Heads Carolina

by Grea Warner

  Irene’s comment at the hospital about the anxiety pills was something I never knew about Kari. But then again, there was no reason I should have. It made sense why Ryan talked about so many people needing them when I had told him my mother took a similar prescription. Never would I have thought my stay-at-home pastor’s wife mom would have anything in common with a world-renowned singer. I guess we’re all just people struggling through life.

  “At least this bizarre behavior since coming back makes sense now.”

  “What did Kari say to you?” I had to ask. It had not only bothered me the whole time he was gone, but it had also filtered into my sleep with visions of the two of them together.

  “We had a good talk. She knows we’re over. But with everything that happened and now having to face it, there is a lot of guilt and remorse and jealousy.”

  “She hates me,” I summed up. It wasn’t too hard to come to that conclusion since the few interactions we had with one another were nowhere near civil.

  “No, she ... It’s more about the kids. She hadn’t seen them in such a long time, and now when she does, she hears about you.”

  It was my turn for my shoulders to sag, and it wasn’t a good feeling. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

  “You’re not,” he immediately reassured. “You’re fine. It’s fine. It’s her problem, and it is exasperated by all the other issues. She needs to get some therapy, and it will be fine.”

  “And? But?”

  I knew there was more. I could see it in his squirming face and narrowing eyes. Even more so, that weird feeling I had since waking up wouldn’t let go.

  And then came the blow—the one I somehow knew was coming all along. “We have to hold off on the statement about the divorce and anything else.”

  My entire body instantly got tense, and I rose from my seated position. I breathed out a gust of air and closed my eyes. I couldn’t do or say anything for a moment. I was completely frustrated. The fact that the whole world didn’t know they were divorced from the beginning only partially made sense to me, but I had learned to accept that. But, no. Just no. I couldn’t any longer.

  I didn’t even try to think of others. I just blew out my exasperation. “What does it matter?” It was somewhere between a yell and a cry. “It’s done. The divorce is done. It’s over. It’s been over. Nothing is going to change that.”

  “I know.” He was trying to remain calm as he joined me in an upright position. “It’s just not the time. For one thing, we don’t want to draw any more attention to Kari and, most certainly, where she is. We got her there without incident last night, but the press is obviously going to be looking for her for a comment about the photo. We just have to keep silent and hope for the best.”

  “Until when? Days? Weeks? What?” I know I was putting pressure on him, and it was something he absolutely did not need. But I simply didn’t care at the moment. I was tired of the whole secrecy and coverup.

  “I don’t know, Bethany!”

  It was the first time he had ever significantly raised his voice at me. I had seen him disappointed and determined when he thought I was a drug user. I had seen him tentative and leery when he saw me with Andre. I had even seen him pleading when I had been witness to that kiss on television. But our current situation was different. He was upset. And it was directed toward me with probable cause. I was pushing him.

  I managed to contain my voice a little better as I offered, “So, you’re not putting out any statement and just going to ignore the questions? Or are you going to lie and say the photo was doctored, or I am just a friend?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” To further demonstrate his stress, he popped his neck and took a breath. “There are people working on halting what is out there, okay? For one thing, the media can’t even positively identify me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s you.”

  “But, as you know, I didn’t use my cards anywhere. We only paid cash. We didn’t say who we were, and besides the essential people, no one knew I was even out of town. There’s no proof. And the really good thing is, I haven’t seen your name anywhere. It’s just mystery woman.”

  Yes, I was astutely aware of all that—the precautions taken and my name status. The article that Irene had “so kindly” shown us at the hospital had identified us as “Ryan Thompson and mystery woman.” I had, indeed, scoured the internet after the kids went to sleep. Besides some reposts and tag-ons of that article, there weren’t any additional ones. But even though my name was still unknown, the image of me was fairly clear. The good part was, I was a nobody songwriter who had faded into the press sunset as soon as my show episode aired. That definitely helped me not being recognized right away. But it probably wouldn’t take long for someone to connect the dots.

  “And, Bethany, it would be a good idea for you to take down any photos of you on your social media. I know you don’t usually post them, but—”

  “Yeah. Fine.” I let out a gargled sigh, shut my eyes momentarily, and then continued, “Forget the media. There are people at work and where I live. What if they see the picture? They know I was on the show and a few know I am working with you. I’m pretty sure some of them will know it’s me, even with sunglasses on. What do I say? I don’t want them thinking I am a—” I couldn’t even say home-wrecker even when I wasn’t. “And what about my family?” I knew the likeliness my mom or dad would see the photo was slim to none, though—they frowned upon the lifestyle that was portrayed in such magazines and television shows.

  “Tell your family ... who you trust. You know I have mine.”

  “My father ... my parents ... won’t like the deceit. I don’t like the deceit.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I don’t like the deceit,” he said firmly.

  “It feels—"

  “Bethany, I get it. I get it. I do.” Frustration and pleading were rolled into one. “Like I said, I’m being advised to wait and give it some time and space. Let the professionals work on it ... try to minimalize it. I promised no comment about anything.”

  “Who? Who is exactly advising you?” I was realizing that not only did they get Kari to commit to treatment the night before, but there had been a lot of other conversations going on, too—like decisions on what to do with the kids and how to handle the ramifications.

  “Lawyers. Her team.”

  I don’t know why that was the final straw, but it was. “Fine. Then, that’s what I’ll give you—time and space.” I grabbed my phone and bag from the coffee table and started past him.

  “What? No.” He followed. “Geez, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I need at all.”

  I adjusted the strap on my shoulder and made it into the hall before turning around. “Maybe I do.”

  I wasn’t sure that was the case. But I couldn’t stand there and listen to the myriad of words that were all saying the same thing. Nothing was changing. Nothing was going to change. It was supposed to. I was told it was going to, and then, once again, a different decision was made.

  “Ah, man, Bethany. I ... I don’t know what to do. I know what I want. But I have to think of the kids, and I have to think of you ... and, yes, Kari. The other thing is, in the state she is in, they don’t think she can handle everyone knowing about the divorce right now. She’ll think everyone will think she is a failure, and it could hinder any progress. She needs to find her way, and then it can all come out. It won’t be long. Everyone ...” He emphasized the word and made a point to look directly into my eyes. “Everyone can be—will be—happy.”

  I knew and was even sorry that Kari was hurting. But I hurt, too. “I hope so. But right now? What’s going on isn’t ... I can’t get the rug pulled out from under me again.” He knew me enough to know what those words meant and how I had been scarred in the past. “I want to believe you, Ryan, but that’s not what it looks like right now. It’s like I said before—sometimes everything seems so fake.”

  “We ... are ... not ... fake.”

&
nbsp; I loved that he was determined to let me know our situation was not what he desired and that he had faith in us. It mellowed my good-bye heart for a beat and allowed me to tell him what had been pounding in my soul for days. “Do you remember when you asked me what I was thinking about that last night at your brother’s? Gosh, Ryan, that was just over twenty-four hours ago.”

  So much had happened. So much had changed. Yet, so much had not.

  “I know.” He sighed. He got it. “What?” he asked a little more calmly, surely recalling our lovely evening. “What were you thinking about?”

  “Number four. You are number four,” I admitted.

  “Four what? Stars? Are you playing judge now?” He was, obviously, trying desperately to bring some levity to our conversation.

  But I was too emotional and ready to tell him something I couldn’t keep inside anymore, and it really was the worst timing. “No. Four,” I answered seriously and somehow managed to look him in the eyes. “You’re the fourth man I’ve been with.” I counted the mutual hand job I had with a guy friend of mine before Hutch. An experimental first for both of us, it still, in my brain, was sex. “And I swore—I had made this secret pact with myself a while ago—that there would be no more than six ... like the six strings on a guitar. I know it sounds weird. But in Napa I thought I wanted to change that to a four-string guitar. And now ... now ...” I was used to writing my feelings in fictitious lyrics. But saying them out loud to the person I wanted to the most? It was new and scary territory for me. But I was determined. “I’m worried that isn’t the case or at least, the string broke.” Admittedly, it was a stupid, immature, girly, got-my-heart-stomped-on-a-couple-times pact, anyway.

  “Bethany ...” I knew I had caught him off guard by the way his voice emotionally trembled my name.

  “I don’t want to be hurt, especially—” I stopped myself.

  “What? Especially what?” he coaxed in the same serene mood I was suddenly in.

  And then I went for it because I had pretty much already said it with my guitar analogy. “Especially when I know I love you.” I brushed his hand after saying those three words and looked down at my phone, which had been vibrating. “My ride is here. I have to get to work.” And I opened the front door.

  “Bethany, wait. Geez.”

  I knew from the volume of his voice that he had stepped out to the front porch after me. But I didn’t turn. And I knew he wouldn’t follow me to the Uber. We didn’t need anyone else as a witness to our connection. We didn’t need any more photos in the press or someone quoting what we were saying to one another. I even instructed the driver to take the private exit out. Looking through the back window as the car pulled away, the last image I saw was Ryan shaking his head and starting to close the door.

  ***

  He tried calling me shortly after I left. It was as the Uber was pulling up to the coffee shop. I’m sure he planned when to time his call—at the point between when I wasn’t entrapped in a vehicle with a stranger and the few minutes or so before I actually had to start my busy day of coffee and pleasantries. He also should have been intuitive enough, though, to realize that it didn’t matter. I was not going to pick up the phone.

  I listened to his voice mail message as I went to the back room and put on my apron. His words were simple, urging me to call him back ... he wanted to talk. I did not—call him back or want to talk. I needed as much of a break from the Thompson saga as I could get. Luckily, the customer turnover was steady enough to keep my mind otherwise occupied. And when there was a lull in activity, I took the opportunity to sing a few songs—sad ones—for the customers who were there.

  For a while, I kept an eye on the door, half-expecting Ryan to make an appearance. But he didn’t, and I was glad. The coffee shop wasn’t the place for our next conversation—not only because of the nature of our talk but because of the implications of the public around us.

  Gracie was the only one who mentioned the photo to me. At first, I started to deny it. But then I stopped. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It was me in the photo online. Not only did Gracie know I worked with the music manager, but she recognized my medical alert ring on the enlarged photo of my hand intwined with Ryan’s. As my boss in a job that dealt with food, she was very familiar with the ring. Not wanting to lie, I pushed the truth around a little and admitted to the authenticity but brushed it off as one of those camera-angles, out-of-context kind of situations. She said she took my word for it but voluntarily added that she wouldn’t give up my guise to anyone. I wondered if that was because she didn’t believe me and had lived in the false lights of La-La Land too long. Or, was it her relating to hiding ... as she felt she needed to with her sexuality in certain situations. Either possibility was simply cry-worthy to me.

  Ryan tried calling again after my shift. But, when I didn’t answer, he did not leave a message. And I knew he wouldn’t try again—at least not for a while—since he was preparing to go on live television.

  When I eventually walked into my room at the apartment house, my feet were heavy and my heart even more so. It would have been a smart idea to have stopped at the building’s dining hall first, as I hadn’t eaten since the toaster pastry in the morning ... but I didn’t. I just flopped on my bed and pulled my dark hair out of the messy bun it had been in since I thought someone at the coffee shop had been looking at me a little too long. It could have been for a multitude of reasons besides a scandalous photo online, but I had decided to at least try to create a mini-disguise.

  I took out my phone and started checking my social media. During the Uber ride from Ryan’s house, I had eliminated the very few photos I had on my sites, but I wanted to make sure there weren’t any comments or posts about the “other” photo. Relived that there weren’t, I had just started to search the web when there was a knock on my door.

  My sigh and greeting were the exact opposite of my next-door neighbor’s exuberance as she bustled into the room. “So ... who do you think is going to be the ‘it’ performance tonight? I like that Tisha. She has the lungs and the confidence. What does your man think?”

  “He’s not my man.” I partially grumbled and made an effort to sit up.

  She blew off my denial. “Whatever you want to call the reason you are never around here anymore. I’m just psyched to actually watch it with you tonight.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I had been holding it all in. Not only that morning and the gut-wrenching admission I made to Ryan but the dramatic night before and, heck, pretty much since we first met. I brought my hands up to my face and began to downright sob.

  “Crap, Bethany.” Willow’s voice instantly softened, and I felt her sit next to me. “What’s wrong? Is it your brother?”

  “No.” I pushed out a puff of air and removed my hands from my face. “We haven’t heard anything yet besides the foot isn’t broken, so that isn’t what is causing the swelling. Sad when you want a foot to be broke.”

  “What’s this all about, then?” She looked at my tear-stricken face.

  It wasn’t a broken foot ... it was my broken heart. “It ... I ... it’s ... it’s Ryan,” I managed to tell the truth.

  “Oh.” She paused. “Oh. I know you’ve been quiet about everything, and these situations don’t usually ...” She had no idea what the real situation was, but I knew she was going to finish her aborted sentence by saying “end well.” And I feared, even if I wasn’t the mistress of a married man, what she was predicting was true.

  “You haven’t seen or heard anything?”

  “No.” Her answer slightly reassured me that the photo wasn’t completely wide yet and maybe Ryan or Kari’s “peeps” had been able to slow it. “What? What would I have seen? Can you tell me?”

  Ryan had said to tell whom I trusted. Not only was Willow someone I did without a doubt, she knew most of it, anyway, and I really needed to talk. “Ironically,” I started, “I think you’ll like him a little more if I do. Do you mind if we don’t watch the sho
w, though? I don’t want ...” Gosh, to see him ... to ache for him ... to wonder if what I had said was the right thing to do.

  “No problem.”

  “I don’t even want to be in this room.” Suddenly, my living space felt even more claustrophobic than ever.

  “You want to get out of here? Yeah, let’s really get out.” She made up my mind for me before I even had a chance. “I’ll drive. You do whatever you need to do to release—talk to me, have a tear in your beer ...” Patting me on the leg, she stood up. “I’m gonna get changed into some fun clothes. You?” She smiled a tease. “Well, do what you can.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Putting my hair up once again and getting out of the clothes I had on all day did help reenergize me a little. Not usually much of a makeup gal, I even refreshed my face with some lipstick and highlighter and popped my brown eyes out with complementary shades of green and brown. Having the windows rolled down in the car further lifted some of the heaviness from my body. And the couple of beverages I immediately started with at the fairly empty bar, admittedly, coated the hurt a little, too.

  Willow acted as the smart sidekick as she drank only diet soda, ordered us appetizers, and listened as I discretely—not using names because of our public setting—filled in some of the missing blanks of Ryan and Bethany, hashtag the truth. She heard it all, including the divorce, the winery, and the photo. But I stopped there. I did not feel comfortable telling her about Kari’s incident or where it had landed her. And I also didn’t tell her about the exact words spoken between Ryan and me that morning. But she knew I was at my breaking point and needed something to change. Because, really, that was what it came down to.