It felt right. It felt so right I wanted to hold onto the image with both hands and never let it go. Sydney with a baby. Then I thought of her having a baby with someone else and I nearly lost my mind.
Heat spread from my chest, up my neck, and down my legs. It made me realize how cold I’d been the past month. Not seeing her, not talking to her, not touching her had left me cold and on the verge of going numb.
The image lingered, taunting me. Sydney smiled and a sharp pain pushed against my sternum. I missed her. I missed her so much it was painful.
I had no idea what I was doing anymore. No clear grasp on why I’d insisted on staying angry. Why I’d torpedoed the best thing that had ever happened to me. Why I’d set out to hurt her in the first place. My inability to keep a heavy hand on my pride was screwing up the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Devyn was right. I held no resentment toward my mother, and she hadn’t done anything different from Sydney. She’d never picked up the phone and told me my father was dying and time was running out.
“What if I love her?”
“Yeah, you love her so much you singlehandedly destroyed her career in a matter of days. You’re a real life Prince Charming.”
Now that the fog of war had cleared, hearing it stated plainly made me feel like a dirtbag, made me cringe in shame. I’d known exactly how to hurt her––take away what she held most dear, the only thing she had left: her career. And I’d gone after it with everything I had, hadn’t I? It was a maneuver straight out of the art of war by Frank Blackstone.
My eyes fell shut. The truth did hurt. My lungs could barely function with it. “Thanks. I didn’t think I could feel any worse.”
My sister chuckled darkly and shook her head. “Men.”
“I’m serious, Dev. I love her. I’m in love with her.”
“You have a funny way of showing it. You know what love is, Scott? I’ll tell you what love is––John was willing to uproot his entire business to move back to New York if I’d told him that I wanted to work for Dad. I have a law degree and master’s in business and I haven’t done anything with either one––”
“You have four great kids.”
“Yeah, because I have an amazing husband who gave me the choice. Who would’ve sacrificed for me the way I have for him––that’s love. What you feel is remorse.” She took another sip of her wine. “You’re just starting to figure out that you have a genuine gift for hurting people without even trying.”
I winced. “Don’t hold back.”
“You’re a big boy, you can handle it…I thought this marriage would do you good, but I can see now it’s only done her harm.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott
Panic began to set in shortly after Dev’s “pep talk.” I knew I needed to fix things, but I had no idea where to begin, or how. Or if it was even possible. That’s what worried me most. That I was too late.
Every time I thought about that day in Sydney’s office––the day I told her to pack her shit up and get out like she was yesterday’s trash, and she started crying––I just about died inside. She hadn’t cried at her grandmother’s house. Or in the hospital. Or when she told me about all the other horrible things that had been done to her. And yet I’d made her cry.
Meghan was right. I was the fucking Anti-Christ. And my old man would be proud. Both of those statements were true, and I didn’t care about either one.
Miller passed me in the hallway without making eye contact. He’d been giving me the silent treatment since Sydney left a month ago, which was fine by me. I was in no mood to make nice.
“Cocksucker.”
My feet came to a hard stop and I turned, ready to take all my frustration out on him. “Excuse me?”
He faced me wearing a phony as fuck innocent expression. “I said coffee, can I get you some?”
Punching an employee in the mouth would’ve earned me a nice fat lawsuit so I settled for glaring. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what I heard.”
“Then maybe you should buy a company that makes hearing–aids.”
My temper spiked. It was already on a hair trigger and this guy was pressing all the wrong buttons. “Are you trying to get fired?”
“It’s my last day. So I’m afraid that ship called satisfaction has sailed, Evil Ken.”
Evil Ken?
I turned and walked away before things got ugly, stepped into my office––my father’s office––and found my mother directing two men to take down the surrealist painting hanging behind the desk, a painting that had hung there since my father had bought the building.
“What are you doing?” I asked with barely leashed irritation.
My mother glanced over her shoulder briefly. “Oh, hi, honey. Taking my painting.”
“That painting stays in this office––with the rest of the stuff that belongs here.”
My mother took one look at me and whispered something to the men who grabbed the painting and left the room. Taking off her chunky red eyeglasses, she dropped them on the desk. Her green eyes steady on me. “This painting is mine, and it belongs with the others, in a museum for everyone to enjoy.”
“You’re not giving the collection away.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes you are just like your father. He didn’t want me to donate it, either. Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t…but I can understand why.”
“It’s funny that you understand so much. You understand why your father wanted to hold on to a bunch of stuff, but you can’t understand why he didn’t tell you he was dying.”
That was a bodyblow I wasn’t ready for.
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Scott? Because you look upset and I think you need to talk about it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Because he asked me not to. Because he was my husband and I loved him despite his many, many faults. Because you make concessions and agreements, you incur debt and carry credit when you’re married for forty years. It was his business, his decision to make, and I owed it to him to carry out his wishes. Your father was used to winning, but you can’t beat death, and he couldn’t stomach looking weak. Not in front of his children. Not in front of anyone.”
“What about Sydney?”
“He trusted her to understand him. And she did.”
I fell into the wing chair across what used to be my father’s chair, all the fight draining out of me.
“All you see is how Sydney betrayed you. What you can’t see is her loyalty to your father. She made a promise and she kept it knowing she’d lose you and probably lose the job she loved. That’s character,” my mother eyeballed me pointedly, “and there’s not a lot of it to go around these days.”
Walking over, she pushed the hair off my forehead, something she hadn’t done since I was a teenager. Taking her hand in mine, I kissed her palm.
“What are you doing here, Scott? Are you happy?”
I couldn’t get a single word out. Only thing I could do was shake my head.
“He’s gone. Hopefully to a better place. Stop trying to get the upper hand. It’s already yours. I’m taking the painting. I’m selling the townhouse. If there’s anything you want, let Bernice know and she’ll pack it up for you. Or come by and take me to lunch. I could use the company.” She kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, bubby. But you don’t belong here any more than that painting does.”
“Miller. This is Scott Blackstone. Please call me back.”
A day later…
“I haven’t heard from you. I’m trying to find Sydney and her number keeps going straight to voicemail. I need to speak to her, and Human Resources doesn’t have
a forwarding address or number. Please call me.”
A day later…
“I get that you hate me. Fine. But I really need to talk to my wife. I need to make sure she’s alright and…*sigh*…can you please return this phone call.”
A day later…
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“Who is it?” came from the other side of the steel industrial sliding door. I glanced around impatiently, amped from the need to act. The Smiths lived in Chelsea in a converted loft that cost a mint by the looks of it.
“Pizza delivery,” I said lowering my voice. And almost laughed for the first time in months.
The door slid open. “We didn’t…ah fuuuck.”
Sydney’s little friend scowled. I gave him the most supplicating look I could muster. “You didn’t return any of my calls. You left me no choice.”
“How did you get into the building?” he shot back, looking more than a little suspicious. “You didn’t buy it, did you?”
I schooled the urge to smile. “Chick in 2E was walking in at the same time. She let me in.”
“Giullermo, that mutherfucker––”
“Look, I get that you’re mad at me––”
“Mad at you? Nah, man. I’m not mad, bro. I was just in the middle of making a wax figurine of you and sacrificing a chicken in your name. If your balls start to itch, you’ll know why––”
“I’m trying to fix this, damn it.” Teeth gritted, I forced out, “I’m trying to make amends if you would only give me a clue where she is. I’m begging you. I know I fucked up. I know I have and…I…I just need to try…please.”
He studied me for a minute. “She’s out of the country.” A begrudging admission.
I exhaled in relief. I was finally getting through to him. “Where?”
“Blackstone tried to buy a residential property in Singapore last year and got outbid by a Chinese quadrillionaire or some shit. He was impressed––she’s interviewing with him. She’s staying at the Ritz.”
