“Where’s Morgan?” he asks without looking at me.
I tell him she’s with my mom and follow him into the bathroom. He bends over the sink and begins to wash his face.
What the hell? “Vaughn!”
He ignores me.
“Where the hell have you been? Why wouldn’t you answer my calls? I was scared out of my mind. How could you just disappear like that?”
He turns to me and stares as though he’s never seen me before.
“Vaughn! I’m talking to you.”
He dries his face with a towel then speaks to my reflection in the mirror. “Morgan’s blood type is ‘A’. Did you know that?”
“What?”
“Did you know that?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m sure you did, but what you probably didn’t know was that I’m O-positive. Just like you.”
“What? What’s this have to do with anything?”
“I’m no doctor, but I do know that two O-positive parents can’t have a child with any other blood type except O-positive. Which means one of two things…”
Oh God.
“… either you’re not her mother…”
Please, God. No.
“…or I’m not her father.”
“Vaughn—”
“And I was there. In the room when you delivered her, so we both know that she’s yours…”
“Vaughn stop—”
“No, you stop!” He slams down his fist. “Stop with all the lies.”
I scramble for something, anything that will sound plausible, but nothing is coming to me.
“Who’s her father, Blair? Who is he?”
“What are you talking about? You’re her father.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. You’re talking crazy. I don’t know where you’re getting all of this from, but—”
“I’m going to give you one more chance, Blair. One more chance to tell me the truth. ‘Cause I swear, if you don’t…”
My voice is small, child-like. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His eyes are dark cold pits. I always told myself that if this moment came, I would just deny it and keep denying it until I couldn’t anymore. The moment is here. Vaughn knows. I don’t know how, but he’s without question that Morgan is not his daughter.
“Blair?”
My confession comes in the form of tears.
“I … we … we weren't happy.” I cry. “We weren't talking or sleeping together anymore. Things were so bad … I tried to talk to you, but … but you…”
“Who is he?”
“Vaughn, please…”
“Who?”
The words are trapped in my throat. I can’t speak. He grips my shoulders, forcing me to face him.
“Who, Blair? Tell me!”
“Things were so bad between us … I was miserable…” I shrink under his glare. “He … he made me feel like I mattered and…”
“And?”
“…and one thing led to another, but then you took me to Turks n’ Caicos, and we renewed our vows and … and I ended it.”
“And?”
“But … but by then I was already pregnant and I just couldn't have an abortion. After all of those miscarriages it could’ve been the last chance…”
He releases me with so much force I stumble backwards. “So you lied and made me believe she was mine.” He looks at me with disgust.
Pitifully, I nod. By this point I’ve sunken onto the floor and am on my knees, my face drenched with tears.
“I'm so sorry, Baby. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought she would give us a chance to start over. To be a family. Like we always wanted.”
He sits on the edge of the tub and buries his face in his hands. For the longest time he says nothing. I remain on my knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I had a feeling,” he finally says, his head hung low. “Had a feeling there was someone else. I felt it. You were different. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew something was different. I knew it, I just didn't want to believe it. Not my Blair, not you…”
I look up to see tears welling in the corners of his eyes; he’s fighting them, but is losing the battle. This is the first time, in the fourteen years I've known him, that I've seen him cry. He didn’t shed a tear the day a shoulder injury ended his career, nor did he cry five years ago when a car accident took the life of his best friend, Nate. But today his face is hot with tears, and I'm not sure if it's the admission of my affair or the revelation that Morgan is not his. Or both. Whichever the reason, it’s my doing. I have broken this man's heart. I could just die.
I crawl towards him, barely feeling the cold, hard tiles beneath my knees. To my surprise, he doesn’t pull away when I touch him. Instead he allows me to wrap my arms around his neck and eventually he wraps his around me. I sob and keep telling him how sorry I am. He says not a word, but I feel his tears drip onto my shoulder and I cry even harder.
“I'm so sorry, Baby,” I say. “If I could go back in time I never would have done this, any of this. I’m so sorry.”
He pulls away, wipes his eyes and looks down. For a fraction of a moment I believe that the worst is over, but then he asks again, “Who is he, Blair? Who is her father?”
There’s no more reason to lie. “Someone I met at work.”
“His name,” he demands.
In a tiny voice I admit it’s Dylan.
He scans his memory, and I see the exact moment when there’s a match. He remembers. That day at the Marriott—the day they met—it’s all coming back to him now. It was on that day that Dylan first learned I was pregnant. The same day Vaughn unknowingly introduced me to the man who fathered the child I was carrying. The man who wished us congratulations on our baby, the man he shook hands with, exchanged business cards with and sat beside on the dais.
“Dylan? Dylan Stewart? That professor from Drexel?”
I nod.
He clamps down on his lower lip until it turns white. “Him? The one from the Marriott?”
Again, I nod.
“The same guy I was sitting next to? The one I introduced you to?”
“Yes.”
“Are you fucking serious, Blair? Him?”
“I had no idea he would be there that night. By then, I had already broken it off.”
“And he knew you were married? He knew about me? Who I was?”
I don’t know how to answer this. What will make him less furious? If I tell him the truth—that Dylan knew from day one, he’ll want to hurt him, to punish him, especially because they’d met, which was strictly a coincidence. But Vaughn won’t believe that, he’ll think he was set up to look like a fool; his ego won’t allow it. Dylan will have to pay. And part of me wants him to, for the way he’s been blackmailing me, but part of me knows he’s also a victim and is only acting out of hurt. I don’t want this to go past this room and I don’t want to see anyone else hurt from what I’ve done. However, if I lie and say Dylan knew nothing, I’ll look worse than I already do.
“He knew.”
Vaughn stands. “So he knew you were married to me and pursued you anyway?”
“Yes,” I whisper as I stand up.
“Did he know I was going to be there that night?”
“I don’t know. We weren’t speaking anymore, I’d already broken it off by then.”
“Did you two speak that night?”
“No, only when…”
“…when I introduced you,” he concludes.
I nod.
“So I stood there like a dick introducing you to the man you were fucking behind my back?”
“It’s not like that—”
“Yes it is, Blair! It’s exactly like that! I stood there like a fucking idiot making small talk with my wife and the man who got her pregnant. Exchanging fucking cards with this dude. What the fuck, Blair!” He grips my shoulders and slams me against the shower door. His fist is clenched. I turn my head,
squeeze my eyes shut and block my face. He rams his fist into the wall, inches from my head.
“Fuck!” He flicks his wrist in pain.
“Oh God, you’re bleeding!” I grab a towel and try to wrap it around his hand.
He snatches it. “Don’t touch me!”
“Baby, please. I’m so sorry—”
“You’re fucking sorry alright.”
“Vaughn, please. Just … just try and understand. I never did any of this to hurt you. It just got out of hand and I didn’t know how to stop it and—”
“Out of hand? Are you serious? Out of hand? You let him get you pregnant, Blair. You let another man inside you! You—”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Meanwhile, you wouldn’t let me even touch you, you’d flinch whenever I came near you, sleeping on the far end of the bed or in the other room—anything to be away from me. And all those weekends you said you were at your mom’s house or away with Elle, you were with him, weren’t you? Laid up in his bed.” He thumps his forehead with the heel of his palm. “I don’t know how I didn’t see this shit going on, right under my damn nose.”
“It was a mistake. I didn’t think we were going to make it.”
He suspends his hand beneath the faucet. Heavy drops of blood mix with the stream of water, turning the sink a cloudy shade of pink.
“So you were pregnant when we were in Turks n’ Caicos, weren’t you? That’s why you were sick the whole time. And that’s why you refused to drink.”
I nod.
“Has he been here? In my house? You ever have sex with him in here?”
“Never.”
“Only at his house? Or a hotel? Is that where you guys went? To hotels?”
“Vaughn, please don’t—”
“Where?”
“Baby, please, the details don’t matter.”
“It matters. I want to know where our daughter, I mean his daughter … where Morgan was conceived. On a filthy mattress in a motel somewhere? Or did the professor pony up the cash to go somewhere nice so he could fuck my wife?”
“Stop it,” I cry.
“So you didn’t use protection, huh? Wasn’t worried about any diseases or anything? Never thought about getting pregnant, did you?”
I stare at him, pleading with my eyes for him to stop. “Vaughn, please.”
“Please what? Please what, Blair? What do you want from me? You want me to just swallow this? To just blow it off, act like it’s nothing? She’s not my child! For two years you’ve been lying to me. Lying to everybody.” He wraps his hand in a towel. “You’re just like those women you always talk about. The groupies. The opportunists. You’re no better than any of them. I can’t stand to even look at you.”
He knows just what to say to hurt me the most. “It’s not like that,” I say, although I have no evidence to the contrary. “I know … I know how wrong I was. You have every right to hate me, but think about our daughter. She needs you, she needs us. You can’t turn your back on us. Please—”
“There is no us. Not anymore.” He starts out the door.
I lunge for his arm. “Vaughn, no. Please. Don’t go.”
He yanks it away. “Don’t touch me.”
The door slams behind him. A moment later I hear the garage door open then the sound of his car peeling off in the driveway.
I want to cry, but my eyes are dried out. There’s nothing left. Only raw, dull pain. I climb into bed and pray for sleep. I pray that I’ll wake to learn this was all some horrible nightmare. I reach into the nightstand drawer, tap two Ambien into my palm and toss them down my dry throat.
When I wake, Vaughn is standing over me. He’s fully dressed in a suit and there’s a cup of coffee in his grip.
For a moment I wonder if last night was, in fact, just a nightmare, but quickly he reminds me it wasn’t.
“So he knows? Does he know about Morgan?”
I sit up and rub my eyes. “Babe?”
“Don’t call me that. Does he know?” Vaughn’s expression is steely. His jaw is tensed, and his eyes are bloodshot.
I tell him about Dylan’s threats and how he forced me to let him see Morgan. I lie about the frequency. I know it shouldn't matter at this point, but I can’t bring myself to say anything that will hurt him more than he already is. There’s no alarm on his face. It’s as if he’s simply collecting facts about a situation wholly removed from him. The hurt I saw last night is gone. Anger stands in its place.
“Who else knows about this?”
Again, I lie. “No one.”
“Not even Elle?”
“No.”
“You let Dylan know that he's not to contact you anymore. There will be no more visits with Morgan. If he gives you a problem, tell me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll handle it.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”
He stops and turns in the doorway, then shoots me a severe look. “Make that call, Blair.”
I’m only able to breathe after he leaves. A small part of me is relieved. Relieved that it’s out in the open, that the lying and sneaking is over. That Dylan no longer has me backed into a corner. An even smaller part of me is going to enjoy telling Dylan to go to hell and never contact me again. He’s not going down without a fight; he’ll protest and threaten me, probably curse me out, but nothing he’ll say can compare to what I went through last night.
Some of it is still a blur. I have no idea what to make of us. I’ve never seen Vaughn this angry. Even at our worst times, he’s always managed to maintain his cool, but last night he was a different man. I always knew that if and when he found out it would be ugly, but there was no preparing for the reality of it.
I’m not even sure what it is I’m feeling. It’s undoubtedly guilt and regret and of course, fear. But there’s some anger commingled in there too, because as wrong as I am, I only ended up with Dylan because of Vaughn. Because of all of the things he’d done to me. I was so tired of taking his shit that I allowed myself to get caught up with another man. Only the fool I am, I ended up pregnant. But he pushed me to it in a way, didn’t he? No. No, Vaughn’s not to blame. I am. I could have left him years ago, but I chose to stay. I chose to stay and instead of standing my ground, I took the coward’s way out and went tit-for-tat, only I couldn’t play Vaughn’s game. Yes, he’s had many women on my watch, but they were incidental play things that came and went. I, on the other hand, built a whole other relationship. He has every right to hate me.
I cradle the phone in my sweaty palm for at least ten minutes, trying to figure out what to say to Dylan. I look at the clock. Vaughn could walk in the door any minute now. I’ve got to make this call.
Dylan answers on the third ring. “Hey, I was about to call you. I just got in last night.”
“It's over, Dylan. Vaughn knows. He knows everything and you can't see her anymore.”
“What? Wait. He knows? You told him?”
“Yes.”
He's quiet for a moment and then says, “Well, that's a good thing. It's all out in the open now. Yeah, this is actually a very good thing. No more sneaking around—”
“No, Dylan, you don't understand, it's over. He knows and he, I mean we, can't have you seeing her anymore. It's over.”
“Over? What's that supposed to mean? I'm her father. You can't tell me I can't see her. I have rights.”
“You knew this couldn't go on forever, you knew that. You knew there would be an end in sight and it's here now. He knows.”
“He knows, he knows. Stop repeating that as if it's supposed to mean something to me. I don't give a damn if he knows. I was only sneaking around to protect you and now I don't even know why.”
“Dylan, listen—”
“No, you listen. Not you or your husband is going to keep my child from me. I'll get an attorney if I have to, but you’re crazy if you think I'm just going to walk away.”
He's right and I knew this would be his reaction, but I have no
choice but to do as Vaughn said. If I'm ever going to have a chance at saving my marriage, I have to stay the course.
“I'm sorry you feel that way,” is all I can think to say.
I don't have any more fight in me. Exactly what I’d lied and manipulated and schemed to prevent has come to pass, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to fix it.
“Sorry? If you don’t do the right thing here, Blair, you’ll be sorry.”
“I have to go,” I say and hang up.
By the time Vaughn returns, I make sure and have Morgan back at home. He needs to remember that we’re a package deal. Hopefully his affection for her will erode some of his contempt for me. It seems to work a little. His eyes light up when he enters the family room and sees her sitting on my lap. He hugs her close, his eyes sealed shut, and I wonder if he's imagining his life without her, without us. It's both painful and reassuring to watch because I’m trusting that his love for her will supersede all else. For a moment I feel secure. Maybe he won't leave. Maybe we actually can work through this.
The first thing he asks is if I've spoken to Dylan, and I tell him I have. As Morgan sits on his lap playing with the buttons on his shirt, I tell him about our conversation. It's not an editorial, I simply repeat the discussion, word for word. When I'm done, he stares at me with skepticism and demands Dylan’s phone number, which I give him. He doesn’t write it down, simply commits it to memory. Then he kisses Morgan on top of her head, tells me to wake him in time for dinner and heads upstairs.
Should I follow him? I want to, but what else can I say other than I’m sorry and I'll do anything to save our marriage. Whatever he wants. Just please don't leave me. I call for Maritza to watch the baby and I head upstairs to plead my case. The door to the guest bedroom, which I presume he slept in last night, is locked. I tap lightly, there’s no reply.
“Vaughn,” I call. “Baby, please open the door. We have to talk.”
I hear the faint sound of the shower running so I slide down to the floor and sit waiting, my knees drawn into my chest.
Twenty minutes later, the shower stops and I knock again, only louder.
Vaughn opens the door a crack. He's still wet and a beige towel is wrapped around his waist. “What?”
A Delicate Truth Page 11