Frank entered the conference room in a hurry. He didn’t acknowledge my presence or his son’s. That was my first clue that something was amiss.
“Father,” Branson said.
“Frank,” I said. I paced and took my seat at the table, ready to buy out Frank Manchester Enterprises and shove this little man out the door as quickly as possible.
It dawned on me. Branson was here to protect his father’s assets. He was the one who’d probably drawn up the contract for us to sign.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Frank took his seat at the mahogany table.
I remembered when he’d purchased this table. It was upward of fifty thousand dollars, and he hadn’t batted an eye.
Frank finally looked up at me. “Listen, Scarlet, there is no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to rip off the bandage.”
My skin began to tingle.
My heart began to pound out of my chest.
My hands began to sweat while my body grew cold.
A heavy, sinking feeling started in my stomach.
And I tried to show none of this on the outside. I tried to keep my cool.
“I’ve decided that it is in our best interest—the company’s best interest—that Branson take over ownership of Manchester Enterprises with you as president, answering to our governing board, of course. Your salary will be doubled, and we will give you sole ownership of the penthouse in Beacon Hill as part of this new role at Manchester.” Frank broke eye contact and looked out the window.
A bark of laughter escaped me before I could catch it. “You’re—you’re kidding, right?”
I didn’t dare look at Branson, for fear I’d crawl across the table and rip his face off.
But my thoughts became fuzzy, and my ability to think had left.
Fleeting memories began to play in my mind like a fast-spinning carousel: Frank and I cutting the red ribbon with the Greater Boston Chamber of Commerce eight years ago. Me presenting to him not two, but five leases I’d successfully negotiated that put him into the Forbes Top Fifty Wealthiest People in the United States.
I tucked my chin into my neck and stared down at my fingers that gripped the mahogany table.
“I remember when you purchased this table, Frank. Do you remember?” I didn’t meet his eyes, just continued to stare down at the whites of my cuticles. I tilted my head. “I do. I remember because I thought it was very expensive, very lavish, but you could afford it. I’d just graduated from college, but somehow, you saw something in me. You knew I’d make you a lot of money.” I nodded. “Do you remember that, Frank?
“I was the one who helped build this multimillion-dollar company, not Branson. I was the one whose late nights and holidays were spent with square footage, and contracts, and giving our clients the utmost attention. I was the one who spent day and night working, thinking I’d eventually be taking over this company.”
I started to laugh. “I trusted you, Frank. Every time I wanted to enter into a contract with you, just to protect my ass, you always shoved it aside. ‘Don’t you trust me, Scarlet?’ you would say.” I nodded at the remembrance of the handful of occasions those words had entangled together. “And that was my fault. I worked my ass off here to help build this company into what it is …” My voice trailed off as I stared out the window again.
“It was never about the money, Frank. Ever.” This time, I stared at him. “Look at me, Frank. The least you can do is look at the business partner you are royally fucking over.” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “It’s about trust. You trusted me enough to make you one of the wealthiest men in the United States, but you don’t trust me enough for it to change hands.”
Rarely did I feel the need to use such foul language. My grandmother always said there was more creative ways to express one’s feelings.
Branson tried to speak.
“Don’t,” I barked.
I looked back at Frank. “I will not work for this two-bit little man who nobody likes. Mark my words, Frank: this company will fold with him at the helm.”
I stood, shaking, cold and numb, and somehow, my legs carried me to the door of the conference room.
I looked back at the view and Frank. “I will have my office cleared out today. Consider this my official resignation from Manchester Enterprises.”
Branson was still grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, Branson, don’t worry; Karma will eat you alive. Does your dad know his company has been paying for your gambling addiction? If not, you’d better tell him. Oops. I guess I already did.” And I allowed the door to slam behind me.
Later that night, my grandmother called, and I hit Ignore. I wasn’t ready to face the only woman who truly loved me. Tell her I hadn’t sealed the deal. That for the first time since I’d graduated from college, I was jobless and soon to be homeless, a divorcée without a plan. Besides, with Granddad passing away, my issues should have been the last of her worries. I would have to vacate the Beacon Hill penthouse because it was only a dubious luxury of working for corporate America.
“We will give you sole ownership of the penthouse in Beacon Hill.” I thought about Frank’s words earlier today.
I will never sell my soul for my ego.
The trifecta.
The perfect storm.
Loss of a marriage.
Loss of career.
Loss of loved ones.
The fire whistle in Dillon Creek can be heard all the way from Waddington Road, I remember, and it brings me to the present moment.
The deep-colored bronze liquid sits neatly in its protective layer of glass. I trace my finger over its smooth curves.
It will only be momentary relief, I tell myself, and the pain of it all would return in the cruel morning light, when the sun rose and asked for its dignity back. Allow yourself this time to grieve when no one is watching. When the darkness allows for the tender parts, the fragile pieces to crack and twist and bend and fall out on display.
A woman of strength and dignity, now just a small frame of a weeping woman.
Pity is what people will give me. Pats on the back. All of the I’m sorrys strung together with relief that those do-gooders won’t have to sit with me for an extended period of time. Relief that they’ve paid their dues, paid their respects, and they can leave for their homes, go to their families, where grief and sadness don’t sit on their sofas, with their morning coffee and in their dreams.
My heart, through all this, has never stopped its beat, although, on occasion, I wish it had. It would be easier maybe. But it picks up its beat, making me fully aware of the rhythm of life.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
Pause.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
Pause.
My stomach becomes sour, and my eyes begin to burn. I feel like I can’t breathe.
The darkness of the house that brought me so many good childhood memories has become a place of desperate reprieve, a place of solace, where I can dwell without judgment. I put the glass to my lips and allow only the tiniest bit into my mouth. It burns, and I swallow it. The scotch ignites my insides as it makes its way down.
“What now?” I say out loud.
Divorce isn’t something I planned on either, but marriage also wasn’t on my list of things to do in my early twenties.
I loved Hank. He was the safe choice. The choice that didn’t quite set my soul on fire, but made me feel safe, and that says a lot in my book. He was a promising medical student, and I only set my sights on success. So, it was unexpected—the night we fell into the same bed and had sex. I thought it could be a one and done, but he was relentless in his pursuit of me, which eventually won over my heart.
I hang tight to the feeling, the memory of how Hank made me feel that night and the nights that followed.
I can’t put my finger on what went wrong. It was, I guess, all the little things. The missed kisses when I left for work in
the morning and he came home from an all-night hospital shift. The lack of words exchanged over time, which led to resentment. The desire for sex because the communication became almost nonexistent.
After seven years of marriage, he asked for a divorce. I would have stayed. Would have suffered through the years.
The only marriage that I’d seen work over the years was my grandparents. They were also completely in love. I had my sights stuck in the expectation that making it work was an act of love. Suffering through marriage was an act of love.
Hank and I never fought. Our dinners together, although few and far between, were soft exchanges of words. The conversations were surface level, two people desperately trying to find common ground, slowly fading into less. Less kisses, less conversations, less sex led to two successful people living two separate lives, sleeping in the same bed at night to prove to the world that they would make it work.
Partly, I know why Hank asked for a divorce. He did what I couldn’t. And maybe deep down, he knew love began with fire. Our love had begun with his adorableness. It was the same adorableness and commitment to me that I had fallen in love with—not the man.
I push Hank out of my thoughts. A small tinge of relief washes over me. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the solace I’ve found in the darkness or a combination of the two. But I’ve always been comfortable with being alone. It’s where I spent a lot of time as a child. An only child to a mother who’d rather work than be with her young daughter.
I remember those feelings of never fully being wanted. But what my mother lacked as a loving mother, my grandparents made up for. They gave me their time, their love, and never let me go alone—until my mother decided to move us clear across the United States. I was five years old, and I still remember the feeling of dread it gave me. As if I knew what would happen.
I allow the last of the alcohol into my mouth and gently set the glass on Grandma’s yellow tablecloth. I swallow, but this time, my eyes begin to burn, and tears slowly push their way down my cheeks. My chest begins to ache, and all I want is relief. Not to feel any of this. To gently place all of these feelings in the linen closet and shut the door behind them.
At my grandma’s funeral yesterday, I’d let a few tears, knowing it might not be acceptable, knowing that people might judge, but then I thought that there might be room for a little grief and that maybe everyone would understand. But tears don’t make any situation better. I would rather die than allow someone to see me as fragile, frail, unacceptable—a word my mother used liked to use all too often.
“Your feelings are unacceptable.” When I cried because I was terrified on the first day of kindergarten.
“Your grades are unacceptable.” For the only time I got a B instead of an A in the fourth grade.
“Your tone is unacceptable.” After I asked her who my biological father was and she wouldn’t give me an answer.
“Your emotion is unacceptable.” After I told her I’d rather her not leave for India at Christmas.
“Your decisions are unacceptable.” When I chose to go to Harvard instead of Yale. But I stuck by the decision.
My phone begins to vibrate in my purse. In my own heaviness, I stand and retrieve it. It’s a text from Frank.
Frank: Please, Scarlet, let’s talk about this. Call me.
I slip my phone back into my purse, walk back to the dining room table, pick up the small tumbler, turn, and throw it as hard as I can against the wall. The glass explodes into a million pieces, and I take in the scent of the expensive scotch—thick, smoky, peaty. My breathing is labored, my heart thumping against my chest. My skin grows hot.
A “momentary lapse in judgment” is what my mother used to call the haughty decisions she made, such as one like this one. She’d reach a limit. Either I was asking too many questions as a curious young child or she just didn’t have patience that day.
I’m stunned by my own actions. The soft glint of thick glass, the remnants of the scotch, slowly make their way down the wall, blazing their own trails, their own destinations. Shards of glass sit at my toes.
If I step on glass, will it help ease the pain in my heart? Will it be like walking on eggshells, the way I lived most of my childhood? The metaphor was much prettier when the edges of my upbringing weren’t so sharp, so uneven, so exhausting.
From a young age, I learned to do as adults asked without question.
“Scarlet, don’t fidget.”
“Scarlet, don’t speak when you’re not spoken to.”
“Scarlet, don’t ask for water or food or to use the bathroom.”
“Scarlet, don’t breathe.”
“Scarlet, don’t cry.”
“Scarlet, act like a lady.”
Scarlet, don’t throw fifty-year-old scotch against the wall. You should know better.
I did a fantastic job of keeping the peace with my mother, so she wouldn’t explode. Also, I did a really good job of hiding this from my grandparents. I used to hide behind her excuses, tell myself that it was in my best interest. Excuses like: If you just acted appropriately, I wouldn’t explode. If you just left me alone, I wouldn’t need a drink.
I made it my goal in life to never let anyone reach the inside of my heart like my mother had, so nothing would ever hurt me again. I became good at it. I became a master of disguise. And I could sell you anything. Tell you what you wanted to hear. It is because of my mother that I became wealthy, not on old money, but solely on my ability to smile through heartbreak; to show up for life, no matter what; and to be whomever others wanted me to be.
But somewhere down the line, I messed up. I veered from the plan.
Because here I am, a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée, throwing glasses of expensive scotch against the wall.
Regain control because, frankly, right now, you’re breaking.
5
Cash
Present Day 2020
The Finals
The bull stares Casey down.
Get up, Casey. Come on, man.
I don’t trust these bullfighters. That isn’t their brother lying there. I can’t—we can’t—lose another brother.
I jump off the fence and sprint toward Casey as fast as I can.
But I get there too late.
I see Casey’s body fly into the air and land on the arena floor with a thud. I’m right there in front of him, ready to take the bull on.
“Come on!” I urge him on, and when I do, the beast charges me, and everything goes black …
It’s in the ambulance when my eyes open. Two EMTs are yelling at me and each other, and everything is just chaos.
“Come on, Cash. Stay with us, buddy!”
I want to ask why there’s blood everywhere, but I can’t move my mouth or will the words out of my throat, so instead, I lie here and stare at the roof of the ambulance.
Nothing hurts. I feel numb, but with this much blood, something definitely isn’t right. I think about my brother Conroy and what his last moments were like, lying in the field of mustard flowers. He died on impact, the police report said, but that wasn’t the truth. I know because when I arrived on the scene, he was still alive.
But I’m tired, so tired, and my eyes begin to close.
One of the EMTs smacks me in the face. “Stay awake, buddy. Come on. Stay awake.”
I feel a tickle down my forehead, making its way down the side of my face. What is that?
The blond EMT applies pressure to the tickle. I want to scream because it hurts so bad when he does this, but I can’t, so I just grimace instead.
“Who …” I start, my voice gravelly, broken. It doesn’t sound like me. I want to say who gave you a job doing this, but I can’t finish the sentence.
My eyes start to close again, and I hear them say, “… brain contusion.”
The same EMT smacks me in the face again, and my eyes sputter open this time, barely making out the two men above me, working on me.
“Come on, Cash! No closing those eyes, okay?”
> I’ve had concussions before. Several. And nobody smacked me in the face for it.
I see one EMT give the other EMT a look. A not-good look.
As one applies pressure to my head, which hurts like a son of a bitch, I begin to wonder if this is it.
Am I dying?
I lived after a bull trampled me.
I lived when I got hooked by a horn.
I lived when I cracked six ribs and got a hit to the face, fighting bulls.
I lived with a broken back, a broken arm, and an internal bleed.
But I’ve never felt like this before.
I want to turn my head because the look from the EMTs doesn’t sit well with me. As if they’re watching me die and there’s nothing they can do.
A black sheep to my family.
A Houdini to my loved ones.
A life fueled by alcohol and adrenaline.
And a love life perpetuated by women who just wanted my name to add to their list.
I was put on leave from Bullfighters One—hell, asked to leave really.
I’ve been a shitty son, a shitty brother, a shitty lover.
The truth is, maybe death might be easier than facing facts.
I’ve fulfilled my role as the black sheep because it’s easier.
And then there was Scarlet, my first love, my only love, who left Dillon Creek for good when she was seventeen.
I couldn’t blame her. I’d done things to protect my heart, my ego, made bad choices that broke her heart in the end.
Sometimes, it’s easier to run than face the truth.
My eyes close one last time, and the EMT doesn’t smack me in the face.
My mother hovers over me when my eyes slowly open.
“Well, that was a real trip,” she says, delicately touching my cheek, her face distorted as she stares back at mine.
“Is it that bad?” My voice is hoarse, like a metal bar was shoved down my throat.
Every bone and every muscle in my body hurts.
“Good news: you don’t have a spleen anymore—you don’t need it anyway—and they didn’t have to operate on your brain. Dr. Sullivan is going to keep a close eye on it after another CT scan.”
Leaving Scarlet Page 3