One Night Hand Stand

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Case

I’ve clearly interrupted a major moment.

A major moment at a place called Hair Haven.

A place so remote that my GPS lost its signal, and I had to stop at a farm stand manned by a Mennonite woman to ask directions. She was so polite I felt obligated to purchase raw honey from her, and she gave me a gospel CD as a bonus “from God.”

I’m starting to understand why Sarah went to Columbia.

The look of shock on Sarah’s tear-stained face makes my breath halt, the woman next to her a bit shorter, with rich auburn hair but Sarah’s features, aged slightly.

Mother and daughter.

My fate is sealed.

“Case?” Sarah calls out from inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for some fresh honey.” I hold the jar aloft. Will she consider it a peace offering? I’ll throw in the gospel music for good measure.

Bzzz

My phone, which has had no signal for the last ninety minutes, turns into a perverted vibrator in my pocket. The sensation, combined with looking at the woman I’ve driven more than three hours to find in the middle of nowhere, sets me ablaze.

Nothing would stop the pounding pulse of failure inside me in my condo in the city, looking out at the sprawling urban center, the ocean a fringe atop all the shining buildings.

I tried. I really, really tried. Tried to tell myself to walk away. Leave her alone. Let Sarah be who she is without the messy, tangled past of lies between us.

Give her space. Give her grace. Be a better man than this.

A man about to drop to his knees and beg.

For the last day and a half, I’ve done nothing but manage damage control. Prakash has set his lawyers into attack mode, chiseling away at a deal they don’t realize is going south anyhow. My phone is impossible to wrangle as all the harassed employees crawled out of the woodwork and contact me.

Me.

I’m suddenly a de facto leader of a movement I didn’t create, don’t have anything to do with, and have even less idea what to do with .

And yet, these people are hurting.

So is the woman I’m staring at.

Her mom sniffs, hard, and walks across the small salon, reaching the door, unlocking it. A whiff of strong antiseptic and coconut hits me, and I swear – tobacco.

It’s faint, but there. Like hugging my mother when she wears her evening coat. The one she wore when my parents went to opera performances.

Stacey and I loved their nights out, because it meant a teen babysitter, ordered-in pizza, and video games until the sitter scooted us off to bed before midnight. Sarah’s mother bears no resemblance to my own, and yet that scent.

So evocative.

I can feel Stacey’s arm against mine, elbow bent and shoving, hear the English accents – so crisp, even in my sister’s little-kid voice.

“Can I help you?” The icy tone jars me out of my inopportune reverie and I stare dumbly at Mrs…. Miss? Ms…

“Mom,” Sarah says, settling that question in my mind. “This is Case. I have no idea what he’s doing in Becket, but he’s here.” She frowns at me, her phone in her hands, and she’s pressing the power button.

Her mother sniffs. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I need to spend more time around you before I can make that call.”

Bzzz

Bzzz

Both my and Sarah’s phones buzz at the same time, her mother frowning. Politeness supersedes judgment, and she holds out her hand by way of introduction.

“Jackie Gorenta.”

“Case Willingham.”

“Ooo.” Eyebrows up, chin tucked back, she gives Sarah a sidelong look. “He’s British!”

“Only because it gets him more tail,” Sarah declares flatly.

“That’s a fake accent?” Jackie inquires, peering at me.

“No, ma’am. It’s real. I came to the U.S. when I was a teen and the accent stuck.”

A snort that could rival any pissed-off rhinoceros fills the air, Sarah’s eyeroll as painful as a calf spasm.

“Sarah’s never brought a guy home before.”

“MOM!”

“Well, you haven’t. And definitely not one with that accent.”

“I did not bring him home! He followed me here.”

“Like a stray?” Jackie asks, smiling at me through the inquiry. Her eyes turn hard. “Or a stalker?”

“Are those my only two options?” I say, trying to inject levity into the situation.

“Oh, I like him,” Jackie tells Sarah, who closes her eyes, sits down in a stylist’s chair that looks like something from the film set of Steel Magnolias , and leans her head back, sighing heavily.

“I did not come home to have more stress.”

“Adding stress to your life is the last thing I want to do, Sarah,” I say, handing the honey to Jackie, who points to herself and mouths, For me?

I nod.

“You have a funny way of reducing my stress, then, barging into my mom’s salon out of nowhere.”

“There is nothing but ‘nowhere’ out here.”

Jackie bursts out laughing. “This is new.”

Sarah sits up. “What’s new?”

“Hearing someone just as smart as you take you on, kiddo.”

Keeping my mouth shut right now is an act of God.

Reddening, Sarah stands and looks at me. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes. You know. The thing where you use your body to do something productive?”

Now I grin.

“I can go! You two need privacy,” Jackie insists, but Sarah stops her.

“Mom. You had two shots. You’re not driving anywhere. You finish closing up and wait for me to come back.”

“What if you don’t come back?” Her mother winks at me.

Tension radiates off her. “I will. This won’t take long.”

Closed off and curt, Sarah has every defense up with me, and she has every right to do it, too. For the last two days I’ve done nothing but beat myself up for all the ways I could have made different – better – decisions.

Coming here was a good one.

I’m not here to grovel, or get her back. Driving out here isn’t about stalking her, persuading her, or appealing to the decision-making centers of her brain. It’s too late for that. We’ve been together for such a short time, and fallen apart just as quickly.

Expecting her to forgive me and pick up where we left off is a fool’s fantasy.

And I’m many things, but fool is not one of them.

“Case, look. I don’t know why you’re here. I came home to get a break. You are anything but a break.”

Jackie catches my eye.

“You know what, hon? I’ll walk home. You two need privacy.”

“Oh my goodness, no,” I interject. “You certainly will not walk home. Not on my account.”

Both their faces change at that.

“My mother can do whatever she damn well pleases!”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Sarah,” I explain quickly. “I meant that no one should have to walk unsteady on country roads like this. You could get hit by a truck. Or attacked by a bear.”

“I’ll pick a bear over a man in the woods any day,” Sarah mutters.

“I can drive her home,” I insist.

They share a look I don’t understand, but it’s clear I’m not meant to.

“First of all, Case, thank you for being a gentleman,” Jackie says. “We don’t get too many of those in the salon. Second, we live through the woods here.” She thumbs toward the back of the building. “About a quarter mile. Well-worn path.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” she goes on, the alcohol clearly loosening her up. She gives me a dopey smile. “Sarah practically grew up here. I got lucky and bought an old summer cottage. Two tiny bedrooms and a living room so small it could double as a car trunk, but that’s all we needed, right?”

Sarah’s face lights up as she meets her mother’s smile.

“Right, Mom.”

“So you two talk,” she says, reaching for her purse. “I can clean up whenever. I’ll go home and feed the Wackerdoodle.”

“Wacker what?” I ask, clearing my throat after.

“Wackerdoodle. Sarah!” Jackie says, suddenly annoyed. “How could you leave out Wackerdoodle?” Her eyes get huge. “And what about Dumpling?”

Dumpling. A flash of a tiny kitten runs through my memory, the morning I left Sarah’s place after our one-night stand pouring through me. The little tabby was sweet, rubbing against my legs as I dressed.

Longing fills me.

“Dumpling is fine, Mom. Luna and Adriana are watching him.”

A huge burst of air rushes out of Jackie, her ribs folding in slightly, puckering the red cotton of her blouse. “Thank goodness!”

“What is a wackerdoodle?” I inquire.

“Our dog,” Sarah says.

“He’s a golden doodle,” Jackie explains.

“And you… whack him?” I’m losing faith in my ability to understand this woman.

“Wacky for short,” she replies, as if that explains it.

She leaves abruptly, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll defrost some salmon for you, too, Case, for dinner. You’re invited to stay if Sarah says it’s okay.”

A door opens, then closes, and suddenly, we’re alone.

In a salon that smells like coconut, alcohol, and perfume I only smell on women my mother’s age.

“You will not be staying for dinner,” Sarah hisses at me.

“You’re making it abundantly clear that I am not welcome here. I understand that, Sarah,” I say, holding out my palms. “I didn’t come here to spend time with you.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing, Case, so what the hell does that even mean?”

“I meant I didn’t come here to try to get you back.”

“Good. Because that’s not happening.”

Irritation rises up in me, fast like a rocket. “You don’t have to be so testy.”

“Testy? You don’t get to characterize me like that! You invaded my home!”

“You live in a hair salon?”

“You know what I mean! You waltz into my life unexpected, get a dinner invitation from my mom, think you can charm your way back into my pants -- ”

“No pants. I’m not here for any pants.”

“And try to, what? Are you here to tell me not to run the article?”

“If I thought I could convince you, I would, but no.”

“See? Even that!” She throws her hands in the air. “You do want me to drop the article!”

“Postpone, not drop.”

“Jesus Christ, Case. If you drove all the way out here for some Hail Mary attempt at getting the article quashed, you’re a bigger asshole than I ever fathomed. And I have spent the last couple days being slowly convinced that you’re not an asshole. My bad.”

“What do you mean, being convinced?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“No. No, you don’t.”

I’m curious as hell, but I go quiet, blood pumping so hard I feel it in my ears, a whistling fluid pulse trying to escape, but with no way out.

She blows out a puff of air and reaches for her hair, shoving her fingers in it, pulling it into a ponytail.

“Dori. Barbi. Fix. Yolanda. Eight more – eight more! People have come forward about Prakash and sexual harassment. Some of the cases are he said/she said, or he said/they said, and they’re in that horrible liminal space. The kind where it’s clear he manipulated, but no judge would ever consider it actionable. Prakash knew exactly how to use his power to make his victims freeze. Then he just… proceeded.”

“I know.”

“Right.

“The same people are talking to me, Sarah.”

“I know,” she mimics. “I know that because they’re telling me how wonderful you’re being, trying to find jobs for them at your studios, offering to be a job reference, connecting them with lawyers and resources. The nicer you are to them, the harder it is for me to hang onto this idea that you’re an asshole.”

“Why do you need me to be an asshole?”

“Because you’re pushing me to hold the story! You’re making your needs more important than mine!”

“You’re doing the same damn thing, Sarah.”

“It’s my career! Everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Years of work!”

“AND IT IS THE SAME FOR ME!” I thunder, the deep bass pouring out of the bottom of my lungs like they’re folding inside out. “THIS IS TORTURE!”

“If it’s torture, then why are you here?”

“Because YOU are the most torturous part of this! The fact that we can’t find a way around this conflict is bizarre!”

“I AM NOT BIZARRE!”

“I NEVER SAID THAT! God, Sarah, you’re so enchanting. Funny. Smart. More than smart. You’re fucking brilliant! You connect ideas so fast it gives me whiplash, but then you have these insights that make me go deep. You’re sexy as hell, and you’re wild in bed. You unravel so beautifully with me, these layers you carry around in the world peeling off bit by bit until I feel like the luckiest bastard because I – me! - get to see the real, vulnerable, laughing, naked you underneath it all.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

But oh, those eyes. I see all her gorgeous complexity cracking like stained glass in a storm, shattered pieces beautiful in the breakdown, reflecting light and color, a prism sending rainbows of beauty.

“Case. You – you feel that way about me?”

“I do. Which is why this is so fucking maddening. It doesn’t have to be this way!”

“I didn’t – I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do.”

Our breath, ragged and jolting, fills the air.

“I feel the same way,” she says slowly, looking down. “Not exactly the same, because I’m not you and we’re completely different people. But I’m halfway in love with you and all I want is to go all the way but you –” She looks up suddenly, eyes only moving, up like a shutter. “You won’t let me.”

“I won’t let you? I won’t let you?”

She shakes her head, voice low and keening. “You love your business deal more than you want me.”

Pain rips through my chest like a heart attack.

“And you’re blowing what could be the love of our lives because of a story .”

“Fuck you, Case. Fuck you for trivializing my entire life.”

“Right back at you, Sarah. You don’t even see that you’re doing to me what you accuse me of doing. Maybe you’re not as brilliant as I thought.”

She gasps.

My heart is a dead lump in my chest.

Bzzz

Bzzz

Our phones buzz again, but we both ignore them.

And then mine rings. I reach for the Power Off button, but it’s my lawyer.

The previews on all my text notifications have the word “article” in them.

“Sarah,” I say slowly, my gut clenching, throat turning into a grief-filled muscle, all my organs going cold. “Did you publish the article?”

“No,” she asks, frowning at me, then glancing at my phone. “You may hate me, but I’m not a liar!”

Eyes flying wide open, she reaches for her purse and finds her own phone.

“Twenty-seven texts.”

We both tap quickly, unable to avoid whatever’s next, but at least we’re doing it together.

Declining the lawyer’s call, instead I open my texts.

“HOLY FUCK!” Sarah screams as she stares at her phone.

Jared. Rory. Barbi. Two different lawyers.

And Prakash, whose simple text is two words:

You’re dead

When I click on the link they all are sending me, I see it loud and clear. The Beaconite . Huge headline.

“Downward Facing Fraud – How Chakroga123 Played Russian Roulette”

Cold dread creeps out from a spot between my shoulder blades, spreading down my spine, over my ass, through my glutes and into my knees, my calves, the ends of my toes tingling.

Hot blood rushes from my shoulders into my elbows, wrists, face, and scalp, the twinned sensations an exercise in polar opposites.

I am skin. I am blood. I am nerves. I am flesh. I am bone.

Most of all, though, I am fucked .

The inevitable is here.

“How could she run this?” Sarah screams.

“Because you gave it to her!”

Wild, stricken eyes meet mine. “Case, I swear I – ” She looks at her phone again. “OH MY GOD! OH NO! HE DID NOT! THAT ASSHAT!”

Sarah drops her phone, both hands going to her mouth as she makes an injured animal sound and reels in horror, the case catching on the corner of the counter, preventing the device from shattering. I’m watching her, half of me detached and filled with pure rage, the other half desperate to know why she would do this to me.

She did it. She published the article.

Everything I’ve worked for is gone.

And who the fuck is he ?

At the top of the page on my screen, I suddenly see why she’s reacting so violently.

The byline isn’t hers.

The byline is not Sarah’s.

“Who in the hell is Stuart Ribisi ?” I ask her, my voice angry, which is appropriate.

Because I am ready to destroy civilizations.

All she can do is groan and shake her head.

“Sarah? What is this?”

“THIS!” she screams, “IS NOT MY ARTICLE!”

“It most assuredly is.” I flick my finger along the glass, paging up. “All the fake reservations for venue rental. The money laundering. It’s here.”

“BUT I DID NOT WRITE THAT! HE SNIPED ME! OH GOD, THAT SLIMY LITTLE SNAKE SNIPED ME!”

Sarah’s phone rings. I bend down to retrieve it, handing it over. Her friend Luna is calling, so I swipe to answer with my thumb. It’s not my place to do it, but instinct prevails. Making sure Sarah feels safe right now is more important than trying to be that safe person for her.

Not just because I care about her.

Because I’m trying to understand how screwed I am right now, too.

“Sarah?” the tinny voice says from the phone in Sarah’s hand. “Oh my God, honey!”

Sobs pour forth from Sarah, big, gut-wrenching sounds that make me say fuck it and pull her into my arms. She stiffens, then relaxes with such pure need I feel like the asshole she needed me to be.

I’ve done this to her.

I’ve hurt her so, so much.

“Case, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how he – how Stuart – how my editor – what happened?”

“It’s okay,” I soothe, lying. I’m saying the words as much to myself as I am to her. None of this is okay. Not one bloody bit.

I have to say them, though.

It’s all I can do right now. Hold her and whisper insipid emotional placeholders.

“SARAH!” Luna’s screaming through the phone, the sound a vibration against my shoulder blades as we embrace. “Who is that man? Is that Case? Are you with Case? Is he hurting you? Is he furious? He has no right to be an asshole to you! Hey, Case! Leave her alone or else!”

I can’t help it. I start laughing. Or else what? She’ll telepathically break my knees?

Something in my heart grows.

A manipulative, cold-hearted woman wouldn’t have a friend like that. Sarah is multi-dimensional, sob-laughing in my arms now, and as we pull away, I can see she’s spinning from all of this, too.

If we can spin together, we can find our way out.

Our way through.

Which is about all I can ask for right now.

Bzzz. My phone again.

“Luna, I’m here,” Sarah says into the phone. “With Case. It’s okay.”

“He’s not hurting you?”

Sarah’s breath stops as I look at her, wondering the same. Am I hurting her right now?

“No. He’s trying to help.”

“The article says it was written by Stuart Ribisi! Stuart? That guy who is nothing but ick?”

“Yes.”

“He stole your article?”

“He did something. I don’t know. I have to ask Marsha what’s going on.”

“Boston social media is going crazy over this. My feed is nothing but Chakroga123. What a story. It was yours! You should be getting all the mentions. Not the guy who wrote an entire article about edible insects as a fetish and tried to get it in The Beaconite .”

“I know.”

“He cannot get away with this! Did he actually steal your stuff? Your notes? Because that happens all the time with creators like me, but it’s mostly copycats. Then they snipe our endorsement contracts. This is different.”

“Hang on.”

Sarah taps her screen, puts Luna on speaker, and scrolls through the article, slowly shaking her head.

“None of these quotes are mine. And he’s got Barbi in here. Dori, too.”

“Did one of them go to him?’

“I don’t know!” Sarah wails. “I am so confused. This is hitting out of nowhere!”

“We won’t let him get away with this.”

“It’s not just him, Luna. My editor approved this!”

“Marsha’s a backstabber. Traitor,” Luna hisses.

“Apparently.” Despondent now, Sarah’s eyes fill with tears, one dripping onto the glass screen. A cloud of emotion grows in me, floating from gut to heart to head, fists tightening.

I want to do something to take her pain away.

And yet, I have plenty of my own to shoulder.

My phone rings. Jared.

Stepping away, I answer.

“Dude,” is all he says.

“I know.”

“It’s bad. Bad, bad, bad . A bunch of faculty and staff at my school are texting and asking me if you’re part of this.”

Chills race through me. “I haven’t had time to really read it all, Jared. Is there more in there than I realize?”

“It just says your studios are franchises and run separately, and that an attempt was made to reach you for a comment but you did not reply in time for publication.”

“That’s a lie. This guy Stuart Ribisi is a writer at the same magazine where Sarah was going to publish the article. He appears to have scooped her.” My gaze halts on a painting – a rooster cuddling with a kitten. Behind me, Sarah talks with Luna, who is clearly filled with the same blend of rage and helpless love for Sarah.

My phone buzzes twice through the call. At some point, I need to start cleaning up my own mess.

Being here with Sarah is the most important mess of all, though.

“Dang. That’s savage.” Jared’s words ground me.

“Exactly.”

“So she didn’t screw you over?”

“No. But the article sure does.”

“And she didn’t get the career-breaking publication that gets her that promotion, or whatever she was trying to do?”

“No.”

He groans, the sound a charmingly sympathetic gut punch. “You both lied to each other. You’re both embroiled in scandals that you didn’t cause. And you both got screwed. No way the deal goes forward with Prakash fleeing the country.”

That text from him: You’re dead.

“With Prakash WHAT?”

Sarah turns toward me, holding her phone lower. Her eyebrows go up.

Jared sighs. I hear cartoons playing in the background. “Sorry. You didn’t know? It’s all over the news. He’s in India, hiding.”

“Prakash escaped the country already?” I shout. “Someone must have tipped him off.”

Bzzz

Bzzz

Another call cuts in, changing the screen. I decline it.

My texts are nothing but lawyers begging me to get on the phone.

“Lawyers. Jared, I need to talk to my lawyers.”

“No shit. Go. I’m sorry this happened to you and Sarah. I’m here for whatever you need.”

“I need a time machine.”

“Don’t we all.”

I end the call and immediately text my lawyer as Sarah comes closer to me.

“Prakash fled the country?” she asks.

Luna’s voice comes through her phone. “Yeah. That’s all over social media, too. He issued a statement saying he’s being unfairly targeted and that Case is the one who is actually behind all the money laundering.”

Suddenly, all the lawyer texts and calls make more sense.

“WHAT?” I scream. “FUCKING LIAR!”

“There’s zero proof,” Sarah says, touching my shoulder with a soothing caress. “ Zero .”

“I KNOW THAT!”

“He’s just using social media as a bluff,” Luna says. “Look, Case, if you’re really the good guy Sarah says you are, I’ll help you. You can use my platform to get a message out. Fight back in the influencer space.”

The woman has a million followers who watch her tie-dyed French bulldog do goofy canine tricks. I doubt she can help me, but beggars can’t be choosers right now.

“Thanks. Let me unravel the legal side of this first and I’ll go from there.”

“Of course.”

Sarah sits on the floor, on a small gel mat that surrounds one of the haircutting chairs. Knees up, elbows on them, now she digs her fingers into her scalp and her shoulders begin to shake.

My own body feels like we’re standing on a fault line, where one big shift and there’s no going back.

“Loon, I need to go. My phone is blowing up and I need to call Marsha and find out what the hell happened,” Sarah says.

“No prob. Addy and I are here for you. Need us to come to Becket and help you?”

Her eyes cut to me. “No. I’ve got plenty of help here.”

Does she mean her mother? Me?

I nod, not knowing.

She hangs up the phone, sets it on the ground next to her, and lets out the longest growling sound I’ve ever heard from a human.

The sound shoots through my skin, carries into my spine, penetrating the bones and concentrating there, until it’s like an electric line going from neck to ass.

All I can do is sit next to her.

And take a breath.