by Maria Benson
My real problem, I realize before swiveling to face the music, is that I’m not sure who it is. At this point, there are too many candidates.
CHAPTER 36
Aimee
Though it’s relatively early in the evening, I am already feeling a little disoriented. The ball is really the first large, high-profile party I have attended since becoming “Aimee Chase, that woman,” and though I am now used to being recognized regularly in public, this is really a whole ‘nother level. Unlike speaking engagements like the Cosmo shows, I did not come here to work; I came looking to play. I have been around the Chicago yuppie and hipster scenes long enough that I’m used to running into plenty of friends and acquaintances at events like this, but that’s different from being accosted regularly by strangers–less than half of them sober–who think they know you.
There are the fans, the ones whose words and smiles validate my decision to come clean in the first place and free Ian from the bogus abuse allegations. “I wish I’d had your courage,” are the simple words of a fifty-something woman who slides next to me in line at one of the open bars. “Whenever I’m tempted to return my ex’s calls,” whispers a woman around my age, “I go to your site for words of wisdom.” This one accosted me in the ladies’ room, but with a testimony like that, who I am to complain? For every fan who seeks me out for direct acclaim, there are probably five others–most of them twenty-something women–who simply nod knowingly in my direction. Factoring in irony, it occurs to me half of them may just be respectful haters, but I will take them over their more direct brethren.
Those types of haters have their share of company. Equally divided in terms of gender, they express their hostility with blank stares, derisive smiles, smart-ass quips–one uppity woman in oversized glasses wags a finger in my face while drawling, “If he’s a cheater, he’s a beater”–and the occasional flat-out rant.
To her credit, Scott’s fiancé Ava proves quite skilled in helping me beat back the various flavors of haters, but thirty minutes after separating from Michael I’m ready to have him or someone else I can really trust at my side. When Ava gets deep into a conversation with a filmmaker who shows interest in her plan to take some acting classes, I surreptitiously text Sydney, who is supposed to be here tonight with Dahlia, the new lady in her life. Two minutes after I text my location, she appears at my side, one hand attached to a tall, full-figured woman of Southeast Asian descent.
I give Dahlia, whom I have heard plenty about, a long hug before turning to make obligatory introductions between her, Sydney, Ava and Ava’s film industry buddies. When it turns out that Dahlia knows the filmmaker, Sydney and I take the opportunity to hide in plain sight, stepping back a couple of paces for our own catch-up dialogue.
She smiles widely and gets up in my face. “So what’s shakin’, bacon?”
I give her a warm hug, mirroring her infectious smile. “You are, looks like to me. Things going well?”
Sydney balances her wine glass in one hand while planting the other against her side. “Ooh, do I look as goofy and lost in love as you have for the past month?”
Laughing, I bite my lower lip. “Michael and I are old news compared to you and Ms. Dahlia. You know much more about me and him than I know about your love life.”
“Back it up there, Chase,” Sydney says, her sleeveless spaghetti strap dress accentuating the shimmer of her shoulders as she titters. “Dahlia and I haven’t done half of what you and Mr. Blake have been up to.”
A playful tilt of my head says plenty. “Well, anatomically I wouldn’t think that’s possible.”
Sydney rewards that with a phony frown and a middle finger. “You know what I mean, nut. I’m taking this dating stuff slow. Lots of early dates full of talking, walking and figuring out if we really like each other. There’ll be time down the road to bump uglies.”
She shrugs. “So, you kicked me off the phone this morning to take a call from Dustin. What does he want now?”
“That’s right,” I say, nodding patiently at a group of college-age looking girls who are slowly crossing Sydney’s and my path. They have yet to learn the art of staring at someone without letting it be obvious. Leaving them to their shy ignorance, I focus anew on Sydney and fill her in on my father’s offer.
Relations with my parents have been a tricky thing in the six weeks since I unwittingly forced them to open up about the stormy nature of their affair, and how it continued into the early years of my life. After a hiccup of mutual silence that lasted a couple of weeks, my mother and I are back to talking regularly, with the awkward dynamic of her always wanting to further apologize and explain, which I insist is unnecessary.
Between the self-examination and discovery I am getting out of working on my book, blogging, and trading experiences with fans at speaking engagements–not to mention what amounts to free therapy as part of my ongoing business activities with Dr. Sarah Lott–I cannot sit around blaming my parents for the self-sabotaging choices that characterized my twenties. Now that everyone’s cards are on the table, I’m convinced that we are each accountable to no one but ourselves.
That realization hasn’t completely transformed my relationship with Dustin, however. I don’t exactly find myself picking up the phone to call him, well, ever. I have made a habit, though, of including him on the texts I usually send Mom after each notable speaking engagement or media interview. Every now and then, he will reply with a grumpy but nearly-proud sounding word or two. Usually something like 'Well played,' or 'Nicely done.'
Still, his first words when I answered his call bowled me over. “I want to help,” was all he said.
“With what?”
“Your web site, your social media stuff. I’m old, cantankerous, and responsible for half the troubles in your life, but is there any way I can help bring more attention to your work?”
I was too dumbfounded to fish out an intelligent response. “Why?”
I heard him inhale deeply, then allow for a pregnant pause. “Aimee, give yourself some credit. I have read your blogs, I have watched your interviews. You’re letting me off the hook for being a shitty mess of a father to you. I can’t do much about that, but for what it’s worth, I can give you the gift of my brand, or whatever you marketing dweebs call it.”
By the time we talked through the possibilities, first one-on-one and then with my publicist Helen on the line, we landed on the option of a traditional media interview–something on a network, in prime time where a majority of Dustin’s aging fan base tended to still seek entertainment. Helen was pitching it as something that would simultaneously stream live online, with content that would be used as the basis for two blog entries, one authored by me and one prepared by Dustin. She had christened it the “interview that will help daughters of all ages address those pesky ‘daddy issues,’” and was confident it would draw offers from every network.
Sydney is beaming at this news. “See what you did?”
“What I did?”
She opens her arms, brings me in for a hug. “You’ve always had the moxie, the courage,” she says, chin nearly parked on my shoulder. “You did something most women would have been too intimidated to do, Aimee. And as effective as you’ve been in getting the attention of women who need to make smarter life choices, you probably didn’t realize you were also getting Dustin’s.”
As we separate from the embrace, I wipe in vain at a sprouting tear. “Please stop, you’re going to make my mascara run.”
“Okay, my heroine,” she says, smiling as a hand wave from Dahlia catches her eye. “Looks like I’m being summoned.” She leans in suddenly. “You know I can’t leave without checking on another aspect of your courage. You tell Michael about Ian yet?”
After ambushing me at the Cosmo Forum the other day with news of Nadine’s role in the video scandal, Ian had bowled me over. “She acted out of vengeance, Aimee, and I bear some responsibility for driving her to this. I still can’t excuse it, though. Trust me, I’ve shouldered my sha
re of burdens on her behalf.”
When I reminded Ian that Nadine’s apparent goal had been to protect their marriage–after all, she had stood by him through the revelation of the affair–he was not sold. “I’m done,” he said, stepping into my personal space. “I can never trust her again,” he said, sighing. “You said it to me once before, and you were right: the accountable, responsible thing at this point is a divorce.”
“You don’t want one,” I had said, shrugging. “You’d never do that to your children.”
He had crossed his arms. “You should see life around our house these days. The girls probably already feel like they’re from a broken home. Family time is either Nadine and them, or me and them. And when it’s just her and me, everything is either icy or hellacious.”
I crossed my arms, hugged myself. “Ian, I am really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” He stepped closer, then knelt so that our noses nearly touched. I was embarrassed to admit that it wasn’t threatening; it was actually kind of sexy. “Aimee, I’m here because only good has come from our relationship. And I’m thinking I should value that over a job that would keep us apart.”
I could feel the warmth of his gentle breath on my lips as he spoke. An endless stream of memories of stolen evenings and afternoon rendezvous began to make my head swim. I hoped he didn’t notice the rush of heat flooding my face. “Ian,” I said with increasingly shallow breaths, “what are you saying?”
Realizing now that I need to address Sydney’s query, I curl my upper lip and shoo her away. “I have told Michael about Ian’s standing offer, happy? Now go, Dahlia is waiting.”
“Ohhh.” She shakes her head slowly, as if to say for shame. “I think you’re weighing his offer. Do you really think he’d leave his family, and that job?”
“My answer should be no,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief, “but I really think he’s serious.”
Sydney peers into my gaze thoughtfully. “So, you made out to Michael like you’re not swayed, but you’re clearly weighing–”
I narrow my eyes, then flip Sydney around so that she’s facing her date. “Dahlia, dear,” I say, voice elevated, “Sydney is ready to show you the lay of the land. Enjoy yourselves and I’ll see you in a bit.” As she walks off with Dahlia, Sydney is an amusing sight–clearly enthralled by her date but looking over her shoulder every few seconds, eyes shooting mischief. I’m not done with you.
As I return to the edge of Ava and her movie friends’ circle, I wrestle with my best friend’s accusation. Am I considering Ian’s offer? It feels like I would be a fool not to. The past couple of years, my personal life has been the prototype for whatever FaceBook algorithm was used to create the “It’s Complicated” relationship category.
I think I have something special going with Michael, but we are not explicitly exclusive yet, something I am starting to chalk up more to his indifference than mine. He is the only man I have been with since breaking up with Ian; I would be pretty naïve to assume that I am truly Michael’s one and only as I speak. After hooking up, we agreed to “play the situation as it lies,” and while we’re bonding meaningfully and enjoying ourselves, I’d be lying to say I don’t hear an occasional voice of warning.
Fact is, I disregarded Michael to an embarrassing extent, for an awfully long time. Is the anger that erupted from him that terrible night at Winthrop’s really gone, or do I have to worry about waking up one day to find he’s posted secretly-recorded sex tapes of me across the digital landscape?
I would be lying to say that Ian’s increasingly specific offers–since I gently rebuffed him at the Cosmo event, he has called twice and texted daily–haven’t caught my attention. He talks about quitting his job as Commissioner, divorcing Nadine and buying her off with obscenely generous alimony and child support. He is confident he could buy her agreement to joint custody of the girls.
Ian would retain millions in net worth, and could do sports law consulting while we first took a year to travel the world. I choose where we go and when, set the itinerary, do all the “boring planning shit” as he called it. From there, we could make a life in Chicago or any city of my dreams.
It’s not a totally crazy notion. Running off with Ian would not confirm the worst things that have been said about me publicly; you could argue it would validate my message of empowerment, of rejecting shame. I defended Ian’s reputation by clarifying that we had a consensual, respectful relationship. While I plead guilty to a history of poor relationship decisions that led to my being with a married man, I have never said that there was anything “wrong” about my relationship with Ian apart from the inconvenient fact of his being married. If he takes that off the table, our relationship loses any tint of controversy. Who’s to say we couldn’t be a publicly validated “scandal couple,” like Jack and Suzy Welch or South Carolina Governor/Congressman Mark Sanford and the “Appalachian Trail” mistress/fiancée who stood by him as he was sent back to Congress?
I have to take Ian’s offer seriously, though that probably means I have to start comparing my relationship with Michael to what I had with him. A feeling of panic bubbles up as I realize that, very soon, I am going to have to make a choice. My throat is so dry I can barely swallow; romantic commitment rarely stares me in the face. Usually, either I outmaneuver it or the actions of my partner quickly take it off the table.
This time, no amount of mental acrobatics lets me dodge the fact that I have no choice but to choose.
CHAPTER 37
Michael
I am proud of myself, having nearly extricated myself from my 9:00 altercation with Mari, the petite but busty brunette who has routinely threatened me in one fashion or another since the time of my New York trip. By bringing her into my final exam, Scott is really putting me in the pressure cooker: I’m pretty sure I had told him she was the most crazy of my recent hook-ups.
Working gamely to ignore Mari’s fitted evening gown, which is complimentary enough to distract many a man from the dangers lurking inside the package, I apply one Rule after another to calm her down and move her from the stalker to the friendly column.
I unfurl elements of truth to explain my lack of response to her recent calls, IMs and FaceBook pokes–demanding job, pregnancy scare, you name it. “I feel like things are finally getting manageable again,” I say, shrugging. “But then, you never know.”
Mari beams up at me. “Well, I’m a big girl, but you know how to find me if you want to.” She pats my shoulder, but pauses when something catches her eye and transforms her aura. She rears up as if trying to add inches to her height, then narrows her eyes into a piercing glare aimed at someone behind me.
When I turn out of curiosity, I realize that my exam is not finished. No, not until I handle the fact that Beverly Barrister is striding toward the two of us with the speed of a missile. “Good evening, Beverly,” I say, positioning myself as the wall separating one strong-willed woman from the other. Head swimming, I let my eyes fill with wonder, as if I can’t fathom what she would be doing here. “You never mentioned anything about attending the ball. This your first time here?”
Beverly gives me a fleeting but knowing look, then cuts to the quick. “Hello,” she says, voice dripping with condescension as she extends a hand to Mari. “Are you the girlfriend for the night?”
Mari warily accepts the handshake, smiling as she looks Beverly up and down. The older woman is showing off her athletic figure in a red strapless gown with a thigh high slit. I can see Mari calculating her response, trying to puncture the reality of Beverly’s impressive shape. “I’m just one of Michael’s many friends,” she jabs, winking in my direction. “You have a very handsome son here.”
Beverly smiles, crosses her arms. She is doing an expert job of maintaining professional posture, standing near me but just outside of my and Mari’s personal space. “Well, sweetie, at least he values me for more than what’s between my legs.” She leans in, accentuating the fact she is closer to my height than petite
Mari’s. “I’m guessing he values me more than you in that area too, though.”
I step between them quickly, gently taking Beverly’s arm and whispering into one ear as we step out of Mari’s hearing range. “I suggest you stop. She’s a head case, one I just calmed down.”
“She can’t talk to me like that!” Mari is waiting behind me now, drawing every other pair of eyes in the Hall. “You tell that bitch to–”
I clasp her hands together with mine, lean in. “Will you give me a break? I’m trying to protect my job here; Beverly is my boss.”
Mari’s eyes bulge. “Wow. You get down like that?”
I shrug. “Do you see what I deal with?”
Mari’s nostrils flare, but she inhales instead of speaks.
“You’re showing yourself to be the bigger person here,” I say, shaking her hands in mine. “There’s no point to either of you getting kicked out of this ball. Go enjoy the night, make some dude’s day by hitting the dance floor with him.”
Mari pulls away, waves a hand. “Whatever.” Over her shoulder, as she heads back toward the main ballrooms: “I thought I had problems. You take care, Michael.”
Beverly comes up beside me. Her eyes are on the sashay of Mari’s retreating rear end. “Are all your girls that sexy?”
Uncomfortable with the line of questioning, I keep my eyes straight ahead. “I really don’t have that many, Beverly.”
“You’re being modest,” she says, a wicked grin across her face. “I’ve noticed you in animated, or cautious-looking, conversation with several women tonight.”
I suck air through my teeth. “This is unprofessional.”
“Well aren’t you rude,” Beverly says after taking time to glad-hand a couple of passersby who are former colleagues. “I’m only here because I got your text about meeting up here.”
“You did.” I run a hand through my hair, amazed anew at Scott’s gall.