by Jamie Beck
“Lindsey?”
“In here!”
Rob finds me still standing, perplexed, at the foot of our bed. Approaching me from behind, he encircles me with his arms before planting a kiss on my temple. “How’s the dress?”
“What dress?” I scan the bed searching for a dress absentmindedly.
“The wedding gown?” He chuckles and cuddles me again. I spin toward him with a smile.
“Really beautiful. I hope you love it!”
Wrapping my arms over his shoulders, I properly kiss him hello and thread my fingers through the back of his hair. Rob eases himself away before slowly removing his suit coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. He sighs and I notice the strain in his deep-blue eyes.
“What’s up, honey?”
“I need to tell you something.” He rakes his hands through his wavy, black locks before bringing them together over his face and drawing in a deep breath. “Why don’t you sit?”
Robert Whitmore III typically oozes confidence, charisma, and authority. Born and bred to be in charge by his father, one of the top M&A lawyers in New York, he takes to his role well. Now, however, he’s pacing the room while averting his eyes.
My internal alarm clangs violently as questions ricochet in my mind: a work crisis, a problem with the wedding plans, illness? I’m still seated at the edge of the bed when he finally looks at me.
“What, Rob? Spit it out.” My hands fist in my lap. “Are you canceling our trip?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
A pit opens in my stomach.
“That sounds ominous.” I wait, my lungs stilled, while he fumbles for words. “Please, Rob, the suspense is terrible. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“You know how much I love you. I really do love you, Lindsey. But,” he starts, “I have a confession. . . .” He looks at me, his expression resigned. “I was with someone else a few weeks ago.”
A low hum resonates in my ears as if I’ve experienced an abrupt change in altitude.
“What?” I blink, unable to process his remarks. Did I hear him correctly?
“When you went to Boston with your friends the other weekend, I went out with friends from work and ended up sleeping with a girl who was at the club. It was stupid, I was drunk—all the clichés—but it didn’t mean anything, Linds.”
He kneels before me, clutching my hands. When he looks up, his eyes and forehead wrinkle with regret. I stiffen, too astonished to think, let alone speak. Eventually, I find my voice.
“I went to Boston a month ago. Why are you telling me only now?”
He cringes at my accusatory tone, but I’m working on pure instinct. While awaiting his reply, I repress the nausea swelling and boiling inside.
“I promise it was only the one time,” he starts, “but she called me this morning at the office with upsetting news. I need to, uh,” he mumbles, before breaking off and rubbing his hand over his face again. “You need to be checked out by a doctor for chlamydia. Apparently you can have it a long time without any symptoms.”
He stands up and bends over at the waist. Grasping his knees, he lets out a small whoosh of breath, obviously relieved by his admission. Accustomed to fixing problems once they’re exposed, I know Rob believes telling me the unpleasant news is the worst part.
Fury replaces the sickness in my stomach. I jump to my feet, shrieking, “You had sex with some slut and now I might be infected with an STD? Are you?”
“I don’t know yet. But either way, you need to be tested, Lindsey. It’s easy to cure with antibiotics, but if left untreated, it can cause irreversible damage. I couldn’t take a chance with your health just to conceal my indiscretion.”
I lunge at him and pound my fists against his chest. He grabs my wrists after allowing two or three punches to land. I break into sobs, withdrawing from his touch as if he’s burned my skin.
“How could you?” My body sways as my knees start to give. “Why? Why’d you do this to us?”
He holds me close and I momentarily melt into the familiar warmth of his body.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It meant nothing to me, Lindsey. I swear!” His cheek brushes against my hair and he kisses the top of my head. “It’s not an excuse, but it was simply drunken stupidity. Tell me how we can put it behind us and move on.”
“What?” I push away from him again, my mouth agape. “Put it behind us? This isn’t something to sweep under the carpet. You risked our relationship and our health. If the tables were turned, you’d never forgive and forget.”
His face blanches at the mere suggestion of my infidelity, but he recovers and considers my accusation. “You’re upset, which you have every right to be. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’ve been sorry for weeks. Frankly, I’m relieved to have told the truth before we’re married. Look at me—this will never happen again!”
In this instant, I don’t recognize him or myself. My ears throb. I’m acutely aware of each heartbeat hammering in my chest, while my lungs search for air. Turning away, I draw a slow breath through my nose to steady my thoughts. A moment later, I force myself to face him.
I summon my strength and hide the depth of my heartache. “You bet it won’t happen again. The wedding is off, Rob.” My lips begin to quiver and tears mount in my eyes.
“Don’t say that, Linds. Come on. I know I screwed up, but I haven’t habitually betrayed you. I’ve loved you for years. I’m committed to being a partner and husband you can count on. For better or worse, that’s the deal. This is my worst.” When I don’t respond, he applies guilt. “Don’t break my heart, baby. I need you.”
I recognize these moves. He’s angling to win this argument. Smooth, savvy, and a great manipulator. Qualities that propelled his meteoric rise at work. I’ve been trained to respect these traits in a man, but suddenly, they seem vile and repulsive. The chiseled features I’d always found so handsome now appear hollow and grotesque. The worst, however, is his condescension—assured I’ll forgive him as long as he begs. Misreading my silence as acquiescence, he moves to hug me. His contact awakens me from my trance and I bat at his arms.
Backing away, I whisper, “You can’t love me. You don’t know me at all.”
“That’s completely untrue.” He spreads his arms wide, palms up. “I know you better than anyone.”
“If you expect I’ll marry you on schedule, after you betrayed me, then you don’t know me.” Despite feeling shaky, I continue, “And I don’t know you, either. All I know now is I don’t trust you.”
Worry flickers across his face. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’re the perfect girl for me.” He slumps into the chair, studying me mournfully. “Please don’t throw everything away two weeks before the wedding. Let’s take the weekend to get some perspective. I believe in us. We can work through this together and be stronger.”
Only two weeks until our wedding. What do I do about the guests, the gifts, all the plans . . . and the whispered rumors sure to follow a last-minute cancellation? I grab my stomach and ease back down onto the bed. Overcome with emotion, I refuse to meet his gaze. I’m conscious of his eyes searching out mine, waiting for me to speak.
Rob’s phone rings, disturbing the heavy silence sitting between us. Of course, he answers it. Judging from his terse replies and his fingers rubbing his temples, I know he’ll be returning to work. When he finishes the call, he turns to me and bites his lower lip.
“I’ve got to get back to the office to nail down a merger issue before we take off for Bermuda tonight,” he says through a false smile. He sits beside me and rests his hand on my thigh, eliciting no response from me. “Lindsey, let’s take the trip. We’ll use the time to talk all of this through. Meet me at the airport?”
I view him as though he’s one thousand miles away and hear myself say, “I need to call the doctor now.”
“I love you.” Apparently unwilling to risk probing me further, he takes his suitcase in his hand and kisses my forehead. “I’ll meet you
at the airport in a few hours and we’ll work this all out. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I’m really sorry.”
Despite my silence, the significance of his confession, and the fact that our future hangs in the balance, duty calls. Work has always been his first love and priority, so I’m not surprised when he leaves. Once the apartment door closes, I allow myself the freedom to cry out loud.
I slide from the bed onto the floor and hold my face. Hot tears soak my hands. Everything I thought I knew just slipped through my fingers like water in a sieve. Hugging my knees to my chest, I rock myself and replay the past few weeks to determine how I missed the signs.
I’ve always secretly assumed that women who claim they’ve been blindsided by a cheater probably weren’t paying attention. Is this karmic payback for my arrogance? Convinced he’d shown no change in behavior, and no sign of guilt or remorse, I begin questioning what other elaborate lies he might have told. How many secrets does he keep?
Lying on the floor, I take stock of the hours wasted worrying about wedding plans, anticipating and planning to prevent crisis, following the expected path and working toward the life I’d been taught to desire. None of my preparation prevented disaster from striking. Worse, I didn’t even see it coming.
The humiliating blow bites hard, irreparably breaking my heart. On some level, I know no one gets through life without pain. Had I truly understood it, however, I’d have wasted less time trying to manage circumstances beyond my control.
In a small way, perhaps the glass shattering is a sobering opportunity to revisit my life choices. Three years with Rob. I’ve felt comfortable and content with him. Is that enough? Can I forgive him?
Even though he’s several years older than me, we share similar backgrounds and educations, have the same taste in movies and books, and both want a family and life similar to what we’ve always known. He’s never forgotten a birthday, anniversary, or other special occasion, always treated my parents well, and been kind to my friends. He must love me if he wants to marry me. Does the positive outweigh the negative?
My open wounds sting in response to conjured images of him kissing and touching another woman. It’s too soon to make a permanent decision, but I can’t marry him in two weeks, if ever.
Eventually, I pick myself up off the floor and pack the suitcase on my bed, plus two others, now caring very little about what ends up inside them. On my way out the door, I take off my three-carat, colorless, cushion-cut diamond and place it on the entry table with a note that reads simply, I can’t marry you in June. I need time.
CHAPTER THREE
Malibu, California
June 2, 2013
Levi
The noisy racket coming from my bathroom wakes me. I squint at the sunlight flooding through the open sliding-glass door of the bedroom. Familiar cries of seagulls and the crash of waves on the coast greet me, reminding me I’m not in Vegas anymore. Shoving aside a mostly empty glass of tequila, I roll over and squint harder at the clock on the bedside table. 10:48 in bright green numbers. Morning.
I flip the lid off of an Altoids tin and pop a cinnamon mint in my mouth, then notice the box of my pop’s belongings sitting on the table. Neither the poker tables nor the women of LA have been able to erase the images of my pop in that morgue. Throughout the week I’ve been plagued by sudden bursts of gloom, just like now. I pinch the bridge of my nose to brush the feeling aside. More clattering in the bathroom catches my attention again.
She’ll be coming out of there soon. Turning back over, I prop my head up on my hand and try to recall her name.
Comfortably naked as a jaybird, she halts in the doorway when she notices me watching her. Sexy, but she’s just another Barbie doll. Straight, blonde hair; blue eyes; unnatural proportions. You’d think a smart girl chasing fame and fortune might try to distinguish herself, rather than imitate others. Then I decide smart people don’t want fame—fortune yes, but fame’s a life sentence in a fishbowl. No sane person would choose to live that way.
“Mornin’, doll.” I smile, lifting one brow. “You want to shower before I take you home?”
“Sure.” Barbie doesn’t even fight the brush-off. “I’ll be quick.”
I drag myself up to brush my teeth, make the bed, and peel the dirty clothes from the floor. Grabbing a fresh pair of jeans and clean T-shirt, I carry last night’s tequila glass downstairs to the kitchen. I’ve nearly finished my orange juice when she appears from around the corner.
“All set.” She combs her fingers through her wet hair.
“Hungry?” I ask to be polite, although I suspect she’ll decline, since few women out here eat very much.
“A little, actually.”
Damn. Nothing personal, but I don’t want to spend much of my day with her, or anyone else for that matter. Pop always warned me of the dangers of trusting folks—of letting others know my heart and mind. His conditioning keeps me wary. For better or worse, those younger years hardened and shaped me.
On the other hand, I’m pretty hungry myself.
“Okay, then. Go take a seat somewhere and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“Cereal’s fine,” she offers.
“Not for me it isn’t.” I smile and shoo her away.
Working quickly, I chop a red bell pepper, an onion, and fresh spinach, then toss them all in a hot sauté pan. While they heat, I whip eggs together with some milk. I pour the frothy egg mixture over the vegetables in the pan and cover it so the frittata can cook. After setting two plates out and heating some water for tea, I pop a few slices of bread in the toaster. I set the crisp toast out with butter before I call Barbie back to the kitchen.
“Wow, this smells amazing.” She holds her hair back and sniffs the frittata. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
“I like to eat well, so I had to learn.” My stomach rumbles in anticipation of the savory meal. “Enjoy.”
“Can we eat out on your deck?”
“I guess so. Grab your plate.”
I gather some things on a tray and follow her out to the deck.
Sunny skies and a lack of wind offer perfect conditions for eating outdoors, and for people watching. Saturdays at the beach are more congested than weekdays. Families scatter to construct sand castles and build other sand art. A few Pepperdine beach bunnies must have that new app that guides you past the barriers constructed by residents across the entrances to the public beach. The sorority scene’s a plus in my mind, although at thirty, the maturity level of a nineteen-year-old girl holds less appeal to me now. Not sure why it matters, since I rarely see the same girl more than a few times. But I get bored with trivial conversation and find I’m growing less patient with each year.
Still, I admire the bikini-clad women from a distance. Flashbacks of my late teens pass through my mind like a slideshow, producing an unexpected smile. Despite not attending college, I’m no stranger to the sorority houses in Georgia, Alabama, and Florida.
“Nice-looking surfboard.” Barbie gestures toward the corner of the deck where I left my shortboard yesterday. “Will you ride later?”
A quick scan of the shore shows that the mighty ocean’s only offering ankle busters today—not enough temptation for me to suit up.
“Nah.” I slice my fork through my frittata and take a bite. “Not worth it today.”
“Huh. You’re quite the man of mystery. You’ve got a hidden talent as a chef. You surf. I didn’t see any pictures in your house of family or friends. And what’s with all the books in the living room? Are you a film scout or book critic or something?” She wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “You never mentioned what you do for a living.”
“Cooking’s not a hidden talent if I share it, right? As for the books, I just enjoy reading.” I evade the topic of my career.
“So, then, what’s your occupation?”
“Work’s for suckers,” I joke, unwilling to share my history. I’d rather she think I inherited money, or some other such thing, t
han open myself up to a lot of questions about my past.
“You sound like you’re not originally from LA. Is your family still somewhere in the Say-outh?” She smiles at her attempt to imitate my inflection.
And just like that, she destroys the little break from thinking about Pop I’d been enjoying during breakfast. “No family in LA.”
She sips her tea, letting the silence stretch between us, and then arches one brow. “You don’t talk much, do you, Levi?”
“Not when I’m eating.” I wink, hoping to encourage her to finish soon so I can take her home before she starts grilling me for more personal details.
Her gaze wanders out to the beach as she taps her fingers on the arms of the chair. “We’re not going to see each other again, are we?”
“I try not to predict the future.” I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “But I wouldn’t be sorry to bump into you again sometime.”
“Gotcha.” She inhales through her nose, then says, without sorrow or anger, “Well, I’m all set. Thanks for the delicious meal. Will you give me a ride me home now?”
Her lack of disappointment confirms we’re alike; she values freedom and independence. In this regard, she’s the perfect woman for me.
Except I’m not looking for the perfect woman.
“Yes, ma’am. Let’s go.” When she stands to collect her dishes, I wave her off. “I’ll take care of all that when I return.”
I motion toward the garage, then hand her a helmet and put on my shoes for the ride. She climbs behind me on my Ducati and wraps her arms around my waist as I turn south onto the Pacific Coast Highway.
Lindsey
Staring at the ocean while driving along the Pacific Coast Highway with my car top down, I catch sight of my bare finger gripping the steering wheel. I removed my engagement ring more than a week ago and, three days later, boxed up my belongings from Rob’s apartment.
After storing nonessentials, I kissed my parents, my friends, my job, and New York good-bye. With the help of my trust fund, I rented a small beach house in Malibu for several months.