Chapter 25
Bex
There’s a significant increase in “incidents” on flights where people in coach have to walk through the first-class cabin to get to their seats.
I’ve never totally understood this phenomenon until the moment I see Caden, the little punk, sitting there in his private pod with his fucking feet propped up.
I sort of want to start an incident of my own, because I’m irritated by the amount of privilege that accompanies being Scott King’s worthless son.
“It’s a roomy seat,” he says. “You can join me if you don’t mind snuggling.”
“I’m good,” I reply as I walk past.
I reach my seat. Theo’s not here to help with my bag and no one else offers.
The boorish man in the seat beside mine has already stolen the armrest and kicked off his shoes—leaving them in my space.
I use my foot to knock them back where they belong, don my headphones, and immediately begin wishing I were back in Capri.
I already miss LJ’s jokes, friendly Giovanna there to teach me how to humiliate Theo in Italian while she blows out my hair, Katrina with her crush on Lars, and Paula with her good-natured eye-rolling.
But of course what I miss far more than any of those things is, weirdly, my husband.
I miss meeting him in hotel lobbies—him, unaware he’s drawing every female’s gaze, always scowling as he stares at his phone—and I miss the way that his eyes would lighten a little when he finally looked up.
I miss how his hand would touch the small of my back to guide me through the streets and how he would always refill my water and my wine before he refilled his own.
The way he wouldn’t let anyone else put sunscreen on my shoulders or climb Monte Solaro with me.
What I miss is the experience of having someone take care of me, even if it’s fake, and seem to embrace all the parts of myself I’ve kept hidden.
No, not someone. Theo. Lovely, stern, kind, funny Theo.
And I sort of suspect he’s on his plane, somewhere close, missing me too.
· · ·
When we land ten hours later, I still haven’t slept, and Caden is right by my side again when I get to baggage claim, which does not improve my mood.
“So how long is Theo staying in London?” he asks as the bags start to drop.
I shuffle a few inches away, my gaze on the bags as I answer. “He’ll be in the New Jersey office in a week.”
“That’s a long time apart,” he snickers. “Won’t he miss his wife?”
“He’s got to get caught up on work,” I say, my eyes narrowing as I finally look his way. “And I believe that’s not something we should be discussing in public. NDA and all.”
He shrugs. “No one knows who you are yet.”
He lunges forward to grab a big Louis Vuitton suitcase—because of course this asshole has a suitcase worth as much as my first car—and pulls it over to where I stand.
“I’m out of here,” he says. “But if you get lonely in New Jersey, I can help you out, if you know what I mean.”
I freeze. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Actually, I’m pretty sure I do.
His gaze runs down my side. “I just want to make sure you’re being taken care of in a way that won’t cause trouble down the road. You still have needs, and I’m willing to assist.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “Oh my god. Are you hitting on me and trying to present it as a pity fuck?”
There’s a flicker of irritation in his gaze before he hides it behind a mild, genial smile. “Hey, I prefer models, but you’re no slouch. I’m just saying that I understand the situation and I’m around.”
This motherfucker.
The last time he pulled this shit, I assumed no one would take my side over his. Now, I know at least one person would.
I smile. “Caden,” I say quietly, “it will take the death of a lot more family members before I’m broken enough to think I can’t get better dick than yours.”
He stares at me—blank for a moment, as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying, and then angrily, as if he can’t believe I’ve said it.
“God, were you always such a fucking bitch?” he asks. “Maybe your family died just to get away from you.”
My hands go to my stomach as if I just took a hit, and it feels as if I have. Because all along, no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I’ve been asking myself the same question.
· · ·
I sleep late the next day and then go to the graveyard where Bronwyn and my dad and Jessie are buried.
My mother is buried inside the city limits of Maplewood, where we used to live—it would have been easy enough to have them all at the same place, but I was too shell-shocked at the time of their deaths to realize Jessie had set it up like that on purpose in her last wishes.
So that she could, at last, have my dad all to herself.
I bring calla lilies for Bronwyn and hydrangeas for Jessie. My dad gets carnations because they’re cheap and he always thought flowers were a waste of money. It’s an inside joke. If he’s watching, he’ll get it. If Jessie’s by his side, she’ll be saying, “I don’t find that amusing.”
There I go again, maligning Jessie. At her grave, no less.
I wish my grief was less complex or simply made some kind of sense to me. I wish my grief would fade. And when I was in Italy, it did. It was still there, but it felt manageable.
Now it’s back in full force.
It’s miserably hot out so I dump Jessie’s flowers at her grave and move on. It’s not like she wanted me around in life and I’m sure that hasn’t changed now.
I press my hand to my dad’s headstone, remembering these gross frozen breakfasts he loved. None of us wanted them but he was forever insisting that one of us must have eaten one, so Bronwyn and I made a point of claiming to crave microwave eggs and bacon just to mess with him.
“I’m not letting anyone eat your frozen breakfasts, Dad.” I start to laugh but it comes out sad, the start of a sob, and I shut it down, digging my nails into my palms until the urge recedes.
He’d think this fake marriage was a terrible idea. He’d think I deserved better than Theo and, I’m sure, that Theo deserved better than me. I always believed he was so much wiser than me, and in some ways he was. But he wasn’t all-knowing.
He was wrong about those breakfasts, and I think he’d be wrong about this fake marriage too. Because right now, it’s sort of what’s holding me together.
I end with Bronwyn, the hardest. I want to tell her everything but I can’t do it—that would mean admitting I took what she wanted. “I’m sorry, Bronwyn,” I whisper. “I never thought I’d care about him. But nothing will happen.”
There’s no response, of course, but I feel all three of them united in their disappointment in me, and why shouldn’t they be?
I’m fake-married. I may be about to ruin the company.
And I’m kissing and holding the hand of a man Bronwyn crushed on obsessively for a year at least, a man I suspect I want for myself.
How is it that they’re all dead, I’m doing my absolute best, yet I’m still the family fuckup?
…
Theo: I’m flying into Newark Weds night. Is that okay?
Me: Let me check with Brian.
Theo: REBECCA.
Me: It was a JOKE.
I forward him an article entitled “Ten Ways to Prevent an Erection,” and a moment later the phone rings. I love that he’s calling me, even if I shouldn’t love it. Even if he’s calling me with his complication asleep on one side of him and a supermodel asleep on the other.
“Let me guess,” he says, “it’s two p.m. there and you’re on the couch, eating donut holes.”
“You know you don’t actually have to guess the time. We’re always five hours earlier than London in the summer.”
“And the couch?” he asks. “The donut holes?”
“You’re batting fifty percent, if that’s how batting percentages work, though you wouldn’t know either, being British.” I stretch out, as if making myself comfortable for a long chat. “I am on the couch, but I ate all the donut holes yesterday. I’d better order more before dinner.”
“Here’s a thought,” he says, and I already know that I will hate the words that come next. “Maybe you should go for a run.”
Yep, I knew I would hate them. “For your information, I went for a run already. I go early, so I don’t have to talk to the neighbors.”
“When I come there, we’re doing ten miles,” he says. “You’ve got to get your mileage up.”
“Brian just said this week isn’t good,” I reply. “We’ll get back to you with a date.”
The next day he sends me an article entitled “What to Do with That Kid Who Won’t Get Off Your Couch” and, though I’m probably pushing the boundaries of our friendship, I call him. “Thank you for the article, but I can’t waste money on therapy, and the other solutions it offered sound dull.”
He laughs. “You realize you’ve called me at eleven p.m., yes?”
“Oh, sorry. Is the complication currently sucking your dick? If you’re close, I can just hold.”
“You must give an incredibly bad blow job if you think a man would answer the phone during one.”
He may have a point.
“Hmmm, I don’t think they’re bad. Let me ask.” I hold my hand over the phone and shout to the far corners of the house. “Hey, Brian? How are my blow jobs?”
“Now,” says Theo, “we’re running twelve miles when I get there.”
I’m laughing as I hang up the phone. I’m also wishing I didn’t have to hang up, that we could just…shoot the shit. That he could continue being rude and uptight and say British stuff until I finally drifted off to sleep, which would probably happen fast, as he’s not that interesting.
A full day passes without any contact and the minutes feel infinite.
I wake early Wednesday, my heart doing this weird tripping thing when I picture his arrival.
I run, shower, then spend a full hour deciding what to wear before choosing to wear as little as possible.
His flight is delayed getting into Newark—the waiting is unbearable—and it’s late when the cab pulls up in front of the house.
I stand at the door, hungry for his reaction… which doesn’t disappoint.