“And don’t touch those beers,” I caution. “I know how many are there.” But she doesn’t reply. She has already immersed herself in some reality show.
Lucy
“FINALLY,” I MUTTER as I hear Trent’s car pull into the driveway. Sam has every right to be upset, but running off to her dad’s place isn’t the way to deal with this. I need to make her understand that there’s nothing going on between Wynn and me. And even if there was, it’s really none of her business. I am a grown woman with emotional and physical needs. And Wynn is not the teenybopper with the overalls and can of yellow paint she thinks he is.
Yanking open the front door, I prepare to greet my angry daughter. “Oh my god,” I say as he lopes up to the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” Wynn says. “Can I come in?”
“No,” I snap. “Sam will be home soon and the last thing she needs is to find you here.”
Wynn looks over his shoulder. “We should talk in private. I don’t think I was followed, but …”
I suddenly have a vision of a swarm of paparazzi on motorbikes racing into my front yard. All I need is for Emily Sullivan next door to be alerted to my recent notoriety. “Come in.”
Alone in my foyer, Wynn reaches for me. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
I pull away. “Me too. I should never have agreed to come to your house.” What I really mean is, you should have just agreed to sleep with me instead of rejecting me like some idealistic moron.
“Don’t say that.” He moves closer to me. I’m disappointed that my anger has done nothing to diminish my attraction to him. “I’m still glad you came—no matter what this has done to my reputation.”
I take a step back. “Your reputation?”
Wynn looks sheepish. “Millions of teenage girls think I’m Cody Summers. It’s not good for ratings when they see me with someone who could be …” He trails off.
“Go ahead, say it,” I snap. “Someone who could be your mother.”
“Well … not my mother, but Cody’s mom.”
The whole thing suddenly seems overwhelmingly sordid. “You need to go. Sam knows about the photo in the paper and she’s justifiably disgusted. Trent should be bringing her back any minute.”
“Okay,” Wynn says. “But I came here to tell you that I’m going away for a while. The press is camped outside the studio and my house, and my managers said I should get away until this dies down.”
“Good idea.”
“I was thinking that maybe you’d want to come with me?”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I splutter.
“My mom and my brother were supposed to come visit me here. But I’ve decided to go see them in New Mexico instead. I don’t know … it might be fun for you to meet them?”
I can think of very few things less fun than meeting Wynn’s family. “I can’t.”
He seems to have read my mind. “We could go somewhere else then … somewhere warm. Sam could stay with your ex for a few days. It would give her time to cool off.”
Looking at him, I’m surprised by his earnestness. Yes, there is chemistry between us, and yes, our make-out sessions have been very exciting. But that’s all we have—chemistry. It doesn’t mean we should go on a holiday together!
Wynn takes my pause as consideration and continues. “By the time we get back, the press will have lost interest. Everything will go back to normal.”
“No,” I say, but my tone is less adamant than I intended.
Suddenly, Wynn grabs me by the belt and pulls me close to him. Our bodies collide and the attraction is undeniable. “Come on, Lucy. My contract’s up after next season. When I’m not Cody anymore, no one will care about the age difference.”
Maybe he’s right? Wynn’s next role has got to be more age appropriate. He could be twenty-nine-year-old Detective Robbie Madison, or thirty-two-year-old cardio-thoracic surgeon Dr. Larry Shoenfeld. And there’s nothing wrong with dating a thirty-two-year-old cardio-thoracic surgeon, is there?
“They’ve been talking about doing a spin-off, Cody’s Way at Berkeley, but I’m not committing.”
That’s when I hear a car pull into the drive. “Oh my god!” I shriek. “Sam’s here! You’ve got to go!”
Grabbing his wrist, I try to drag him to the back door, but he resists. “We can’t hide from her.”
“Yes we can!”
“My car’s out front.”
“Shit!” I slap his chest. It’s ineffectual, but somehow satisfying. I do it three more times for good measure before I spy the coat closet. “Get in there,” I say, shoving him toward it.
But Wynn won’t be shoved. “We need to talk to her. We can make her understand.”
“Understand?” I cry. “Obviously you know nothing about teenagers!” Of course, I could be wrong. Given that Wynn’s entire career is built on appealing to the teen demographic, he may have some useful insights. But he doesn’t know my teenager.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Please,” I plead, my eyes welling with tears. “It’ll be too much, finding you here.”
Wynn looks about to comply when we hear a key in the lock. Before we can react, the door swings open and Trent walks into the room.
“Where’s Sam?” I blurt, instantaneously discerning that she’s not with him.
“At my apartment,” he says. “What’s he doing here?”
“He was just leaving.”
But Wynn is proving less compliant than one would expect from someone his age. He steps forward. “I’m a friend of Lucy’s. We work together at—”
Trent cuts him off. “I know who you are. You’re the reason my daughter is humiliated and threatening to drop out of school.”
“Oh god,” I say, fighting back the tears. “She wants to drop out of school now?”
Trent moves toward Wynn. “You’re supposed to be a teen heartthrob. What the hell are you doing running around with someone old enough to be your mother?”
I gasp, outraged. What is with all this mother stuff? Technically, I guess I could have given birth to Wynn when I was thirteen, but it’s not like I was sexually active then. Before I can speak, Wynn comes to my aid. “Yeah, Lucy’s a few years older than me. What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal?” Trent booms. He looks at me, his face a mask of anger and jealousy. I should be enjoying this, I think, but I’m too worried about Sam.
“This is not Wynn’s fault,” I snap at my husband. “If anyone’s to blame for Sam’s problems, it’s you.”
“At least I had the decency to keep my fling private,” he growls.
“Private?” I snort. “Like bringing that cow to the Crofton House art show was keeping it private?”
“This is not a fling,” Wynn says, stepping up and putting his arm around me. “Lucy has made a huge difference in my life. We’re friends … good friends. And I think we could be more.”
Under different circumstances, this moment would be extremely romantic. Under these circumstances, it’s a little creepy.
“Get your hands off my wife,” Trent growls.
“Look pal …” Wynn starts, but is unable to finish as Trent’s fist has found its way into his face. There’s a sickening crunch as my husband’s knuckles connect with Wynn’s chiseled cheekbone.
“Stop!” I scream, jumping in between them. Then to Trent: “What the hell are you doing?”
“Tell him to butt out!” Trent hollers. “He is not a part of this family!”
“Jesus Christ,” Wynn says, rubbing at his cheek. “My face is my livelihood, you psycho.”
Trent takes a threatening step toward him and Wynn retreats behind me—not very manly or sexy, but I’m still on his side. “You need to get out of my house,” I growl at my husband.
“Our house,” he says, pushing past us and heading for the staircase.
“Not our house!” I scream after him as he jogs up the stairs. I leave Wynn massaging his bruised face
and scurry behind Trent. “You gave up the right to call this your home when you ran off with that fat slut!”
I find him in Samantha’s room, extracting handfuls of underwear and socks from her drawer and tossing them onto the bed. “What are you doing?” I demand.
He doesn’t stop. “I’m getting Sam some clothes. She’s staying with me for a while.”
“Oh, no she’s not!” I say, grabbing a handful of underpants and attempting to return them to her dresser.
Trent blocks my way. “She’s upset and humiliated. She doesn’t want to be around you right now, and frankly, I don’t blame her.”
In all our years together, Trent has never pissed me off enough to strike him—until this very moment. I wind up and swing. Unfortunately, all those years without practice have made my punch a little easy to predict. Trent grabs my fist before it connects.
“You fucking bastard,” I hiss.
“You selfish bitch.” We stand for a moment, eyes locked, our breathing labored. And then Trent yanks my wrist, pulling me toward him. Before I can react, he’s kissing me, hard, almost painfully. There is nothing tender or loving about it: it’s angry, violent, and so goddamn hot! For a moment I consider pushing him into the pile of underwear on Sam’s bed and ravaging him, but sanity prevails. I pull away from him.
“Get out,” I croak.
Without a word, Trent continues gathering Sam’s belongings, almost as though the kiss never happened. I find this confusing and, for some reason, wildly attractive. But I can’t forget that Wynn is downstairs, nursing a dented cheekbone. “Tell Sam I’ll expect her home tomorrow,” I say in a tone not open for argument. Turning on my heel, I hurry downstairs to make Wynn an ice pack.
Trent
I DROVE SAM UP TO CROFTON HOUSE in time for the 8:40 a.m. bell. Thank Christ she didn’t put up a fight. After all that Wynn Felker shit last night, the last thing I needed was to get into a scrap with her. She pouted the whole way, of course, but that’s starting to seem pretty normal. I sat in the car until I saw her go into the school, just in case.
Granville Street is surprisingly clear, so I push the speed limit just a little. I love driving this car, I really do. It’s a bit of a release from all my pent-up frustration. Yaletown living has turned me into a total pedestrian. Not that I want to be sitting in my Lexus for an hour each morning while I commute to mini-mall hell. Forget it. And even if I was okay with the drive, there’s no way I could do it now that Sam’s living with me.
It’s a temporary situation, it has to be. But when I told Sam that her mom wanted her home tonight, she laughed as if I’d said I was having a sex-change operation. I can’t blame her. This whole thing with Lucy and that Cody kid is sickening. I’m glad I punched him, frankly. The little pansy deserved it. I just can’t believe Lucy would humiliate Sam and me this way. Yeah, Annika was a mistake, but at least she wasn’t a public mistake. Lucy always seemed the poster child for good judgment. She was always worrying about what the neighbors thought, what other parents thought. That’s obviously gone out the window.
My cell phone rings, causing my stomach to drop a little. If it’s Crofton House telling me that Sam’s done a runner, I will ground that kid for the rest of her life. Digging the phone out of the console, I check the call display. The number is blocked.
“Hello?”
A male voice with a British accent says: “This is Paul Arnett calling from In Touch magazine. Would you like to comment on your wife’s relationship with Wynn Felker?”
It’s April Fools’ Day today. This has to be a prank. But no, given my luck recently, I know it’s real. “How did you get this number?” I demand, pulling the Lexus to the curb.
“It must be hard for you to watch your wife carrying on with a teen heartthrob. How does your daughter feel about it?”
“Leave my daughter out of this!” I growl, a wave of fury nearly overwhelming me. But I quickly regain control. “No comment,” I say, hanging up the phone and turning it off.
I sit in the car for a few minutes trying to calm myself. This can’t be fucking happening. If the press has my cell phone number, they probably know where I live. They probably know where Sam goes to school. We’ll be swarmed every time we set foot outside. Our pictures will end up in all the trashy magazines: the poor, pitiful husband and daughter of Wynn Felker’s new girlfriend. Well, she’s not his new girlfriend, goddammit, she’s my wife. Yeah, we’re going through a rough patch, but that kiss yesterday proves there’s still something there. We’ve got a kid and a home and we’ve still got the chemistry. Of course, right now I’m totally pissed off at her, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on our marriage.
Easing the car back onto the road, I try to push the one recurring thought out of my mind. Unfortunately, it resurfaces, as it has about four thousand times in the past eighteen hours. There’s no point living with regret, they say. But whoever “they” are, they probably didn’t make a decision that turned out to have such horrible, far-reaching consequences. Yeah, I was selfish and horny and irresponsible, but so are millions of other guys out there. Look at Mike! None of the women he slept with turned out to be a complete psycho who went after his job. Hope didn’t bang some twelve-year-old pop star and end up in the tabloids. Do I really deserve all this? Jesus Christ!
I park the car in my building’s underground lot and walk, in a kind of daze, to the office. The spring sun is making a rare appearance, and on another day I would have appreciated its warmth. But in my current state, it may as well be pouring rain down on me. I’m not completely depressed about what lies ahead. It’s not going to be pleasant, but it’s no worse than all the other crap I’ve had to deal with lately. I guess I’m just resigned. My life has turned to complete shit and I may as well accept it.
Conversations cease abruptly as I enter my workplace. Most of my co-workers avert their eyes; only a couple of the guys give me a nod and a “Hey Trent.” It’s not like I give a shit. In about twenty minutes, I’ll never have to see any of them again. I head straight to Don’s office—no point taking my coat off. He’s on the phone, but when he notices me lingering outside, he says: “I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Hey,” I say, walking into his office.
“So …?” Don says, getting right to the point. “Have you thought about my offer?”
I sit in my usual chair. “I can’t go to Coquitlam,”I tell him. “My daughter’s moved in with me and I need to be around for her.”
Don doesn’t seem surprised … or disappointed. “I understand.”
For some reason I feel compelled to elaborate. Normally I’d want to keep this kind of thing quiet, but Don has become a sort of de facto sounding board. “I don’t know if you saw my wife’s picture in the paper.”
“No. Why was she in the paper?”
“Apparently, she’s having some sort of fling with Wynn Felker.” Don looks at me blankly. “Cody Summers,” I explain.
“Oh my god!” Don says and his shock is satisfying. “Isn’t he like, seventeen years old?”
“His character is. The real guy is twenty-seven or something.”
Don is still disturbed. “My niece loves that kid.”
“So does my daughter. Well, not so much now.”
“That’s got to be tough,” he says. “And the tabloids got a hold of this?”
“One of them called me on my way into work.”
“Jesus Christ.” There’s a moment of silence, and I can practically read Don’s mind: this guy is cursed.
It’s time to get back on topic. “So, I’ll email you a formal resignation letter, if that’s okay. I take it you don’t want me to give two weeks’ notice?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry it had to go this way, Trent. You were a good employee up until …”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll still give you a good reference,” Don says. “And I know McMillan Securities is always looking for good advisers.”
“I’ll give them
a call.”
“And who knows … maybe you’ll end up back here one day … when we’ve had some personnel changes.”
It would be great to think that Don will be able to oust that crazy bitch and bring me back on, but I’m a realist. I shrug. “You never know.”
Standing up, I extend my hand. “Thanks,” I say, “it was great while it lasted.”
Don shakes it firmly. “Good luck to you.”
Back in my office, I begin to pack up my personal items. There’s not much: a couple of outdated photos of Sam, a framed ink drawing of ants that she gave me for Father’s Day. The coffee mug is mine but I’ll consider it a donation. I’m going to have to return my cell phone, which is a pain. I think I’ll just hang onto it for a while and pretend I forgot. Within minutes I’m done: seven years captured in one medium-sized cardboard box, and it’s not even full.
“What are you doing?” Her sudden presence in the doorway scares the shit out of me. I look at her standing there in her cute outfit with her cute hair as though everything is just hunkyfucking-dory.
“Packing up and getting out,” I growl. “You should be happy now.”
“Happy?” she cries. “I don’t want you to leave!”
Why am I continually surprised at what a whack job she is? “You said it was you or me,” I grumble. “So now it’s you.”
I grab the box off my desk and try to push past her, but she blocks my way. I’m tempted to plow right through her, but she’d probably charge me with assault. “Excuse me,” I say pointedly.
“Trent, don’t go,” she says, her voice low. “I’m sorry about everything. I was just hurt and upset and I felt used. I don’t want you to lose your job over this.”
“Too late.” I make another attempt to leave, but she throws her body in my path.
“I saw the photo of Lucy in the paper. I know how humiliated and ashamed you must feel. And Sam must be mortified. I want to be there for you, to help you both get through this.”
That’s it. I’ll risk an assault charge to get out of here now. “Let me through,” I say, pushing her out of my way. Fortunately, Annika doesn’t scream out in false pain. Unfortunately, she trails me down the hall, yapping like a Chihuahua.
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 19