Before I can answer, Vaughn appears in the doorway.
“For me?” He shakes Kenny’s hand. “Thanks!”
I cringe as he hugs my mother. I want to tell him not to touch her. But if he asked why, I’d have to say, “Because I told her I was cheating on you and she told me to stay with you and then she told my sister my secret, the same sister who tipped you off to my lying about our daughter.” I silently stand by.
“Thanks for the invite, Vaughn,” Kenny says. “It’s always a good time, here at the Hill compound.”
Ugh. How I hate that used-car-salesman laugh of his.
So that’s how she found out, because I made sure she was excluded from the guest list. But you’d think she’d so much as send me a text message to tell me she was coming, rather than show up in my kitchen wearing that stupid grin.
I manage to avoid her until an hour later when I see the three of them huddled in conversation. My mom hushes Kenny as I approach, but I manage to catch the tail-end of his words.
“...it’s a really good opportunity,” he says as he passes Vaughn a glossy black folder.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” My mom turns to me. “So, your hair looks good. You went to Tommy?”
Her Jedi mind tricks won’t work. “What is that?” I repeat.
“A prospectus. Kenny’s opening a dealership,” Vaughn reveals, then tells him he’ll have our accountant look at it next week.
Kenny beams. My mother smiles uncomfortably.
“So, you’re looking for investors?” I ask.
Kenny nods.
I reach for Vaughn’s hand. “Babe, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Once I have him alone, I go in.
“I know you aren’t really considering this? Kenny is shady.”
“I’m just going to take a look at it.” Whenever Vaughn’s been drinking tequila, he’s especially agreeable. My mother knows this. Hence, the gift of Patrón.
“Don’t bother. I’m almost positive it’s some harebrained scheme. You know he’s already filed bankruptcy twice.”
“Everybody makes mistakes.”
Mistakes? There’s no logical discussion to be had when he’s tipsy. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? Just promise me you won’t make a decision before we discuss it.”
“Now I’m consulting you before I make financial decisions?”
“No, I just don’t get a good feeling from him.”
“You think I need you to double-check my homework? I’m no fool, Blair.” He strides off.
After dinner we all lounge in the great room, the women drinking wine, Vaughn and his friends taking shots of tequila. Iris, one of his cousins, is telling a story, but it’s Vaughn’s side conversation which piques my interest. I overhear mention of a vintage watch. Then Ray, one of his old teammates, asks Vaughn where he got his.
“Which one?” Vaughn asks.
“That rose gold piece you were wearing at the Belvedere after-party. You remember, the one at the Gansevoort rooftop. Where did you get it?”
Vaughn shoots a discreet glance my way, but by the time his eyes reach my plane of vision, mine are back on Iris.
He was there. He was at that lounge. He lied to me.
I entertain more small talk until my curiosity gets the absolute best of me. I excuse myself and disappear into my office, where I plant myself behind the desk and google “Belvedere after-party.” After a quick search and some clicking, I find a gallery of over one-hundred-and-eighty pictures. Feverishly, I click through them all. I see tons of celebrity photo ops before I stumble upon the one I’m seeking. There he is—my husband—posing for shot after shot. He was there. As a matter of fact, I recognize that outfit. I remember the night he came home, he told me he had a “work dinner thing.”
The screen blurs. The back of my neck grows hot. I can’t go back there. Back to that ugly place where the line between truth and lies blurred. I can’t do this again.
“Blair?” I look up. I didn’t even hear Elle enter. “What are you doing in here?”
“Umm, nothing. Just needed to check my email real quick.”
“At this hour?” She closes the door behind her. “What’s really going on?”
I hate lying to her, but I just can’t tell her the truth. It would only confirm what she already thinks about Vaughn, and I desperately don’t want her to be right. And if she is, I’m not sure I even want to know.
I lean back in my chair. “Nothing, just needed to step away for a second. Iris is a bit much for me sometimes.”
“Ya think? She’s out there telling some story about opening her own day spa next summer. We all know that girl doesn’t have an ounce of business sense. She can barely speak proper English.”
I laugh. “Isn’t she a mess? Family or not, I don’t know why he keeps inviting her over here and I’m sure she’ll be hitting us up soon for a “capital investment,” I say, making air quotes with my fingers.
Elle sits across from me. “Yeah, but seriously though, what were you doing in here?”
I consider telling her what I’ve just learned, but I’m afraid that when it comes out of my mouth it will sound insignificant; an incredibly weak piece of evidence to build a case upon. I’m even more afraid that it won’t. Afraid that my gut is right, that it will mean exactly what Vaughn’s random lying used to mean. That he’s cheating—again. I’m fearful that Elle will be brutally honest with me—and tell me that although he’s likely cheating, I have no leg to stand on anymore. But then again, would she say that? She, like me on certain days, believes that the only difference between my one indiscretion and Vaughn’s many indiscretions is that a child came from it. And that one crime doesn’t erase any of what he’s done. The playing field is not level; it’s a lumpy, uneven mess. What I do know is that all arrows point in one direction. He’s back to his old ways. It’s a reality I’ve considered, but never allowed to take flight. Now, it’s staring me in the face.
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Elle, I really don’t want to get upset right now and if I say it out loud, I’ll probably start crying and I spent too much money on these mink eyelashes to ruin them. Tomorrow, we’ll talk, okay?”
“Blair, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, tomorrow. But let me ask you one thing?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you say mink? For real?” She leans in to investigate. “Gorgeous!”
“I’ll hook you up with my girl before you leave. Now let’s go have some more drinks. Hopefully Iris has passed out by now,” I say, making my very best effort to set this all aside for the night. I link arms with my best friend and rejoin the party.
Kenny is in his glory, as he always is when he’s over here. It’s kind of sad to watch. A man in his sixties drooling over men half his age like a high school freshman trying to be down with the jocks. He made a good match in my mother. They’re both ambitious opportunists. She’s keeping her distance from me, although every so often our eyes will meet before she’ll quickly turn away.
Several glasses of white wine serve to calm my angst up until James asks me about Norah. When he asks if she’s coming, I tell him no.
“Damn, I was hoping to see her tonight. Do me a favor and give her my number. We didn’t get a chance to finish talking the last time.”
“What about Lydia?”
“What about her?”
I watch his girlfriend standing a mere ten feet away. “Are you two having issues?”
“No. What makes you ask that?”
“Because you’re asking me for my sister’s phone number.”
He winks. “Norah knows what’s up.”
“And what exactly is up?”
“C’mon, B. You know the drill. Just shoot her my number. Or you can give me hers. Either-or.” He walks away before I can respond.
More wine. I consu
me glass after glass. With each sip I’m gaining clarity. Most of our guests have left, and by now the remaining few are all gathered around the dining room table playing cards. I survey the faces, my eyes resting for a moment on each person. At the far end is James. His arm is draped over Lydia, and her head is on his shoulder. I faintly hear him mention that they’re moving in with each other next month. My mother sits beside Kenny. He’s giving financial advice to Iris. My mother is staring at him lovingly, nodding and seconding his every word. I can’t stand to look at her. She’s so transparent. This party was her opportunity to get Kenny his investment funds. No wonder she’s made no effort to contact me. She doesn’t need me. She needs Vaughn and she had no shame in showing up here tonight after everything that’s happened. Her agenda is clear.
Finally, my eyes rest on Vaughn, who’s telling Ray how family is everything. “Once you have your own, you’ll know,” he says reaching for my hand. He guides me over to his lap. “You see, I’d do anything here for this woman. That’s what a marriage is. It’s about honesty and respecting each other’s opinions. She and I don’t keep anything from each other. Right, babe?”
I nod, but all I can see are those pictures. I have no idea if there was another woman involved that night or not, but what I do know is, that he lied.
For the rest of the night I sit in silence observing them all, and it becomes increasingly clear that I don’t want any of these people in my or my daughter’s life. Not her “uncle” with the weak moral compass or the grandmother with an agenda, nor her alcoholic aunt. I’m sitting in a web of dysfunction, and with each passing day it grows larger. I can’t allow Morgan to become ensnared in it the same way I have. She deserves so much more. Hell, we both deserve more. If I let her keep sipping from this tainted pond, she’ll become one of them, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
TWENTY-NINE
I wake in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Vaughn is draped out over my chaise lounge. He’s laying face down, still dressed in his pants and shirt, his long legs dangling off the edge. When I went to bed, he and two of his friends were still downstairs polishing off what was left at the bar. I’m impressed that he even made it up to our bedroom. I remove his shoes, well, the one remaining shoe, and unbuckle his pants. When I try and lower them past his hips, I can’t. He’s dead weight. I’ll just leave him be. If he’s slept this long in his clothes, what’s a few more hours?
Just as I’m stepping away, I hear buzzing. It’s coming from Vaughn’s phone, which is still clipped to his waistband. I remove it. A black bar pops up on the screen reading, “James iMessage.” My first instinct is to turn it off and set it on its charger. But I don’t. Instead my thumb swipes the little white arrow on the bottom of the screen. It’s unlocked. His phone is never unlocked. Here’s my opportunity. My chance to see if there’s any validity to my fears. To find out if Hannah’s words were just the rant of a disgruntled ex-employee. To confirm if what I overheard downstairs was evidence of more infidelity.
I scroll through his text messages and call log, searching for the names of women. It doesn’t take long, because there aren’t many, only family.
Vaughn stirs. I press the screen against my stomach so the bright glow won’t rouse him. He turns his head from side to side, but doesn’t wake. I look back at the phone and feel foolish. What am I doing? There’s nothing in here. I’m letting my imagination get the best of me. Just as I’m about to turn it off, it vibrates in my hand. Another text from his brother. Why is that fool still awake? Lydia practically had to carry him out of here tonight. I swipe the arrow again but this time I read his message: I hope you enjoyed your birthday. I’ll be back in town on Friday so we can celebrate properly. xoxoxo
My heart pounds in my chest. My legs grow weak, but I make it to the bathroom where I close the door and sit on the toilet. I take a deep breath before rolling my thumb down the screen. I scroll to the next message.
It reads: I just checked into my hotel.
The next message came in at midnight: My flight’s about to take off. I’ll text you when I land
At 9:08 PM: Packing and thinking about you. Wish I could’ve been with you tonight
At 4:35 PM: Just leaving work
At 8:11 AM: G ’morning babe. Sorry I missed your call, I fell asleep early last night
So far there have been no replies from Vaughn. This offers me only the slightest bit of comfort. But then I keep scrolling and read more. Messages from yesterday and the day before. The banter is playful, flirty even, but innocent. But then I find these:
James: You miss me?
Vaughn: Of course I do.
James: When r you coming back to Miami?
Vaughn: Soon.
James: You keep saying that :(
Vaughn: I know, baby. Things are just a little hectic at home right now.
James: I really miss you
Vaughn: I know. I can probably get away for a few days next month. I’ll let you know. Now, send me a picture.
This is where I should stop. But I don’t. I need to see who this person is. I click on the little icon.
There she is. Half-naked. Her arms crisscrossed over her chest, each of her palms scarcely covering two over-sized nude breasts. She looks to be about twenty-five, maybe younger. It’s hard to tell beneath her heavy face of make-up. She’s pretty. Very pretty, in fact. And she’s his type. This is exactly what he likes. Very slick, Vaughn. I wonder how many of these other contacts are really women he’s listed under the names of his friends.
Unreal. After everything he’s put me through these past few months: the tongue-lashings, the silent treatment, the belittling and berating. The anguish I endured, believing I’d nearly ruined my marriage, the guilt he drowned me in. And he’s back to his old tricks. Doing exactly what he’d vowed he wouldn’t. Arguing over his whereabouts and catching him with other women was the shit we fought about years ago. This territory is all too familiar. If it weren’t for Morgan and the calendar on the wall, I’d believe it was five years ago. Back when there was no reasoning with Vaughn—even when I was guilt-free, before I’d even thought about stepping outside of our marriage. But now he believes he’s entitled, that he’s holding a get-out-of-jail-free card. One with no expiration date. I have no leg to stand on, but I won’t sign up for more of the same; a life of looking in the other direction, of obediently eating from the plate set before me. It was good enough then. But it’s not anymore.
I open the door and watch him sleep. My anger recedes, and I’m shrouded with an eerie sense of calm. I’m so calm, that it scares me. If this had been three years ago, I would have woken him to a hysterical fit. I would have tossed the phone at his sleeping head and interrogated him until … until he admitted what I already knew.
I chastise my former self. What had I been thinking? What had any of that accomplished? I would have been better off pretending I was in the dark, because at least then he might have believed he had something to lose if he was caught. But I knew and I stayed. I kicked and screamed, but I stayed. What incentive did he have to stop? I wasn’t going anywhere. I knew it, and he knew it.
I stand here in a fog of lies and deceit, but things have never been so clear.
*****
By the time the sun rises, I’ve already filled seven suitcases. Five of my own and two of Morgan’s. A note to Rosa is tucked in my back pocket, and Elle is sitting in the driveway, the engine of my SUV idling. Morgan is in the back seat, likely asleep in her car seat, wholly unaware that she’ll never again see the man she thought was her father.
She’s young, she’ll adapt. In time her memory of him and of living in this beautiful house will all be a faint memory. If I wait any longer she’ll start to ask questions. Questions I don’t know that I can answer.
My reasons for leaving are all outlined in the six-page letter resting on Vaughn’s nightstand. I take one final glance around my bedroom then quietly close the door behind me. I start down the steps. Damn! I forgot Mor
gan’s stuffed rabbit. She’ll have a fit if she wakes without it. I creep back up the stairs, go to her bedroom and quietly open the door. I tip-toe towards her bed, grab the rabbit and double back. I close the door behind me and head towards the staircase.
“What’s this?” I turn to see Vaughn. He’s standing in our bedroom doorway. My letter is in his hand.
I take tiny steps backwards until my feet reach the top of the stairs.
“What the hell is this, Blair?”
“You weren’t supposed to see that until I was gone,” I say in a loud whisper, cautiously descending two steps.
“Gone? Where the hell are you going?” He skims the letter.
Four more steps.
“You’re trying to leave me?”
“Just read it,” I say.
Two more steps.
He crumples all six pages in his fist. “I’m not reading any fucking letter. You have something to say to me, you say it to my face. Like a grown woman.”
“I have to go,” I say, losing my determination minute-by-minute. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to read the letter after I was way gone. Since when does he wake up at six AM after a night of partying? A “Dear John” letter is the punk way out, I know it. It may even be wrong, but just like he told me, we left “wrong” a long time ago.
In a moment, he’s down the steps and gripping my arm.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” I can still smell the tequila on his breath. “Get your ass back upstairs.”
He shoves me and I stumble up the steps. I regain my footing and try to worm around him, but he blocks me with his body. “Upstairs, Blair! It’s too early for this shit.”
“No! I’m leaving.”
He studies me for a second before grabbing my arm with one hand and the nape of my neck with the other. Like an unruly prisoner, I twist and turn to free myself of his grip. But to no avail. He directs my steps until we’re back on the landing and heading to the bedroom. Once there, he shoves me inside the room and closes the door behind him.
A Delicate Truth Page 20