by W. Winters
For years I blamed my father.
The therapist he sent me to was under the impression she took her own life because all they did was fight and there were concerns about my mother’s sudden erratic behavior. Concerns that wound themselves around whispers of drug use.
I blamed my father because I thought he did it.
He wasn’t home when it happened, but that was nothing new. He was never around on the weekends. I was in my bed, but the house was so cold. The air conditioner was turned down far too low.
I remember thinking it was odd that the heat had been turned off. Our house became an icebox.
The moment I clicked it on, I heard the shower upstairs. Maybe I was waiting for the telltale sound of the heater, but until then I hadn’t realized I could hear the shower.
I remember how I knocked on the bathroom door, but didn’t go in at first. I waited and waited, wondering why she’d be in there so late. Wondering if she was crying again.
I only opened the door an hour later because I’d convinced myself she couldn’t still be in there. Not after so long. The water had to be cold by then.
My parents’ bathroom door wasn’t locked. The knob turned easily and when the door opened and I didn’t see a shadow behind the curtain, I was confused but relieved to discover the water had just been left on. Everything felt so off that night, like something was horribly wrong. I was genuinely relieved.
It wasn’t until I pulled back the curtain that I saw her.
I slam the computer shut, willing the memory to leave me.
The vision of my mother dead, her body at an unnatural angle. The water was freezing, and it’d turned her lips blue. It didn’t stop me from shaking her. From trying to make her wake up.
I screamed and cried out helplessly even though I knew we were alone. There was no one to help. I had to leave her to call the police. I couldn’t though, not for a long time. I was shivering in my wet clothes by the time I ran down the stairs to call the cops. I couldn’t believe she was gone, but she was limp and heavy and so cold.
It didn’t take long for the police to come. Commissioner Haynes was there first.
My father took hours to arrive, though. Hours of sitting on my bed, being questioned over and over until I wasn’t sure anymore what had happened.
I only knew I felt completely alone in the world.
The first thing my father said to me was, “I thought you were staying over at your friend’s this weekend.” No sorrow was evident. No sympathy that I’d found my mother dead in the shower.
His tone carried an accusation even. I remember staring up at him. The police moved around the house, blurring my vision as my father came into focus and the pieces clicked into place.
For years I’ve felt he was responsible and even now, even after he’d managed to convince me on the phone that it wasn’t him, I imagine he’s somehow involved.
I can’t shake my gut feeling.
I want to murder him.
The thought makes me close my eyes, trying to rein in the anger from today and from all the years of second-guessing what happened to my mother.
When I open them, they’ve adjusted to the darkness and I stare at my phone.
I’ve asked him, but he’s a liar. I already know he’s capable of murder.
Everything in me is telling me it’s my father who hired that man and possibly left the note to scare Jules off before deciding to kill her. I have no other leads.
The person who left a note had different handwriting than his though, more feminine. Perhaps he has a partner or maybe he hired someone but who would he trust?
The only other enemy I have is Liam. He’s married, but I can’t see it being him and having his wife involved. And Liam wasn’t around when my mother died.
I run my hand down my face, feeling exhaustion weighing down on me, but not wanting to sleep. I can’t. I’m too afraid to take my eyes away from Jules. My guard refuses to go down for even a second.
I know she hasn’t forgotten everything and that maybe the other night, the moment we shared, was a mistake in her eyes. It kills me just to imagine her thinking of it as if that’s all it was. A mistake.
The sound of her stirring on the bed and the accompanying slow movements catch my attention. A soft sound of pain carries through the air, and I rise to see if she’s all right.
She turns on her side, pulling the sheet between her legs and letting it fall off her gorgeous curves. I brush her hair from her face, leaning down to kiss her gently on the cheek, loving how she can’t fight me in her sleep.
When I pull back, her long lashes flutter open and she looks up at me. At first there’s a softness to her expression, like the way she used to look at me. But it quickly changes, the trace of a smile dimming as her memories come back to her.
Her shoulders tense and she turns her head, but she doesn’t push me away, even as I run my hand down to her waist and sit next to her on the bed.
The bed protests as I climb in under the sheet, still in my white undershirt and flannel pajama pants. I sigh heavily, feeling exhaustion desperately try to force me to sleep as I rest my head on the pillow and pull Jules close to me.
Just like earlier this week, she lets me hold her. She doesn’t hold me back, though. Her hand merely rests against my chest, her head on my shoulder. Still, I’ll take it. The feel of her small body pressed to mine, the faint sounds of her breathing and the way she nestles her head down against me, brushing the hair from her face is everything to me.
“Talk to me, Jules,” I say softly. I miss her. I miss the banter and her optimistic energy. I miss her stories and the sweet sound of her laughter. “I miss you,” I confess.
“I’m not sure if we’re okay,” she says quietly, as if it’s a reminder to herself. “There are parts of you that scare me.”
I tell her, “But not all of me.”
Her eyes are wide open but staring across the room. I readjust my shoulders on the pillow, keeping my arm around her and debating what to tell her. She’s quiet for a long time but then she asks, “You said Jace had a woman killed?”
I can only nod.
She’s silent, obviously waiting for me to continue.
“I didn’t know him well, but he was…” I pause to take a deep breath and stare at the mirror across the room. In the reflection I can see the top of Jules’s head resting on my chest. Her eyes are vacant, as if she’s broken. Not the woman I once knew, not the Jules I fell in love with. She’s not running from me, as if this new woman has become resigned to her fate.
“I saw him for a meeting, and it was the only time I met him,” I tell her. I want to explain and I pray she understands.
She shifts on my chest and I splay my hand on her back to keep her close to me, to keep her from moving away, but I don’t have to. She’s only readjusting and she stays with her cheek pressed against my chest as she pulls the sheet up higher.
“I did it,” I say, feeling the words dying to come out of me. To tell her the truth. To tell her how angry he made me. How Jace was so sure of himself, so happy with what he’d done. “Her life was meaningless to him.”
“Whose? Whose life?” Jules brings her hand back toward herself, retreating slightly but I reach out to grab it. I bring her fingers to my lips and slowly kiss each knuckle. She doesn’t look at me while I do, but when I set her hand back down, she leaves it there.
I don’t know what to make of her in this moment. Maybe she’s numb, but she’s receptive. She’s lost her fight to deny it all.
“Her name was Avery.”
Jules shifts uncomfortably as she says the words before I can. “She was his mistress?”
I nod my head as I say, “I knew her as well.” It’s the gentlest way I can put it.
“You knew her?” Jules asks in a tight voice. It’s the loudest she’s spoken for this conversation.
“I did,” I answer honestly. “Obviously it was before we met. Before I knew you.”
She nods her head into my
chest and whispers, “Why?”
“Why did he want to kill her?”
My question forces her expression to fall even farther, but she nods.
“She was pregnant,” I tell her and that’s the last straw for Jules’s composure. I hold her close as she tries to turn away. I kiss her shoulder as she hunches over and tries to hide her face from me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper into the tense air between us. The hurt and betrayal are echoed in her ragged breaths. I can only imagine how much it shredded her to hear the words, because it killed me to say them to her.
She pushes her hands against my chest slightly, and I let her go for a moment.
Sitting up as if searching for more air, she pushes the thick sheet off of her and pulls her long brunette hair over her shoulder as she scoots up the bed and readjusts herself to lean against the headboard. All the while I can see her reining in the emotions, hiding it all and shoving it down. But she’s swallowed the truth of it all: her husband wanted his mistress dead because she was pregnant. It will stay with her forever.
“Was the baby…” she starts to ask in a choked voice as she lies back next to me and instantly places her head on my chest. “Whose was it?” she asks.
My heart clenches in my chest, hating that I have to answer her and knowing it’s going to torture her. “His,” I finally answer.
She nods once, letting me know she acknowledges what I’ve just told her, but she’s silent. A long time passes with neither of us saying anything. My fingers trail up and down her arm, moving to the dip in her waist and back up her body again. Her breathing becomes steadier, deeper and so does mine. Slowly, she gets comfortable alongside me again, resting down in bed, but neither of us sleeping.
“Did you love her?” she asks just as my eyelids feel so heavy I could fall asleep, her fingers gripping onto my shirt but still she doesn’t look at me.
“No. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” I tell her and then realize she may not believe me. It’s true, though. I’d never planned on spending my life with someone. I didn’t think it possible for someone who carries the demons that drag me down. But now I can’t see my life without Jules in it. She’s a bright light to my darkness. The only hope I’ve ever had is in her hands.
Again, she acknowledges me with only a small nod.
“Can you forgive me?” I ask her quietly, almost too afraid of her answer to even utter the word forgiveness.
Time passes and I think she may have fallen asleep, but then her shoulders shake with a small sob.
“No,” she says and my chest sinks from her admission but also from the raw pain in her voice. “You didn’t have to murder him.” She adds, nearly choking on her words, “But I believe you.” She sniffles once and it’s then I feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She brushes her cheek against my shirt and settles back down against me.
She believes me, and that’s a start.
She needs me, and she’s clinging to me because she has nowhere else to go.
At least I can hold her for a little while, but even with her so close to me, even with this progress, I feel farther away from her than I’ve ever been.
Jules
It’s absurd to move through life,
When there’s nothing left inside.
When you’re hollow and unfeeling,
When all you know has died.
Numb to touch, numb to move,
And silent with no voice.
But strength comes in the darkest times,
When you no longer have a choice.
Fraud. I keep hearing the word over and over in my head. There’s no way I can do this. No way I can stand in front of a room full of people, this hollow shell of a woman, and smile as if nothing has changed. There’s no way I can laugh and play along with the façade of a happy couple deeply in love.
They’ll see through me; I know they will.
I’ve always been acutely aware of my public persona. My mother used to tell me it was important for the family name. All my life I’ve known how to hide behind a beautiful face and stay polite even when offended. I know just what to say, and how to act.
But right now? This moment? No. I can’t go through with it. I can’t pretend anymore. Pretending’s what got me into this mess.
“You look beautiful.” Mason’s deep baritone voice sends a thrill through my body. His approval always has, and my natural instinct is to cling to him right now. I want to hide behind him. He could make everything all right or at least that’s the way it would feel.
Even more than that, I so desperately care for him despite everything that’s happened, and that’s what’s breaking me.
“Thank you,” I whisper and then clear my throat, turning my gaze back to the entrance of the Regency Auditorium as the limo stops in front of the building, my fingertips haphazardly grazing the crystals on my dress with nerves that won’t be tamed.
I used to live for this. All the gorgeous gowns and flowing champagne, the photographs and mingling. Now instead of desire and excitement and anticipation, all I feel is dread.
I turn back to Mason just as he places his large hand over mine, and in that moment I remember who he is and what he’s done and why everything has changed. I want to pull away. My body and mind are confused. I feel attacked and cornered, but I don’t know who to blame other than myself.
“It’s going to be all right. You’re fine,” Mason tells me. His voice is a soothing balm, but it’s a lie. A sweet, pretty lie meant to calm me down so I can do as I’m told and act appropriately.
Pulling my hand away from him, I watch his face fall and the divider rolls down slowly; it’s the only sound in the cabin.
“Is this all right, Mr. Thatcher?” Marcus, the driver, asks. I can’t look him in the eye. I swallow thickly, watching the sparkling gowns flow by as women walk past. I know many of them, or at least recognize their faces. Tonight is a fundraiser for diabetic children. Nearly three hundred people will be in the grand ballroom, bidding on donations lined with spotlights and making small talk while sipping champagne and gossiping or bragging.
It’s how these functions run. Who you know and who you talk to can be different, so long as you’re seen with each group of individuals accordingly.
My role has changed from socialite sweetheart who brings the press to that of devoted arm candy. The to-do list hasn’t changed, though: look pretty, smile and be charming. It didn’t seem so bad all these years I’ve been doing this. Even my father used to bring me to events like this as a teen. I loved it. I was proud to come and be a part of the social scene especially when they involved causes like this one.
“This is fine,” Mason answers Marcus and I grip my Chanel clutch as if it will protect me and save me from having to walk out there. “I’ll open her door; thank you.”
“I don’t know that I’m ready,” I whisper to Mason, turning to him and leaning in, acutely aware that Marcus is watching. I don’t have to look up to see his eyes in the rearview mirror assessing the situation to know he’s taking it all in. Everyone is always watching.
Mason searches my face for something, and then the corners of his lips twitch as he reaches his arm around my waist and pulls me in closer to him.
His strength and heat and proximity all make my blood temperature rise, and the anxiety and fear are replaced with something else entirely.
“You’re definitely ready,” Mason says before leaning into me for a kiss. A split second passes before I even question it. It feels so natural, as if I’m the one who intended for it to happen.
As if nothing ever happened. As if the envelope had never been opened and this part of the tale ceased to exist.
I pull away suddenly, sucking in the hot air and pushing back against the leather seat. My eyes flicker to the mirror as I regain my composure, to Marcus’s ever-prying view and immediately the divider begins to move back into place, granting us privacy.
Mason’s hand splays on my back before I can move any farther. “
Please stop,” I say. He must know what he’s doing to me.
“Stop what?” he asks as if he doesn’t know that his kindness is worse than anything else. That craving his affection only makes me hate myself more.
I look up through my lashes, not bothering to face him as I hold the clutch tighter with both hands.
“I can’t do this, Mason,” I blurt out with my voice low and pleading. “I can’t pretend.”
He rests his hand on the back of my neck, gripping my nape but running his thumb back and forth ever so gently. Each action sends mixed signals, and that’s the very crux of my position.
“You could ignore me all night,” he suggests with a sad smile. “It would be better if you did that… if we were to split in a month anyway. Wouldn’t it?”
His words are accompanied by a shadow, the night already darkening. Three weeks. I don’t correct him, but it’s three weeks that are left, not a month. Swallowing thickly, I glance at the entrance rather than entertaining his suggestion.
“Either way,” he continues, “we have to attend. We can’t appear to be hiding and no one is going to hurt you here.”
The lights from the massive crystal chandelier just inside the auditorium’s foyer sparkle and blur in a beautiful dance as two more couples enter. I ignore it and stare at the shrubbery that’s barely visible.
It hurts to hear him plan a split between us. I didn’t think his compromise, promise, whatever it was, was even a real possibility. Yet here he is, speaking it into existence.
Mason opens his door and leaves me without another word. I simultaneously fear him and love him, but worse, I hate myself for having any emotion toward him other than revulsion knowing he’s a murderer. That’s what I can’t get past. It’s easy to put a smile on your face and be what everyone else wants you to be when you know who you are and you’re happy as that person. When you have faith in yourself.