Tryst

by S. L. Jennings

  I pull over, getting as far off the street as I can to avoid any unfortunate dealings involving Justice’s baby. I’m pretty sure if I got even so much as a scratch on her, he’ll have my head. Ransom has left the vehicle, but has good sense enough to lean up against the passenger side door. I wait until the coast is clear and hop out into the sweltering desert sun. There are no trees or shade for miles. And with Ransom’s bellyful of pills and whiskey, he could easily suffer from dehydration.

  “Ransom!” I call out, jogging over to him. “What are you doing out here? What happened to you?”

  He slowly looks up at me from his spot in the dirt and shrugs his hunched shoulders. “You want me gone. I’m gone,” he slurs. His eyes are glassy, his face is ghostly pale, and it looks as if he’s struggling to stay upright. I crouch down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him. His skin is slicked with sweat and clammy, yet cool to the touch.

  “No, Ransom. I don’t. Not like this. I know everything now. I confronted Tucker. I don’t know what all of this means, but we’ll be ok. All right? I’m sorry if I hurt you. You have to know I never meant it.”

  “No, you were right,” he drawls, trying to shrug me off. “Your place is with him. You should go be with him, H. I’m no good.”

  “Don’t say that, Ransom. You are good. You’re so good for me. And you and me . . . we’re good for each other. Or at least we can be.” I cup his face in my hands and turn it to face me. His gaze is unfocused, his pupils dilated, and his mouth is slack. I don’t even think he can see me right in front of him. If we waste any more time out here, he’ll lose consciousness. I can’t wait for Justice and Tucker to get here. I have to get him in the car and blast the AC. Tucker is a lying sack of shit right now, but he is a doctor. He’ll know what to do.

  “Come on. We can talk about this back at Oasis. I need you to push yourself up so I can get you to the car. Ok? Can you do that for me?”

  He does something that looks like a nod of his head, but ends up slumping forward, pressing his full weight on me. I struggle to get him upright again, but my meager 128 pound frame is no match for his six feet, four inches of hard, lean muscle. Still, I have to try. I can’t leave him out here in this condition. He looked to me to save him, and I’ll be damned if I let him down.

  With nothing but adrenaline and desperation, I somehow get Ransom on his feet. He stumbles the entire way to the car, but thankfully doesn’t give in to gravity until I open the door to the Porsche and maneuver his long legs inside. It would have been easier and closer to get him into the truck, but the sports car is much faster. Plus, there’s no way I could justify leaving a car like that on the side of the road.

  I’m buckling a nearly unconscious Ransom in when he lifts a hand to gently brush against my cheek. His eyes are mere slits and his lips are dry and cracked. Still, he manages to lucidly utter those three little words that will aid in the undoing of my marriage. Those three words that I’ve felt but hadn’t found the courage to say out of respect for the man I once thought was the perfect husband.

  I quickly retreat from his lap like it’s on fire, and shut the door. I can’t go there right now. Not when there is still so much left unsaid. So much we all need to discuss.

  Is my marriage over? I don’t know, but considering the mistakes we’ve both made, it probably should be.

  Do I still love my husband? Of course, even though I hate him right now, I’ll always love him.

  Do I love Ransom? Yes, I do. In the way a little girl loves a stray, mangled cat. Fiercely and fearfully.

  I’m so preoccupied by my discovery that I don’t realize how far into the road I’m stepping, nor do I take notice of the speeding car that is driving dangerously close to the shoulder. But as the side of the car clips me with enough force to send me flying twelve feet into the air, launching me several yards away into oncoming traffic, I think about that movie, and the bloody irony of this very moment.

  There’s a reason why the broken ones stay broken. When they pretend to be mended, their glue never truly gets the chance to dry.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Breaking News: Ransom lead singer, Ransom Reed, has been involved in a gruesome accident in Arizona. Although foul play is not suspected at this time, authorities are investigating.

  Ransom Reed, playboy rocker, refuses comment when asked about a tragic accident involving his publicist, Heidi DuCane. Rumors indicate that the two were romantically involved, however, sources deny the claims, calling them “outlandish” and “despicable.”

  Justice Drake, client of Heidi DuCane, released a rare statement about his colleague and friend, saying the accident was a “truly horrific event” involving “a loving, devoted wife and confidante who would do anything for her husband and friends. And it is truly heartbreaking what has happened.” Justice’s girlfriend, and speculated soon-to-be fiancé, has organized a prayer vigil in honor of the DuCane family. Heidi’s husband, Tucker, is asking for prayers and privacy during this time.

  Rock star Ransom Reed has reportedly checked into a rehab facility upon the wake of the brutal accident involving his publicist. While he is not known to have been involved, sources close to the band have reported that he is “not handling it well.” His camp has requested support from fans and press during this sensitive time.

  The much-anticipated Hostage World Tour featuring bands Ransom, Fall Out Boy, and Panic! at the Disco has been postponed due to the recent events leading to Ransom Reed’s rehabilitation stay. While there is still no known history of substance abuse, rumors swirl around the lead singer’s involvement in a serious car accident just months ago.

  Fans rally together in support of Ransom Reed’s continued recovery. After his release last week, he was in good health and good spirits. “Mental illness is not weakness,” the twenty-five-year-old stated at his recent birthday party, where he shared smiles with bandmates and close friends. “Being able to confront your demons, and seek help for them . . . that is the true example of strength.”

  Tour dates for the Hostage World Tour have officially been announced, slating the concert series’ kickoff for November in Copenhagen. All three headlining bands are looking forward to playing for fans in Europe, Australia, and select cities in Asia, and hope supporters are forgiving of the delay, stemming from Ransom Reed’s rehabilitation. However, with the release of Ransom’s new album, We’re All Mad Here, going platinum in a week, we’re guessing that cities across the globe will be sold out within days.

  HBO will be documenting the upcoming Hostage World Tour, giving fans a behind-the-scenes look at the band Ransom. The tour will end with a show in London that will also be aired as part of a special on the premium cable network.

  In an exclusive, two-hour interview with Katie Couric, Ransom Reed spoke candidly about his experience with mental illness and substance abuse. When asked about the accident involving his then publicist, Heidi DuCane, which sparked his decision to seek help, he said that he “regret(s) what happened that day. It’s something that will stay with me for the rest of my life. And if I could go back and do it all again, I would have done anything . . . anything to save her.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  You ever think about what people will say about you once you’re gone? Of course, at your funeral, it’s pretty much a given that they’ll say nice things. They’d have to. Standing in front of your closest friends, family, and colleagues to reiterate just what a cheating, lying whore you were would be entirely too awkward.

  I had wondered what Tucker would say in my eulogy. Would he miss me? Were his last memories of us together fond? Did he still love me right up to the end? Or would he have realized that me getting hit by a car was the best thing that had ever happened to him?

  He’d have a fresh start, a second shot at life. Maybe a chance to pursue his passion. After what we’d gone through and what he’d done—committing a dozen different shades of malpractice—he’d get to retire early and focus his talents on somethin
g new. Maybe take the life insurance money and invest in a little record store uptown or something. He’d also get another shot at love with someone who didn’t work tirelessly long hours and shared his love of chicken enchiladas. Someone he could seek out quaint, little vintage shops with and spend Sundays in pajamas, listening to jazz and eating pancakes. Someone who loved and desired him just as he was.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he moved on quickly after my passing. Tucker is a catch. He’s gorgeous, obviously, with a body that hasn’t yet been cursed by time. He’s affectionate, compassionate, a great listener, and a passionate kisser. He cares for people deeply, maybe more than he should. And he always puts the needs of others over his own.

  My husband is a good man—the best man. And any woman would be lucky to call him hers.

  And I am.

  Lying on your back 24/7 for six weeks straight will provide you with plenty of time to think. Actually, that’s all I had for several days. Just my thoughts. I didn’t have use of my limbs until the swelling on my spine had subsided enough so they could operate, and even then, both arms and both legs were broken. And my jaw had to be wired shut after doctors fused the bones back together with the help of a metal plate and screws. My eyes were so badly bruised from twin shattered eye sockets, so even seeing was problematic. Actually the only thing that I hadn’t broken on my face was my nose. Go figure. So at least I could breathe, even though it hurt like a bitch with broken ribs.

  I was a hot mess. Truly. When they showed me pictures of what I looked like when paramedics scraped me off the road, I cried. No one was supposed to survive that type of carnage, yet somehow, I had. I thought my fate would parallel Sebastian’s of Cruel Intentions. I thought I would leave my loved ones with only my memory, and the urge to rip one another apart once the truth had come to light. But no dice. I lived. And I’m not sure who was more disturbed by that revelation—them or me.

  I certainly wasn’t surprised that Tucker was right there beside me when I had awoken three days later. I wasn’t even shocked by how glad I was that he had been there for me—unmovable, unshakable. He slept at the hospital in an uncomfortable little chair that barely reclined. He ate gross hospital food when he ate at all. And he washed up in the sink of my hospital bathroom. Justice brought him clean clothes, and Ally made sure he got some nourishment. She was a wreck. That surprised me too. I never knew she cared about me that much. I never knew any of them did.

  However, the thing that stunned me, almost to tears, was the fact that Ransom never came. Not even once. And it wasn’t that Tucker had refused him entrance and then lied to me. He just never came. I held out hope for a few days, thinking he just wanted to be sure I was out of the woods. But after days turned to weeks, and weeks turned into a month and a half, I realized that he just wasn’t coming. Things had gotten ugly and he bailed. He left me, even after begging me not to leave him.

  Oh, the irony.

  I later learned that he had entered rehab a couple weeks after my accident. Something about “mental distress” and “exhaustion.” Fucking famous people. Who the hell goes to rehab for exhaustion? It’s called a nap. If you’re tired, go the fuck to sleep.

  We all knew the truth, as eye-roll-inducing as the spin was. Ransom had hit rock bottom, and it was either go to rehab or face scrutiny for being involved in my accident. It was a smart move, something I would have suggested had I still been his publicist. But I wasn’t, and I’m not. I’m not his anything.

  I’d like to think that Ransom’s absence from my bedside was his way of giving me a gift. I lied to him right before the car hit me. We weren’t good together. We were bad—toxic even. We would hurt everyone we care about if we kept on like that. So maybe he was doing what I had failed to do a long time ago. He was cutting himself out of my life. He was letting me heal with my husband and friends. And he was going to get himself healthy and move on.

  In my mind, that’s what he did, and that’s what I’ll remember. That’s what I felt in my heart when I said goodbye to him. And that’s what I would have stated in his eulogy. Ransom is dead to me, but not in a bad way. But in a very final way. We came, we saw, we loved, and we left. He isn’t meant to be a part of my life, and I’m not supposed to be a part of his, in any capacity. It was real. It was fun. But it wasn’t always real fun.

  Learning how to walk, write, feed myself, tie a bow, cross my legs, and throw a ball again thankfully occupied most of my time. It was a grueling twenty-two weeks of physical therapy every day to regain usage of my limbs. I’m pretty much back to normal, although I walk with a slight limp. And wearing heels is out for at least a few more years. They might as well toss me in the casket now.

  Tucker was incredible throughout it all. Of course he was. And I don’t say that with resentment. He was amazing to me—encouraging, positive, and patient. I had a lot of bad days. There were times when I had given up altogether and would just crumple on the floor and cry. And Tucker . . . he’d get right on that dingy linoleum with me and hold me close as I cried and cursed and hated everyone who could walk without issue. He didn’t try to tell me how to feel. He didn’t make me feel guilty for my irrational envy. And he didn’t take it personally every time I tried to push him away permanently, telling him that we should get a divorce. He let me feel my anger. He let me be afraid. Probably because he was afraid too.

  That time spent on the floors and beds of hospitals reminded me of why I fell in love with Tuck in the first place. Back in undergrad, when I had shed that fear and rage from my attack, he let me own it. He never tried to make me feel differently. And it just felt so damn good to be heard and understood.

  He really was a great doctor. Despite what he facilitated in an attempt to help both Ransom and me, his heart was in the right place. Crazy but true. And maybe Ransom saw it too . . . maybe he realized that the only way for us to all heal from the wreckage was to say goodbye for good.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It’s been a long time coming, but I am finally able to get back to work. And oddly enough, we’ve been busier than ever. I promoted Tamara to Social Media Manager as soon as I returned, considering how well she kept the ship running in my absence. I hate to lose her, but once upon a time, someone gave me a shot after proving myself. And she has gone above and beyond proving herself. Plus, it’s downright hilarious watching her boss around her own assistant.

  Although business is booming, personally I’m only taking on a couple clients, Justice being one of them. If I didn’t believe it before, Justice and I have officially crossed into close friend—almost family zone. After we got settled back in New York, he and Ally came for a visit to help out. Of course, Justice kicked and screamed the second they touched down at LaGuardia. But after being pulled in by the sheer magic of the city—the bright lights, the colorful characters, the constant symphony of car horns—he began to settle in and make himself at home. As he should.

  I look around my office, which apparently moonlights as a flower shop considering the sheer fuck-cophony of fragrant, floral arrangements that fill it. We received flowers after the accident. We received them when we came back to the city. And now I’m getting “Welcome Back” bouquets at the job. Awesome. But I’m not complaining. Not on the outside at least. I’m just grateful to be alive, to be able to work and bitch and gripe and deride another day.

  After an uneventful first week back, my body is certainly feeling what several months out of work will do to you. I love it though. But the only thing I love more is opening the front door to our condo to find my handsome husband stretched out on the couch, those Tom Ford readers on his nose, and a book nestled between those large, yet delicate, hands.

  “How was your day, baby?” He smiles, placing the book down flat so he doesn’t lose his page.

  “Long. Busy. Great,” I answer, kicking off my Tory Burch flats, which honestly, aren’t nearly as comfortable as my favorite heels. “How about you?”

  He smiles again and shrugs. “Nothing too exciting here
. Oh, the life of a well-kept house husband.”

  “Well, who needs excitement?” I sigh as I sink into the couch beside him, curling into his side. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for five lifetimes.”

  He wraps me in his arms and holds me close, running his lips over the crown of my head. “Well, it’s date night. I don’t suppose you’d want to go out, would you?”

  I shake my head and smile, burying my face into his shirt to steal his scent. “No. Let’s just stay here tonight. Just the two of us.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Angelo’s?”

  I chuckle at the hopeful inflection of his voice. Leave it to Tuck to find an excuse for pizza. “Sure,” I acquiesce. “But don’t forget the garlic knots.”

  Like two old married people, we spend our Friday night on the couch, eating pizza and drinking wine. He fills me in on whose team is going to the playoffs and who will be out for the season after an ACL injury, and I give him an earful on all the latest gossip around town, and who’s hot and who definitely is not.

  Neither one of us truly cares about what the other is saying, but we listen anyway, and comment when appropriate and laugh when something is funny. We do it because we love each other. And we do it because that’s marriage. Celebrating and arguing and kissing and crying and loving and sexing. And everything in between. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  We switch the TV over from the nightly news to see what else is on. Tucker flips through the movie channels while I grab the popcorn with extra butter, before squeezing into his side as close as I could possibly get. He laughs, and somehow manages to pull me closer while nabbing a handful of popcorn. I pinch his side. He licks my nose. We laugh and toss salty, butter-coated popcorn on my expensive all-white sofas.