by Beck, J. L.
I guess we’ll find out.
Oliver gets out his phone and hands it to me. “Now to the hard part. You need to call the detective investigating your hit and run case and tell him what you know.”
Looking down at his phone, I realize the detective’s number is already pulled up. “How do you have his number?”
“We had to make sure they knew the whole story and were doing their jobs. We regularly talked to the detective and checked in to see if there were any updates.”
“Oh.” I probably shouldn’t be surprised by that, but somehow, I still am. I just can’t get over how committed they are to me. Even when I didn’t even know who they were, they took care of me, watched out for me.
Hitting the green call button, I hold the phone to my ear and wait for someone to answer while trying not to think about what I’m about to do. The person I thought was my best friend really isn’t, and I’m about to send her to jail… maybe for a very long time.
4
The drive to the Bishop estate isn’t that long, but it seems like an eternity when you’re as nauseated as I am.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sullivan asks, his forehead scrunched up in concern.
“Yeah, I’m good. Like you said, it’s just a little hard to stomach all of this. All these emotions, all these questions surrounding my life, it’s really weighing on me. Hopefully, your dad can clear up at least some of the confusion.”
Banks grunts next to me, his gaze fixed on something outside the window. He’s barely spoken since we decided to come here. I know he is unhappy with it, but I can’t think of another way to actually figure out what’s going on, at least not one that doesn’t involve going back to my father. I need some answers, and right now, George Bishop is my best bet.
Reaching across the back seat for Banks, I latch on to one of his wrists and pull him closer. I half expect him to pull away and tell me, no, but he lets me interlace my fingers with his without complaint. When he finally turns his head, his sea-blue eyes find mine, and the worry swimming in their depths crashes into me like a tidal wave.
“We’re going to be okay,” I assure him. It sounds like a promise, and even though I have no way of actually keeping the promise, I don’t mind saying it this way. Maybe because I will do whatever I can, whatever it takes, to make it happen. We have endured too much heartache to not get our happily ever after.
He gives me a halfhearted smile and a slight nod. I wish I could do more, take his worry away. Take all of our worries away, but I can’t.
“We’re almost there,” Oliver says from the driver’s seat, and Banks stiffens next to me. I squeeze his hand, hoping to calm him down, but the closer we get to the house, the more on edge he seems. His body goes rigid, tightening like a rubber band that’s being pulled tighter and tighter.
“You sure it’s a good idea to just show up without calling first?”
“We’re their kids, we don’t have to announce our visit,” Sullivan tells me.
“Yeah, but you usually don’t bring me along.”
A few minutes later, we pull up to a large brick suburban home that looks a little bit like a small castle. It’s beautiful, and I can’t help but stare at it. It’s gorgeous with high walls, and perfectly sculpted hedges. If it looks like this on the outside, I can’t imagine what it looks like on the inside.
“Wow, that’s your house?” I ask while continuing to gawk at the building.
“My mom likes to pretend she’s a queen,” Sullivan says, throwing me a wink.
We get out of the car and start walking toward the front door. Suddenly the reality of being here hits me, and I start to get really nervous. Looking over my shoulder, I catch Banks watching me. His gaze softens, and he extends a hand out to me. I gladly take it, letting his touch calm the storm inside of me.
“Don’t worry, we won’t let anything happen to you, and if my dad dares to talk down to you, we’ll be out the door,” Banks soothes me. Our roles reversed now.
Oliver and Sullivan walk ahead of us. Opening the front door with a key, we all walk into the house, which opens to a large grand foyer that matches the outside of the house. A gigantic, fancy chandelier hangs in the center of the entrance, a rounded staircase leading to the upper level, worthy of a queen to walk down.
“Mom… Dad…” Oliver calls loud enough that everybody in the house should here, even considering the size of it. A moment later, the sound of high-heeled shoes against the tile floor echoes through the foyer.
“Oliver?” A shrill voice fills the space a moment before a petite blonde woman appears in the doorway. “Boys...” Her tone is upbeat, excited to see her sons, she smiles widely. That is until she sees me standing behind Oliver and Sullivan.
Her smile falls and is quickly replaced with a frown. That frown deepening further when she looks between Banks and me and sees that we are holding hands.
“Hey, Mom,” Sullivan greets, walking toward her and giving her a kiss on the cheek. She grabs on to his arms, holding him to her and whispers something in his ear. I can’t hear from where I stand, but I can imagine she is asking him what the hell I’m doing here.
Sullivan straightens up, refusing to whisper, he says out loud. “We were hoping to talk to Dad and ask him some questions about the time when he and Harlow’s dad used to be friends with Phoebe.”
I can practically see the blood drain from Chloe Bishop’s face, her eyes go wide, and she takes a step back as if she is trying to get away from the situation.
“How… how do you know… about that?” She stumbles over her words, looking uncomfortable and wary.
“From Harlow’s dad. Well, he didn’t tell us, but Harlow found some pictures and some letters in his desk,” Oliver explains.
“I see,” she says, and as if she remembers to compose herself, she perks up. A fake smile spreads across her face. “Well, come on in boys… and Harlow.” Banks’ grip around my hand tightens at the way she says my name, but I give him a look that silently tells him it’s okay. I can hold my own. I won’t let anyone hurt the men I love or me, for that matter.
She waves us inside, and we follow her through the house like little sheep.
“Your father is in his office working, but I’m sure he can make time for you,” she chimes, her voice high-pitched and strained somehow. She is obviously nervous about taking us to her husband. The tension between all of us grows thicker. I have to force air into my lungs now. It’s getting harder to breathe.
When we get to a large set of double doors, she stops and looks back at us one more time, as if she’s waiting for somebody to say something. Maybe she’s hoping we’ll tell her just kidding or something like that. When no one says anything, she lifts her hand and knocks on the door lightly.
“Yes, come in,” A muffled male voice carries through the closed door.
Mrs. Bishop opens the door and walks in hesitantly, all of us following closely behind her. George Bishop sits behind his desk, holding a phone to his ear, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. His eyes are trained on whatever is in front of him. I now see where his sons get their looks from. Even though he is as old as my father, he still manages to look young and fit.
“Okay, and what’s their counteroffer?” he says to the other person on the phone. He looks up, his face an unreadable mask. The pen which was dancing over the paper a minute ago stills in his hand as he takes us in. “I’m gonna call you back.”
Mr. Bishop hangs up the phone and sits the device on the table next to him.
“Chloe… Kids… what’s this all about? he asks carefully.
“Who is Phoebe?” I blurt out my most pressing question.
George’s eyes find mine, and I’m surprised by the way he looks at me. I was expecting animosity, resentment, maybe even hate. Instead, all I find is sadness and reminiscence. Almost like I’m an old friend he hasn’t seen in years, and he is sad about the fact that it’s been so long.
“Chloe, dear, do you mind leaving us to ta
lk for a while,” he asks his wife, who seemingly is more than happy to have the opportunity to get out of here.
“Of course, I’ll be in the kitchen preparing dinner if you need me. Will you be staying for dinner?” she asks, looking at her sons, but avoiding my gaze.
“That depends on the outcome of this conversation,” Banks mutters.
“Very well,” his mother sighs before leaving the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
“Why don’t you all take a seat,” George offers, waving his hand to the seating area in the corner of the oversized office. “This is kind of a long story.”
Never letting go of my hand, Banks tugs me to one of the chairs. Sullivan and Oliver are right beside us. We all take seats in the leather chairs. George joins us, sitting down right across from me.
“First, I have to ask, not that it matters because you know now, but how did you find out about Phoebe?” George starts the conversation.
“I found letters and some pictures in my dad’s desk. Pictures with you, my dad, and Phoebe in them.”
“Yes, we used to be friends growing up… all three of us. Best friends, actually.”
“How is that even possible?” Sullivan asks. “How were you friends, and why is this the first time we’ve ever heard of it?”
“Some things are just better left in the past, son. We were just kids when we were friends. That all changed when we grew up, and friendship turned into more between Phoebe and me.”
“So, you and Phoebe were together?”
He smiles, his eyes twinkling, “Yes, I was in love with her. I was her first boyfriend… or so I thought. See, your father was in love with her as well and Phoebe… well, she was in love with both of us, and that led us to the biggest mistake of our lives…” George trails off, looking out the window, his eyes turn glassy and unfocused as he speaks.
“What happened?” I ask when I can’t take the silence anymore.
“We told her she had to choose one of us. We fought over her, both of us terribly jealous of the other one. We were so selfish in our fight for her that neither one of us realized how unhappy she was and how much us fighting hurt her.”
“One of the letters I found said that she was pregnant…” I hold my breath, waiting for the truth to come pouring out.
“Yes, Phoebe got pregnant. She was with both of us at the time, so there was a question of who the father was for a while, but it turned out it was Lionel.
“Am I…” My voice cracks at the end. I don’t know if I can ask the question out loud. It’s still too surreal.
“Yes, Harlow. You are Phoebe’s daughter. Your dad met his new wife when you were just a baby. I always wondered if he told you about your mother. I guess he didn’t.”
To my surprise, I am not as shocked as I thought I would be. I guess part of me was expecting it already. Or maybe the revelation that my life had been a lie doesn’t bother me as much because in some ways my life was already a lie, it was messed up long before I lost my memory.
“You okay,” Banks asks, his voice concerned and gentle as if he has this need to soothe me.
“I am, surprisingly… I’m not that shocked. I don’t know, I can’t explain it. I guess deep down, I already knew.”
“Your father and I have had a lot of differences over the years, as you are well aware, but I can tell you that he did love your mother, your real mother… and so did I. I was devastated when she died.”
“How did she die?”
George sighs deeply and leans forward. With his elbows on his knees, he lets his face fall into his hands. Clearly, he’s still torn up over it. Even after all this time, he looks like reliving the memories is extraordinary hard on him.
“At the end, it was our rivalry that killed her,” he admits, and the pain in his voice is almost too much for me. “She loved us both, and even though she had a child with Lionel, she would come to see me. He tried to forbid it, of course, but she was a bit untamable. That was one of the things I loved about her…like a wild horse, she would gallop wherever she pleased…” he trails off seemingly lost in his memory.
“She would frequently sneak out in the middle of the night to meet me somewhere,” George continues after a while. “One of those nights she had a car accident on her way home, a drunk driver swerved into her lane, hit her straight on… she died instantly.”
A tear trails down my cheek as I mourn the death of a woman I didn’t know and never will. The woman who gave me life. The mother I didn’t even know existed. The mother I would only ever know from stories and pictures.
“Your father blamed me, of course. If I had stayed away from her, she wouldn’t have been on that road. What he didn’t understand is that I tried, but she wouldn’t let me go. She loved me, and she wasn’t going to give me up. If your father would have accepted that fact, then she wouldn’t have snuck around in the middle of the night. He tried to control her, and he drove her away with that. She would have eventually come to me anyway.”
“So, you blamed each other for her death,” Sullivan points out.
“Yes… it was the seed that started it all, the seed that sprouted into hate and resentment over the years and led to a rivalry that has now touched the next generation, or so I thought. Obviously, you have somehow overwritten the hatred between our families.” George looks at Banks and at our intertwined fingers.
“But at what cost?” Oliver blurts out. “We were fighting for years, Sullivan almost lost everything, Harlow has been through hell and back… Christ, she almost died, and for what? Because you two couldn’t share the blame? Because from where I’m standing, it was everybody’s fault.”
“Maybe you’re right, but you can’t change the past, and I accepted that a long time ago. We can only control our own paths now and steer into the future we want. Now the question is, what kind of future do you want?”
“I want a future where I remember my past. I want to know where I came from, and I want to know where I belong,” I admit.
“You belong with us,” Oliver says, making his dad shift in his chair uncomfortably. I wonder if he knows what kind of relationship I have with his sons? Maybe he is trying to figure it out, or maybe he already suspected it. Either way, he is not saying a word about it.
“You know what I want for the future? I want Harlow to be safe,” Banks barks. “I want Shelby and whoever has been trying to hurt Harlow behind bars for good. And then I want everybody to leave us the hell alone and let us live our lives as we please.”
“Wait, why do you want Shelby behind bars? Isn’t she your friend?” George asks, looking between all of us with confusion.
“I remembered something… about Shelby. She was the one that hit me with the car.”
George looks genuinely shocked. “Did you go to the police?”
“Yes, we called the detective on my case. They are looking for her right now. But last we checked, they hadn’t found her yet.” I contemplate telling him about seeing Shelby and Dad together but decide against it. There is no real reason for him to know that part. “I wanted to talk to my dad about all of this, but the guys think it’s a bad idea.
George’s gaze collides with Banks’ when he speaks again. “I want you to stay out of this. All of you,” he looks to Sullivan and then Oliver. “I know you want to help Harlow, but you really need to stay out of it and let the police handle it.”
Banks sighs beside me, his fingers tightening around mine. He doesn’t answer, but I already know what he would say if he did. Something along the lines of, don’t tell me what to do because I’ll do what I want.
Surprisingly, Oliver is the one who speaks up. “We will do anything that we can to help Harlow. There is no staying out of it, we’re already involved. Harlow’s life is intertwined with our own, and we won’t stand by and watch her be attacked or hurt.”
George shakes his head, looking thoroughly displeased with Oliver’s statement. “Are you boys staying for dinner?” George asks after the silence has stretched b
etween us. I don’t miss how he only invited the guys to dinner; does he expect me to leave?
“I think it’s time for us to go,” Oliver announces and shoves out of his chair. His body is vibrating with an unknown emotion. The brothers follow Oliver’s lead, and I stand as well, slowly, my knees knocking together gently. I’m so exhausted.
“Thanks for the chat,” Sullivan says, heading for the doors. We all follow without anyone saying a real goodbye. George stays in his office, and we don’t see anyone else on the way out. The guys don’t look for their mother to tell her goodbye either. It’s kind of sad and fucked up and wrong, and somehow, I get it.
When we get to the car, I feel guilty. Am I the reason the guys have a bad relationship with their parents? When Oliver starts the car and pulls away, I can’t wait any longer. I need to know if this is all because of me. “Do you guys fight with your parents because of me?”
“We fight with our parents because they are pricks,” Banks growls, “They shouldn’t treat you the way they do, they shouldn’t treat anyone like that.”
“But if it wasn’t for me, you would be okay?”
“Harlow, don’t you dare think it is your fault that we barely talk to our parents. I can assure you, it’s not,” Oliver promises.
“He is right, it’s not on you. It’s their own fault,” Sullivan chimes in.
I’m not completely convinced, but it’s enough for me to let it go for now. Relaxing into the leather seat, I realize how tired I am again. This meeting was emotionally draining. I unbuckle my seatbelt and lie down across the back seat, resting my head in Banks’ lap. He immediately starts running his fingers through my hair, giving me a little scalp massage.
“That feels nice,” I murmur before I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, and I quickly fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
5
The days with the brothers blend together, and while I’m happy and content staying with them in a rental house far away from the world, I know this won’t last forever. We can’t hide from everyone for the rest of our lives.
