A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  My heart thunders recklessly. “Leave?” Is this really happening?

  John nods his head slowly. “I’m very sorry, Claire. There’s no other choice.”

  With my hand slapped over my mouth, I sit in shock as tremors rumble through me.

  John focuses on his stupid pens again. “You’ve been so dedicated to this school from the moment you started that I feel the best way to handle this is to say you’ve decided to take a leave of absence. Then, perhaps in a few months’ time, when and if you’ve moved on from this absurd situation, I can give you a recommendation to a school outside of the New York City area, of course.”

  A few months? Outside of New York? My head spins in sickening circles, yet a strange calm overcomes me—like a switch flipping to autopilot. I stand up in a daze, my knees wobbly.

  John walks around his desk. “I am very sorry it’s come to this.” He hugs me. I don’t hug him back. “You can pack some of your things tonight. The custodian will be here Saturday morning so you can clean out your classroom.”

  I shuffle down the silent hallway, literally pinching my arms in the hopes I’ll wake up tangled in my sheets. But I don’t. In a surreal fog, I fumble about packing a few personal belongings in my satchel. It’s like those dreams you wake from, thankful it wasn’t real. But this is real, isn’t it?

  I put on my sunglasses even though it’s rainy and leave the building. A bulky security officer nods at me as I leave. From a distance, I hear my name. I don’t turn.

  I walk home so completely absorbed in my own thoughts that I’m hardly aware of oncoming cars until I hear horns honk at me.

  When I arrive at the apartment, Camille is already home.

  “Hey, Claire,” Camille says casually before doing a double take. “Oh my God, you’re white as a ghost! And drenched! Let me get you a towel—stay here a sec.” Camille runs to the bathroom and returns with a towel. I realize I’m shivering. I drop my bags to the floor, and she wraps the towel around me. With her arm around my shoulders, she guides me to the sofa. “What happened?”

  “I just got fired.” I sit, staring into space.

  “What?” Camille spits out, sitting next to me.

  “The photos. The parents were all over John, my principal, about them. They wanted me removed.”

  Camille rubs my back. “So he just caved? You’ve been nothing but good to him and that school, and he couldn’t even stand up for you?”

  I shake my head. “He said the photos threatened the school’s reputation and that I set a bad example, which is completely true. Plus, I violated a morality clause in my contract.”

  “Morality clause? What the hell is that? You aren’t a nun!”

  “Doesn’t matter. I violated it by letting go like I did that night. For once in my life, I took a chance, and now look at me. I’m an utter humiliation! I don’t blame him for firing me.”

  “Claire, you were only having fun. We both know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Those pictures are horrible. Wrong. Embarrassing!”

  Camille straightens up. “Look, it’s going to be okay. You’ll get another job, and it’ll be fine.”

  I shake my head at her. “It won’t be okay. I won’t be here in New York.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because John won’t give me a recommendation unless it’s to a school outside of the city. And he said that was only ‘if and when everything calms down.’ That could be months from now—if that! So, no, I won’t be living here much longer. I won’t have a paycheck.”

  “So where will you go?”

  I shrug. “Home, I guess.”

  “Home? With your parents? Are you insane? Just find something else in the meantime, until everything settles down.”

  “Like what? At this point, with all the attention, no school in the area is going to hire me, especially without a recommendation, and what else can I possibly do that will pay enough for me to afford living here?”

  Camille opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “Exactly. There is nothing here for me anymore. New York is a big, fat dead end for me.” I cover my face with my hands.

  “Why don’t I help you out until you figure things out?”

  I look at Camille. “No way. This is my mess, and I can’t have you paying for it. Plus, what’s to figure out? Damn it! One stupid night decided everything!”

  Camille shakes her head. She says quietly, “Are you really going to move home with them?”

  “Oh God . . . I don’t know.” I rub my face with my hands and stand up as the zombie skin I wore for so long rolls up and over me once again. I drag myself into my room and shut my door.

  I spend the night lying on my bed, turning everything over in my head. It’s all so hopeless. No job means no apartment and no life. It’s cruel that I’ve just escaped despair when it’s back, whispering my name and beckoning me with its crooked finger.

  Friday comes and goes. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t talk to anyone—not even Dan. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll have figured something out, but for now I just don’t know what to say. I’m more lost and confused than I’ve ever been. I text Dan quickly: Call you tomorrow, okay? Things have been rough.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, I clear out my classroom with Camille and Bridget’s help. Afterward, I escape to the gym, praying that a hard workout will clear my mind. I lift weights, run fast, and sweat gallons, but no new options appear. However, on the walk back to my apartment, I sense a glimmer of hope. I don’t know why or where it comes from, but it’s there, a feeling that there’s a silver lining in this darkness. There has to be.

  Clinging to that sliver of hope, I open the door to my apartment to find all of the awful has suddenly gone from bad to worse. My mother and father are sitting on my living room couch.

  Oh shit.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sweaty and completely thrown for a loop, I swallow hard and slap on my game face. “Hi. What are you two doing here?” I say as if my life isn’t in the midst of imploding. As I walk toward the living room, I glance into the kitchen and see Camille widen her eyes at me in warning.

  “Hello, honey,” says my beautiful mother, Rita, whose every hair is in place, and every stitch of clothing perfectly matched and accessorized—as usual. My father, Joe, simply nods—as usual.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask politely, hoping to bypass whatever this is.

  “No, we’re not staying long. Sit down please, Claire,” she says.

  Like the very respectful girl I was raised to be, I take a seat in the chair facing my parents while my heart pounds hard—and it isn’t from working out.

  My mother scoots to the edge of the sofa. With that eerily calm voice I remember too well, she says, “We were visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Flashman and their daughters last night. You remember them, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Their daughters are teenagers now.”

  Oh no. I know where this is headed. I nod again.

  “They were telling us there were photos of you in Los Angeles.” My mother pauses as if trying to will the information out of me.

  She continues. “We said that it couldn’t possibly be you; if you had planned to fly clear across the United States, you surely would have told us because what if, God forbid, something happened?”

  She shakes her head slightly, her eyes growing darker, narrower. “But the girls insisted it was you and showed us this magazine.” My mom reaches into her Chanel bag, her gold bangle bracelets clanging, and pulls out the magazine, which is already folded back. She slaps it onto the coffee table and waits. Oh God—the photos are now in glossy color.

  “Explain yourself, Claire Marie Parelli.”

  I’m like an
animal trapped in my own apartment—that will soon not be mine. My eyes don’t dare move from my fingers twisting in my lap.

  “Imagine our horror, sitting with our friends, when their teenaged daughters present us with this, Claire. Our daughter is in a national magazine, dancing on stage—and on a pole! On a pole, Claire! Like a low-life stripper!” She throws her hands up. “And not only that, but she’s carrying on with some young boy in another photo! For God’s sake, look where his hand is, Claire!” My mother takes a moment to compose herself. “Are you doing drugs?” she asks in all seriousness.

  “What? No! I don’t do drugs.”

  “Well, then what are you doing? We taught you to respect yourself, or at least I thought we did, but clearly you’re just giving yourself away! For everyone to see! Do you have any respect for yourself?” She huffs a moment. “Why are you dancing on a pole? And what are you, a nearly thirty-year-old woman, doing with a boy so young, anyway?”

  I glance toward the kitchen. Camille is listening from the doorway, looking down and biting her lip.

  “Don’t look at your friend—she isn’t going to answer for you,” my mother snaps.

  I swallow and finally find my voice. “It was ladies’ night and—”

  “Ladies’ night? You danced like a whore because it was ladies’ night?” she roars.

  “No. It . . . it was all in fun and—”

  “Fun? Oh dear God! And the boy? Who’s he? A prop?”

  “No, Mom. He’s . . . he’s legal. He’s twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three?” She clenches her teeth and continues to unleash her anger. “Twenty-three! He’s a baby!” My mother breathes deep and shakes her red hair back. “I know we taught you better than this. You cannot imagine how angry and, frankly, disgusted we are with you, our own daughter! Do you know how horrible that feels?”

  I say nothing, do nothing—kind of like playing dead to avoid certain death.

  My mother’s fingers tap on the sofa as her nostrils flare out and in. The anger in her voice is crystal clear even though she speaks evenly. “The article reads like this twenty-three-year-old is your boyfriend. Is he?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but what can I say? Anything I say will only bury me further, so instead of speaking, I nod.

  My mother covers her eyes a moment before whipping her hands away. “Oh Jesus! He’s just a boy, Claire! A boy! And obviously a Hollywood philanderer who doesn’t have any respect for you. None! Not if he’s kissing and groping you in a bar for quite literally the whole world to see! No mature, respectful man would do that! And no mature woman would allow it!”

  I say nothing as my heart fractures a little more. “It’s not like that, Mom.”

  She glares. “It’s not? Well then, enlighten us. I’m very curious how you can think any part of this is okay.” She crosses her arms and waits.

  My heart pounds, and my head can’t seem to coordinate with my mouth to explain properly.

  After a few moments of deadly silence, my mother continues. “We thought you were smarter than this. We thought maybe you learned a thing or two after Mark left you, but no. You are just the girl of the moment, Claire! Don’t you know that? He’s too young to know what he wants and soon enough, he’ll find a younger, prettier girl to latch onto and then what? You’ll end up in the same situation again—just like after Mark—and he’ll have moved on while you’ll have wasted even more time floundering.” She breathes hard, calming a moment. “And quite frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t been fired.”

  Still play dead, Claire. I focus on the floor, trying to keep composed.

  My mother gasps. “You got fired over this, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Claire?” she shouts.

  I hide behind my hands, nodding the awful truth to them. Another wave of pain washes over me and nearly drags me under as my heart severs down the middle.

  A sickening silence echoes through the apartment. My dad says nothing, taking everything in as he always has.

  “I feel sick to my very core!” Mom yells, her sharp voice startling me. After a few moments, she composes herself and continues more calmly. “I assume you’ll need to move back home?”

  “Yes,” I say in a near whisper.

  Through gritted teeth, she speaks quietly. “How could you do this to yourself? What happened to you? When you lived with us, you were always so responsible. Now look at you! You’ve ruined your whole life over what? A quick fling with some actor? Some sleazy night in a bar? You should feel lucky that you even have a place to come home to.” She sighs heavily. “When are you moving back?” Her lip curls up. With furious eyes, she stares me down.

  “Before next rent, so next weekend, I guess.”

  “Fine.” My mother stands up and signals to my father to follow. They both grab their coats and head for the door.

  My mom turns to face me before marching out. “I’ll see you at home, where you should have been this whole time, anyway.” She shakes her head slowly. “You are wasting your life.”

  My dad lags behind a moment to say, “We’re so disappointed in you.”

  As the apartment door closes behind them, I burst into tears, knowing they’re absolutely right.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “It’s going to be okay, Claire.” Camille helps me over to the sofa as fat, hard tears pour from my eyes. “Don’t listen to her. She intimidates everyone. Especially you. And you weren’t ready for her surprise attack, that’s for sure,” Camille says as we sit and she hands me some tissues.

  I wipe my eyes.

  “I tried to call and warn you, but you left your cell home.” She rubs my back. “Your mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “She may come across in the most awful way, but she’s right! I fucked up my life, Camille!”

  “You did not! You were on vacation and having fun like a normal person! Your mom has no idea that you’re happy for the first time in years—maybe ever, Claire.”

  “Am I happy? Look at me, Camille! This is not happy!”

  “It’s just right now—just this one moment. Things will calm down and get better. They will—you have to trust in that.”

  “Trust? I trusted going with the flow that night, and look what happened! I lost everything!”

  “That’s not true; you finally opened up, which is huge! She doesn’t know anything except the distorted view from the papers. Once she knows the reality of how happy you are—”

  “You know it won’t matter, Camille. If I say, ‘But Mom, I’m happy,’ do you think she’ll be happy for me? No. She’s never happy for me, and now, after all this . . .” I take a deep breath and release it slowly. “I’m the massive disappointment she’s always believed me to be.”

  “You are not a disappointment, and being happy is worth something. That much I know for a fact.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m happy or not. The fact is I ruined my life because I decided to shake my ass on stage, and now proof of it is everywhere and it destroyed everything! I didn’t even consider how anything I did there would affect my life here. Not once. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing is wrong with you! How were you supposed to know all of this would happen? God, Claire, you just can’t move home. She’ll suck the life out of you.”

  I shake my head again. “I knew this sort of thing was bound to happen. I felt it. It’s why I never wanted to leave the apartment in the first place. I was fine going to work, working out, coming home—”

  “How can you say that? You were not fine! You were a ghost, Claire!” Camille breathes deeply. “You don’t need to move home. I can afford it. It’s what friends do for each other.”

  I shake my head. “As much as I appreciate your offer and want to stay, the fact is I can’t have a career here any longer. Like I said, New York is a dead
end now.”

  “And Connecticut is the way of the future?”

  “No, but . . . damn it! I don’t know!” I flop against the back of the sofa and cover my eyes, wishing this would all go away.

  “You need to call Dan. I talked to Colin, and Dan’s worried. I didn’t tell him anything except that I’d have you call today.”

  “What am I going to say to him?” I sit up, and although I’m emotionally wrung out, I break down again.

  Camille continues to rub my back. “Just tell him what’s happened. He cares about you.”

  I inhale slowly, calming down as best as I can. “I care about him, too, Camille, but that’s not going to make everything all better. This is the biggest mess.” I get up, and once again, shut myself in my bedroom. I lie on my bed and finally listen to the messages from Dan that I’ve avoided.

  “Hi, Claire. Got your text. I’m in France now, but I’m around. Phone me.”

  “Hi, Claire. You all right? Phone me when you get this. I miss you, and I’m worried about you.”

  “Claire, I need to know if you’re okay. I’m calling Colin to see if he knows anything. Phone me, please.”

  Oh God! I sit up amid the balled-up tissues and wipe my wet face again. I breathe in and out in counts of three, trying to quell the nerves twisting inside. I dial, taking another deep breath while I wait for the call to connect. Dan answers on the first ring.

  “Claire?” The silky English voice says, anxious and tense. “Are you all right? I’ve been worried.”

  I inhale again, steadying myself. “No, I’m not all right. I got fired from my job, Dan.”

  “Wh-what?” he stammers. “What? Why?”

  “Because of the photos of me dancing . . . on the pole.”

  “You got fired over those photos?”