by S. E. Law
My dad interjects.
“We checked Whitney, and there is no GoFundMe page.”
“It’s private!” I flounder.
“That’s enough, Whitney,” Donald says flatly. “It’s time to be honest. Have you gotten yourself in with some drug dealers? Is that where all this cash is coming from?”
“What? No!” My father must be binge watching crime dramas on TV again.
“Then what, Whitney? Where could you possibly be getting thousands of dollars when most of the country is shut down? You’ve sent us nearly five thousand dollars. It’s more than we even need.”
I stammer.
“I met a wealthy man and he’s been giving me money,” I mumble in the hopes that this partial truth will allay them.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Maeve and Donald look at each other, completely puzzled.
“But why would this man just give you money? People don’t give you money without expecting something in return. Are you sure he isn’t a drug dealer? Is he using this apartment to store some of his illicit substances?” Donald asks, glancing around the room like there’s cocaine hidden in my walls. If I weren’t so anxious, it would be funny.
“No, Dad, he isn’t a drug dealer. He works in restaurants too.” Then I sigh. Maybe it’s better to be direct. I’ll just omit some of the risqué details. “Okay, his name is Peter Coleman and he owns Shake Place.”
“Which one? The one here in Manhattan?” Donald asks.
I shake my head.
“All of them, Dad. He owns all the Shake Places in the world, from the original one here in New York to most recent one that opened in Tokyo.”
My parents are still utterly puzzled.
“But why would he give you money, sweetheart?” my dad inquires again.
“Because he likes me, and he believes in me. I like him, too. We’re both entrepreneurs, and we have a lot in common.”
My mom shakes her head.
“I don’t understand. You’ve never told us about him before. When did you meet him? This just doesn’t make sense, Whitney. If you had a new man in your life, there would be no reason to make up lies. There’s something you aren’t telling us about him. Where did you meet him? When? And why is he giving you such a huge amount?”
The rapid fire inquisition breaks me. Hot tears spill from my eyes. I have to tell them everything, and I just hope they love me enough to understand. I take a deep, shuddering breath.
“When the state shut us down, I was worried about how I would keep my business open and pay my bills. I was worried about my employees and about you guys too! I tried to get all sorts of online jobs to earn money, but it turns out there isn’t much of a need for pastry chefs in this new economy.”
My parents are staring at me, listening intently. I continue.
“I came across what I thought was a job site and clicked on one of the links. It was a girl on a live feed talking to guys. They were giving her money for being sexy,” I take a deep breath to steady myself, “and then she took her top off and they gave her a lot more money. I briefly considered it and then put it out of my mind.”
My parents exhale loudly.
“Thank goodness, but what does this have to do with anything?” my dad presses. I look down at my hands.
“I put it out of my mind until Mom told me you guys had to go to the food bank.”
My parents immediately look horrified.
“Whitney, tell us you did not take off your top for a bunch of perverts,” my mother says, covering her mouth with her hand as her face goes ghost white.
“No, I don’t do it for perverts, just Peter. He was my only customer.”
My dad’s face goes tomato red.
“Well, he is clearly a pervert if he was on that site.”
I shake my head.
“He’s really not. He just stumbled upon my web cam site, and upon me. He’s actually very sweet and kind and generous.”
My mom looks like she’s about to cry. Her face is crumpled and her lower lip trembles.
“Men can be very deceptive online, Whitney. You’re a smart girl, and you should know this,” she wails. “I thought we taught you better! But are you still doing these shows for him? Really? Taking off your top? Oh my god, my baby girl!”
I grit my teeth. I have to continue confessing the truth.
“I haven’t just been talking to him online, Mom. He asked me to meet him in person after about a week of video dates. We had a great time together and he has this amazing penthouse in TriBeCa with a library, a state of the art kitchen, and a movie theater. We like the same books and movies and we talked about how we both got started in the food and beverage industry.”
My dad’s practically shaking with rage now. His rotund body trembles, and all the blood has drained from his face.
“That was incredibly careless of you to go see him in his home, alone. We raised you to be smarter than that. Maybe you should close up the bakery and come back to New Jersey. You just weren’t raised to have the kind of street smarts you need in a city like New York. You’re lucky he didn’t hurt you that one time you went there.”
I shake my head.
“No, Dad. Peter would never hurt me and I didn’t just go over there one time. I’ve been staying with him for weeks. The camera on my phone works fine; I just didn’t want you to see that I wasn’t here at the apartment and start asking questions.”
My parents are almost hyperventilating now.
“You’ve been living with him? Have you been having sexual relations with this man?” my mom wails. Now, tears are coming full force down her cheeks. I’m not comfortable talking about sex with my parents but I have to be honest.
“Yes, Peter and I have been having sex, but I think I’m in love with him, so it’s okay.”
My dad’s face turns stony and his voice drops.
“Let me make sure I understand. You’ve been performing sexual acts with this man and he has been giving you money in return. That’s not love. You know what people call that? Prostitution, Whitney,” he says in a disgusted voice. “Do you understand?”
I’m crushed by his statement
“No, Daddy, it isn’t like that. Peter believes in me and my talent as a pastry chef. I’ve helped him with recipes and he’s investing in my business. That’s what the money’s for. He really cares about me. He likes to help people, especially up and coming young entrepreneurs.”
Maeve jerks her head in a shake.
“Pack your things. You’re coming home with us right now, young lady. I don’t want you to ever see this man again. He has corrupted you, making you lie to your family and turning you into a criminal. This city is bad and has bad people in it.” My mother has now raised her voice and is gesturing around her like there’s poison in the air.
I pause for a moment. I think of all Alvina and all my favorite customers. I think of George and Sarah. And I think of Peter. New York is full of nice people, and my parents are wrong. They mean well but they’re stuck in their New Jersey suburban mind set.
“No Mom, I’m not going back to New Jersey. I’m twenty-five years old, and I have a future here. I may have done something I’m not proud of, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and that original cam girl show is permitting my business to survive. It’s allowed me to help people I care about a great deal. And it enabled me to meet a wonderful man that I’ve fallen in love with.”
My parents look horrified.
“You don’t know what love is,” my dad grinds out. “People don’t pay each other for love.”
My mom jumps in again.
“Don’t kid yourself, Whitney. You’re just a place holder until this pandemic passes. He needed someone convenient and he’s using you, honey, don’t you see? There are so many pretty and accomplished girls out there. Why would he want you?”
Her words are like a knife to the stomach.
“Mama, did you just say I wasn’t pretty enough for someone like Peter?” I ask, bare
ly able to breathe.
She’s by the door now, angry tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Don’t you try to twist my words to make me the guilty party here, young lady.”
Donald steps in.
“No. You know that’s not what she meant, Whitney,” my dad tries to explain as he stands to follow her. His head swivels back and forth between the two of us and I see his eyes turn glassy with unshed tears as he tries to decide what to do next. “Mom said some unkind things, but that’s not what she meant.”
Maeve jerks her chin, refusing to make eye contact with me.
“Donald, let’s go. Whitney will come to her senses eventually. After she gets thrown out the door, she’ll see where she belongs.”
All I want is for my dad to put his arms around me and tell me he loves me. Instead, Donald follows my mother out the door, head bowed, choosing her side. He shuts the door behind him without another word.
I crash onto my bed and sob. Shame for their daughter was written all over their faces. Their words sting like a thousand wasps. Nausea washes over me and I run to my cramped bathroom to vomit. Thoughts I have been pushing out of my mind come barreling back, given shape by my parents’ doubts.
After all, what will happen when life resumes once more? Peter will be able to meet up with all the women from his previous existence. Is he really going to take the curvy girl to black tie events while all his peers have supermodels on their arms? Is he really going to be happy to parade me, with my frizzy brown hair and oversize figure around? I’ve been kidding myself.
My buzzer rings again and I find myself hoping that it’s my parents back to apologize for judging their only child so harshly. But it’s just George.
“Hi Miss Porter. Do you want me to come up and help you with your things?”
I can’t go back to Peter’s tonight. I don’t know if I can go back ever again. I feel too awful, and doubt has seeped into my mind. Maybe Peter feels nothing for me. Maybe I really am just a convenient piece of ass that he pays for. In as normal of a voice as I can manage, I speak.
“George, I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I’m going to be going back to the penthouse tonight.”
Immediately, his voice shows concern.
“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“No,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. “I think it’s just better if I’m not around anyone while I’m not feeling well, you know with the virus and all.”
“Alright then. I hope you feel better soon, Miss Porter. Do you want me to tell Mr. Coleman of your illness?”
I pause. I really should tell him myself, but at this moment, I can’t stomach the thought of talking to Peter.
“Yes, please,” I say. “That would be great.”
We say goodbye, and I hang up. Another wave of nausea rushes up, and I run to the bathroom, only to vomit furiously into the toilet. What’s going on? How has this poison permeated my life? Panting, I rest my head on the porcelain rim, and desperately wish for Peter.
19
Peter
“What do you mean she said she isn’t coming back?” I ask George. I haven’t heard a thing from Whitney. Why would she send a message via the chauffeur? The elderly man shrugs his shoulders.
“Mr. Coleman, Miss Porter said she wasn’t feeling well and she thought it would be better if she stayed at her place.”
I stare at him.
“Did she seem sick when you picked her up from the vet?”
He shakes his head.
“No, she seemed fine and said to come back in about four hours after she’d packed her things.”
Now, I’m baffled.
“This doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have gotten sick from the vet’s office. Even if someone there had the virus and gave it to Whitney, she wouldn’t be showing signs so early.”
The chauffeur is just as confused as me.
“I don’t know, but Miss Porter definitely did not sound like herself over the intercom when I went back to get her. I think she really is ill.”
“Thanks, George. I’ll call her and see what’s going on.”
I dial Whitney’s number and she doesn’t answer so I send a text.
Peter: Are you ok? What’s wrong?
Whitney: I’m not feeling well. I must have come down with something. You’re supposed to visit the stores in Pennsylvania tomorrow anyways, and I don’t want to get you sick and risk infecting people.
Peter: That’s very considerate, but sweetheart, I can cancel my trip and take care of you. I’d rather do that.
Whitney: No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine, thanks. I just need some time to myself this evening.
Shit. What is going on with her? Is she ill? But if she wants some space, then fine. I take to my bed alone that night and toss and turn, unable to sleep without Whitney beside me.
Then, the next morning, I head out to Pennsylvania. The stores in the state are doing well. I only went because I was a bit concerned about one county in particular outside of Philadelphia that seemed to have a high concentration of the virus, and I wanted to make sure that the Shake Place there was taking proper precautions.
As soon as I get back to the city, I call Whitney, but there’s no answer. Maybe she’s just sleeping. I send a text for her to ring when she gets up, and she immediately messages back that she’s fine and will call when she feels up to it. Wait a minute. If she responded to my text so quickly, then she must not be asleep and could have picked up. I try not to let it bother me, even as my heart thumps with unease. What the fuck is happening? Why is she avoiding me?
Three days later and I still haven’t heard her voice. I only get brief texts occasionally, and it’s driving me batshit crazy. What the hell? Is she really so sick that she can’t have visitors? Do I need to storm over there myself and escort her to the hospital? What the fuck is going on? I pull out my phone and text Whitney again, determined to get some answers.
Peter: Whit, I’m worried about your health. If you don’t answer my call, I’m going to have to call an ambulance.
Whitney: That isn’t necessary. I’m fine. I just need some time apart. I need to think about some things.
Peter: What things?
Whitney: I’ll call you when I can.
I’m so fucking confused. I thought things were going well. I know our relationship was moving fast, but we both seemed to be on the same page. I pace my kitchen while wracking my brain trying to figure out what is going on in her head.
This isn’t the way things are supposed to happen. We’ve had a few minor disagreements, but we always work them out in a very short time. I try to call her again, only to get a message that she’s not accepting calls from my number.
What the fuck?!?! I swipe at a water bottle sitting on the counter and send it flying across the room, startling Demeter into dashing up the stairs for cover. I’ve never had a woman affect me this way. I don’t have a bad temper, and I can’t recall ever throwing something in anger. I need to pull myself together and just give Whitney some time like she requested. I need to remember that this is a stressful period, and let her handle things in her own way. But where the fuck is this coming from? What triggered her need to retreat?
I throw myself into a frenzy of activity in an attempt to distract myself from Whitney. I head to the gym to work off some of this steam. I immerse myself in my work. I take trips to do in person check-ins with some of my regional managers, and we make the rounds to be sure no one feels pressured into working in an unsafe environment.
I deal with overproduction issues at the dairy farms and ranches and have them send the surplus to food bank organizations. I’d send samples of the new shake flavors to my marketing team, but it doesn’t seem right to do it without Whitney.
Goddamit, none of this matters without her. If she were here, she would come up with a much kinder and more creative way to use the extra milk, cheese and hamburger buns. She’d make everything okay, and put a smile on my face with her
sassy ways and teasing laugh.
I spend hours in the library in an attempt to shake these feelings of emptiness and loss. I try her phone daily to see if she has unblocked my number, and feel like a loser when I realize she hasn’t.
The entire staff of my building has asked about Whitney and I tell them that she’ll be back soon. I’m not even sure if that’s true. I feel helpless, desperate, and frankly, I’m a liar at this point. I don’t know what’s happening, and it’s ridiculous to pretend that I do. Maybe I should just storm over to her apartment and break down her door. Yeah, that sounds about right.
Suddenly, the elevator pings. Oh right, George and Sarah are coming over. Sarah has been begging her dad for a kitten ever since the night of our focus group when she got to play with Apollo and Demeter. As they step off the lift, the gangly girl cuddles a little black kitten in her arms.
“Who have you got here, Sarah?” I ask, stroking the silky fur on its little head with one finger. It purrs and then grabs hold of me with its tiny needle-like claws.
Demeter eyes the kitten suspiciously and hisses at it.
“Well, I was torn between naming her Persephone, after Demeter’s daughter, or Artemis, Apollo’s twin. But seeing as how Demeter doesn’t seem to be a fan, I won’t name this little ball of fur after the goddess’ daughter. It looks like it’s going to be Artemis.” Then she looks around, her eyes searching. “Where’s Whitney? I want to show off my kitten.”
“She’s not here, Sarah.”
The teen looks confused.
“Why not? When is she coming back?”
“Sarah, that’s none of your business,” her father chides.
“But Daddy, I love Whitney. She’s a really special person.”
Sarah’s words hit me like a punch in the gut. I love Whitney too, and maybe if I’d said those words, she wouldn’t have blocked me from her life. I’m going to make that right. Suddenly, I know what I have to do, and my mission is urgent.