Thursday, September 5, 2019
LONDON, ENGLAND
WINSLOW
Winslow stood at the back corner of the living room, which was currently a television set and construction site.
They were at the townhouse in Chelsea on Miguel’s renovation show, produced by the BBC.
He’d been there all morning watching Miguel film, loving every second of seeing him in his element.
After Travis’s death, the new CEO of Summit Media canceled the original show in Ontario, citing the expense and difficulty sourcing materials to the remote location.
They’d sent Miguel a notice that the show had been canceled, along with their apologies and a check for one-hundred-thousand dollars, as per the contract that Enid had secured him.
Winslow had officially stepped back from his work at the hedge fund to take care of his health.
The real reason had been hidden from the public by the board, who knew it was in their best interest to keep it quiet.
The fund had recovered from that awful day eighteen months ago and he had settled into the life of being a stay-at-home husband.
They’d become one of those obnoxious rescue-dog couples, telling everyone that their new standard poodle, Mr. Darcy (who hailed from the streets of Istanbul), had really rescued them.
Mr. Darcy was a proud, tall brown dog (who Miguel insisted wasn’t brown but rather cafe-au-lait).
He sat faithfully beside Winslow in a diamond-studded collar, quietly watching all the action.
He was a very good dog and had quickly taken over their home, with a designer dog bed in each room of the house, including their walk-in closet (because, after everything he’d been through, why should he have to lay on the wood floor when they were getting dressed?)
The director called for a ten-minute break, and Miguel made a beeline for him, a proud grin on his face. “Well? What do you think?”
“You’re amazing at your job and handsome as all hell.”
“No, about the paint color, silly.”
“Oh that, yes, it’s exactly the right color to make the kitchen feel welcoming and warm yet sophisticated.”
Miguel chuckled. “You’re just repeating what I said.”
“That’s because I agree with you,” Winslow answered.
“It’s because you couldn’t care less.”
“That too,” he said, lifting his hand to Miguel’s face to wipe a bit of powder off his forehead. “Much better.”
Miguel smiled at him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Same. So much better than being at the bottom of the sea with some weights strapped to me.”
Tears filled Miguel’s eyes. “Stop it. That’s not funny.”
“Still not funny?” Winslow said. “You’ll really never be British, will you?”
“Sorry, never. I shall forever remain a proud Cuban American, full of life and passion and love.”
Winslow let out a sigh. “I’ll just have to learn to accept that, won’t I?”
“I’m afraid so,” he answered.
The assistant director waved at Miguel. “Can you come take a look at these tiles for the backsplash?”
Nodding, Miguel said, “Duty calls!”
Winslow watched him, thinking that duty would not be calling for him again.
And as hard as it had been to give up his identity as a high-powered financial leader, there was much to enjoy in this phase of life.
He was alive, he was not going to prison, and he had found out that he didn’t have dementia after all.
It turned out, Mercy had good reason for her optimism.
Winslow had a condition called Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus, or NPH, for short—a buildup of fluid in the skull that caused the memory lapses and the incontinence.
He had surgery just before Christmas, and a shunt was now keeping the condition at bay.
Miguel had done what he knew he would—stayed by his side through the whole thing, mothering him and fussing over him and driving him generally insane, but also keeping him amused and cared for and hopeful.
Their marriage was stronger than ever—both of them vowing to choose honesty, even if the truth was hard to say and harder to hear.
He crouched down next to the dog. “What do you think, Mr. Darcy? I’d say Miguel is the very best man to ever have lived. Would you agree?”
Mr. Darcy licked him on the face. He didn’t let his head snap back or scrunch up his nose in disgust. Instead, he let out a laugh. “So, you think I’m the best man to ever live then? Well, as much as I appreciate the compliment, I’d say we’ll have to agree to disagree, sir.”
He glanced back at Miguel, who happened to look up from the tile samples he was studying.
They stared at each other for a moment, and it felt like that very first time again, through the shop window.
And Winslow was suddenly young and in love again.
And he knew in his heart that all his fears about Miguel moving on to some other life could be laid to rest. Because Miguel was in this for the long haul. And so was he.
CHARLOTTE
Charlotte stood in the living room of her new condo in downtown Seattle, adjusting her ring light.
She was one of the first TikTok creators to be able to monetize her videos and had been shocked to bring in a cool thirty-thousand the month before.
Her handle on the app was TheOtherWoman, and she’d started out by sharing her side of the affair as a way to take back the narrative from the tabloids.
Her account blew up quickly and she’d moved on from talking about Ted and the mistakes she made to sharing beauty advice.
Today she’d be unboxing a bronzer sent to her by Sephora, and later, she would make a ‘get ready with me’ video of herself preparing for a date with her new boyfriend, Reid, who was also a creator.
Reid made videos of himself chopping wood without his shirt on that had quickly found an audience.
The pair had met at a big influencer event two months earlier and had been nearly inseparable ever since.
There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about Ted and Antonia, and what she had lost and what she’d learned about herself from the entire sordid situation.
Charlotte had immediately lost all her friends at work, which had been a real blow.
She’d spent months feeling ashamed and guilty and conflicted about it all.
But somehow, when she turned the camera on to share her side of things and talk it all out, she had slowly discovered why she’d done what she did.
She was helping other women—those who were the other women, and those who were considering it—to think about what they wanted out of life and to decide what type of people they wanted to be.
A mistress and a liar? Or someone who knows her worth and lives with integrity.
The second version of herself could not only hold her head up high, she got paid well (and was gifted lots of free shit).
OLIVER
Oliver stood on the dock at the New Orleans Yacht Club, the Winds of Opportunity behind him. He watched as a group of excited people exited a mini-van and hurried toward him with their luggage in tow. He offered them a wave and radioed the rest of the crew to hurry down to greet their guests.
The yacht had a new owner (who he couldn’t discuss on account of the NDA he’d signed).
She was a newly-divorced woman who had gotten billions in a divorce settlement from her tech-bro husband.
She had decided to keep the yacht’s staff on, which was an incredible stroke of luck for Oliver.
Ms. S, as they called her, was kind and thoughtful and charitable.
So much so, in fact, that when she wasn’t using the yacht, she would gift time on it to the staff and recipients of charitable organizations she ran.
This meant the yacht had only a few weeks per year of downtime, instead of the other way around.
But the clientèle was refreshing—they were regular folks, amazed to be aboard, and thoroughly grateful for all the special little touches that the crew provided.
There were no spear guns, no rigged card games, and no excruciating fishing competitions.
They were never threatened with being fired or disrespected or mocked.
So although he worked harder, Oliver had gained a life that felt like it had meaning.
Being surrounded by do-gooders made him want to do good in the world too.
And in his own way, by providing them with the experience of a lifetime, he was doing something important too.
In his spare time, he’d often check out Charlotte’s TikTok posts, glad she was moving on with a life without Ted.
Oliver would have to go back to Croatia sometime the following year for Ted’s trial, as a witness for the prosecution.
Although he couldn’t speak to what had happened under the water that day, he could share what Charlotte had told him about the affair and could testify to Ted’s state of mind that morning, when he’d seen him leaving that message for his agent.
But for the next seven days, he was chief steward to the good folks who ran the food bank in the ninth ward of New Orleans. And he was going to make sure they had the time of their lives.
MERCY
“More wine?” Mercy asked Faith, who was sitting next to her on the wooden swing in her backyard.
“Umm, that would be a yes, please,” Faith answered as Mercy lifted the bottle of white wine out of the ice bucket beside the swing.
It was a hot autumn day, not unlike the one a year ago when their lives changed forever, and Mercy smiled at the sight of her children playing in the pool of their new home.
She had sold their property in Houston and moved the family to Austin for a fresh start.
Faith had moved in with them to help out, which had been a godsend.
There was plenty of room in the ranch house she’d purchased for them all, but it felt like a more normal house, instead of a large, cold McMansion with dead animals hanging on the walls.