by Inda Herwood
“Quincy. Father of your child. Forget him much?” I say once she’s secured, shutting the door on her before I move around to the driver’s side in the dark.
“So back to what I was saying.” She narrows her eyes pointedly at me once I’m in. “At least he’s on board with it all.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t have much reason not to be.” I pull away from the curb while also cranking up the heat. It may be springtime, but in New York we just call it “Less Severe Winter”.
“I guess you’re right. Still, how do you think you’ll convince Mom and Dad that it’s real?” She pauses, then says dramatically, hand covering her eyes, “Oh my gosh.”
Instantly I panic, looking at her worriedly, eyes going to her face and then her bump. “What? Is it the baby? Are you having contractions?”
She rolls her eyes, swatting away my concerns. “No. Jeez, you’re as bad as Quincy.”
“Then what is it?” I return my eyes to watch the road.
She sighs. “You’ll probably have to make out with him to make it look legit. And you call this whole thing a compromise.” She shakes her head disgustedly, looking at me as though I don’t appreciate my luck. “Why didn’t Dad make me marry a model?”
“QUINCY.” I remind her subtly.
“Oh, shut up. He’s not here, and even if he was, he knows I’m hormonal. It’s like a get out of jail free card any time I say or do anything inappropriate.”
I want to be mad, but all I can do is snicker and say, “You are truly mental. I hope my niece or nephew takes after its father.”
“What about you? It could come out with gold eyes and a smart mouth just like its aunt,” she says, watching me out of the corner of her eye with a softer, more amused expression.
“I can imagine your disappointment if that happens,” I say with a chortle, turning onto her and Quincy’s street, their brownstone in view, even in the dark. She insisted that they paint it sterile white, making it pop out from the others on the block.
“Hey, I would be honored if my child had any of your qualities. Smart, resilient, funny, kind. Unjaded by life though you have every reason to be.” She says this in a normal, even voice, and then just like that she’s bursting into tears, and I’m pulling up to the house, already reaching in my purse for the emergency tissues I stocked just for her. I hand one to her, and she takes it without looking at me.
“Hormones are such a bitch,” she whines, her face turning red and splotchy with her tears.
I can’t help it. I start laughing, quiet at first, but then it builds higher and higher, and then I can’t breathe anymore, feeling a smack on my shoulder a minute later. “Hey! It’s not funny. Wait until you’re saddled with one of these things and it turns your body against you. Then who’s going to be laughing?” Sniffle.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be making fun of pregnant ladies. My karma will be severe to make up for it. Does that make you feel better?” I hand her another tissue. She blows into it noisily.
She shrugs. “A little.”
I roll my eyes. “We should get you inside.”
I click off my seatbelt then do hers. When I go to grab the handle to open the door, her hand covers mine, warm and soft. I look up in the half-lit cabin of the VW Bug, my sister’s face smiling but edged in worry.
I pause.
“Sis…I know this was all your idea, the whole screwing Dad over plan.” I scowl at her, not appreciating her crude way of putting it, though it’s the truth. She ignores me. “But I want you to remember…it’s not real.”
I wait for her to continue, to explain what the heck she means by that, and when she doesn’t, I hedge, “What’s not real?”
She hesitates, eyes cautious, and I know she’s afraid of hurting my feelings. Which coincidentally just makes me more nervous, since my sister usually never thinks about such things before she speaks. “The feelings Jagger and you are going to have to portray to make this seem real. I just don’t want you to forget what this is all about. I don’t want to see you get hurt, thinking that it’s turned into something it’s not.”
I process her words, coming to the conclusion, “You think I’ll forget that his affection is just for show, to fool everyone. Including me.”
“I’m not saying that’s going to happen, or that you’re not smart enough to realize it. But I don’t think it’s a bad idea to keep on guard, and remember that every time he looks at you sweetly, or holds your hand, or heaven forbid kisses you, it’s because you both want something out of the deal that doesn’t include each other.” The hand she has resting on mine squeezes minutely, her eyes watching me closely, earnest. I know with certainty that she is not saying this to hurt my feelings, or to imply that I’m unlovable by Jagger’s standards, but because she wants me to be one step ahead of my feelings, to keep my head on straight so that I don’t get hurt in the end. Though my sister may not be the most eloquent person when it comes to telling you the truth, I appreciate the love behind the warning.
I hold her hand back. “I know. And I will.”
-9-
The Oscars
My hands are sweating, twisting themselves over each other as we wait for my dad in his office. He has no idea I’m here, and definitely no clue that so is Jagger. But more, he hasn’t a single inkling what we are planning to tell him, or the fact that it’s a complete lie.
Ah, there’s the guilt.
It’s been four days since I told Jagger of my plan, four days since he accepted. As per his request, I called him later and asked if Thursday would be okay. My parents would be getting back from their trip on Wednesday, and since I know my father never schedules meetings until he’s settled back into his routine, I figured it would be our best bet. It also would come within a day before his deal with Jagger would be up.
And today is that day.
Jagger got here twenty minutes ago, parking his car by the guest house. I asked that he come a little early so that we could get our facts straight, make sure our stories line up with precision. Like how we changed our minds, the reason why, blah, blah, blah. Now all we have to do is wait and hope that our performance is Oscar worthy, because that is what it’s going to take to fool my father at this point.
The notorious squeak of his office door opening has us both standing up, turning around to see the stunned look on my father’s face. He pauses in the doorway, hand still frozen on the brass handle. He looks between the two of us within a two second span, suddenly pushing himself back into businessman mode. He straightens out the dark blue blazer of his three-piece suit before walking up to Jagger and shaking his hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Wells.”
“You too, sir. I trust you had an excellent trip?” His grip is firm, his eyes unswerving as they stare into my father’s. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. There aren’t a lot of men that can look my father in the eye, much less act as though they are his equal.
“Yes, it was a nice break from the rain,” he says, eyes subconsciously going to the window behind his desk, looking out onto the mountains behind our house. Fat water droplets fall from the gutters, washing the window in a continual stream. My father has never cared for New York’s spring or winter weather. He and Mom usually escape to somewhere exotic at the first sign of dark clouds. That’s why we had been at our vacation home in France for a good month, trying to escape the harsh snowfall of the east coast.
Looking back at the two of us, his eyes lingering on me, my father motions for us to sit down.
We oblige.
Taking his seat behind the large, commanding desk my mother got him as a birthday present a few years ago, he folds his hands together, his fingers interlocking in a tight grip; eyes searching when he says, “So, may I ask what this surprise visit is all about?”
Jagger looks at me, smile easy when he asks, almost coyly, “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”
Knowing the role I have to play, I mirror his relaxed expression as best I can, saying, “I think I should. Do you mind
?”
He shakes his head, lips pulled up in a half smile. “Not at all.”
I start into the mostly false story of how we met up at the doll ball and got to talking, learning more and more about each other, and how he offered to take me home. In this version I say that we talked for hours, and somehow formed a friendship that we could see turning into something more. “I confessed that I wanted to go to college, and he was very supportive,” I say, resting easy that at least that’s not a lie. I look back at Jagger now, filling my eyes with as much affection as possible, while at the same time trying not to lay it on too thick. My dad would never believe I fell for him so easily, especially with the circumstances and how I had been so averse to them. It has to seem like this was a surprise, even for me.
“We agreed that it couldn’t hurt to try, and see where things go,” he says, adding onto the story we had concocted earlier. “You were just too stubborn to see it the first time,” he teases, and his smoky eyes soften around the edges, looking my face over with a gentleness I haven’t experienced before.
The room goes quiet as I stare at him, wondering how he’s doing this so well. I had worried that he would slip, say something that would incriminate us. Or that it would appear so fake that we wouldn’t get past the first ten minutes, but he’s surprised me. In more ways than one.
And when I look back, I think that was the moment my father lost the incredulous and suspicious attitude, seeing how Jagger looked at me, and how I looked at him in response. To him, it wasn’t the kind of look you could fake, but I knew better.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, still watching the gray of his eyes swirl into multiple shades, reminding me of the clouds hanging low outside. “I guess I was.”
Another pause, and then my father is asking me, “Cyvil, is this really what you want? Are you agreeing to the terms?”
I somehow manage not to grit my teeth at hearing him remind me that this is a contract, a business deal, and nothing more. It’s him winning the argument that his choice for my life trumps mine, and still, he seems to think he’s doing the right thing by backing me into a corner that just happens to have Jagger Wells in it.
Guilt gone.
I produce as real a smile as I can, deciding to look at Jagger rather than my father when I respond. It’s easier to bite the bullet when I see exactly why I’m doing it in the first place. Not just for myself, but for the innocent guy in the chair next to mine, just trying to do right by his family. This is for us, not my father.
“I am.”
This time, Jagger’s smile seems a little tighter.
My father doesn’t seem to notice. “Fine then. I’ll contact your father and inform him of the change of plans,” he says, his words aimed at my now fiancé. “And I think it would be a good idea if you told your mother yourself, Cyvil. She’s been quite upset lately. I think this would boost her spirits.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He stands from his leather chair, and we follow suit. Leaning over the desk, he holds out his hand to shake Jagger’s, to which he takes. “I’m so glad this worked out in the end. Make sure you take care of my daughter, son.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Nodding towards the door, Jagger says to me, “Should we tell your mother together?”
“Sure, I think she’d like that.”
Just as I’m about to follow him out the door, my father’s voice stops me.
“Cyvil, do you mind if I talk to you about something for a minute? I promise I won’t keep her for long, Jagger.”
For the first time since entering my dad’s office, Jagger’s aura is a little uncertain. But still, he says, voice light, “Of course. I’ll be waiting in the hall when you’re finished.” As he closes the door, our eyes connect for half a second, but it’s enough to let me know that he’s nervous. But honestly, I was expecting this. My father isn’t the type to just accept something so out of the blue without questions first. I’m prepared for this.
Turning back to face Lance Montae, I’m unsurprised to see that his pleased smile from just a moment ago is now gone, replaced by the business persona her wears like a second skin. This is a business deal after all.
I return the serious look.
Leaning back against the desk, he says evenly, “I know that this change of heart of yours is not just because the boy has charm and a pretty smile, Cyvil. You’re not the kind of woman to be so easily swayed.” His brow rises, eyes hard, searching. He’s looking for a crack in the armor, a weak link in the chain. “There is another reason, is there not?”
I fold my arms in front of me, meeting his eyes head on. I keep my expression calm, emotionless. Just like my father taught me. You never give away your cards. “There is.”
“Mind sharing it with me?”
I nod. “Yes. I’ve come to realize that you’re right.”
This seems to amuse him. His eyes crinkle in the corners. “Oh?”
“Life is about transactions, losing one thing to gain another. If I want to become something more than just a girl with a terrible past, then I need to accept that it comes with a cost. And that cost is Jagger.”
My forthrightness throws him off for the second he lets me see it. Clearing his throat, he continues to watch me. “And it’s one you’re willing to pay?”
No. “He’s a good man, someone I’ll be able to call a friend. And if marrying him means I get to go to school, and he saves his father’s business, then…I’m willing to do it.”
He has nothing to say about this for a while, but the silence is filled with the sound of rain hitting the stone walkway outside the window. Drip…drip…drip.
It sets my nerves on edge.
His posture remains rigid, stiff, like that of a statue. Whenever he’s thinking, he becomes still, as though motion is what distracts the mind from processing and planning. But eventually, the statue comes back to life.
“You really do have a need to save others,” he says thoughtfully, almost to himself.
“Yes, even at the expense of my own choices being taken away.”
With that, I turn around and leave his office, hoping that the burn will sting long after I’m gone.
Jagger
The entire time Cyvil is explaining the exciting news to her mother of our now on-again engagement, I watch her out of the corner of my eye, looking for a crack, a glitch, anything to suggest she’s having second thoughts, and I find none. Her personality is just the same as she tells the fake story of our creation, not pretending to be overly excited or falsely upbeat about the whole thing, making it seem more realistic for her mother. She’s perfectly herself, still with that wariness sitting deep behind her eyes. Even when she’s smiling.
After her mother goes on and on about possible wedding plans, Cyvil somehow manages to drag us away when she’s not looking. When we get to the front door, the heavens still crying in a steady downpour out the window, she asks, “Want to make a mad dash for it, or risk getting caught by my mother again?”
Not waiting for me to answer, she swings open the door and runs like hell for the guest house.
A high-pitched shriek of laugher follows after her.
I’m not left with much of a choice.
Feeling the cold rain slip down my back, making the hair stand on my neck, I jog a little faster to keep up, running in behind her when she opens the door, shutting it quickly behind us. She’s still laughing, her hair soaked from the short journey, falling over her shoulders in a long auburn curtain. She makes her way to the back of the small cottage, disappearing behind a door before reappearing a minute later, two ivory towels sitting in her hands. She passes me one before she attempts to ring out her hair with the other. Our clothes are completely soaked.
“Okay, so maybe I should have looked for an umbrella first,” she says on second thought.
“You think?” I give a short laugh, shaking my head to get rid of the excess water. She grumbles when some hits her.
“Baahhhhhh.”
“Holy
sh–” Looking down at where the sound came from, I nearly trip on the damn goat circling my feet, its small body popping up out of nowhere.
“It’s okay, Grim. He’s friend now, not foe.” Cyvil bends down to pet the all black goat behind its tall ears, its head nudging further into her hand, green eyes closed. She gives it a wide smile.
“Grim?” I ask, still staring at the thing, almost having forgotten she had it. “What kind of a name is that for a goat?”
Picking it up now, the goat (weighing no more than ten pounds I’d estimate) fits perfectly in her arms as she looks at me, still petting its head. “It was the look on my mother’s face when I brought her home,” she says, being dead serious. “Why, what kind of name should a goat have?”
“I – Well, I don’t – it’s not – you have a goat in your house,” I stumble, still staring at the ball of black wiry fur, its long limbs hanging freely in Cyvil’s arms. When it sees me watching it, it baaahhhhhs angrily at me again.
She snickers.
“How exactly did you come into position of owning such a thing?” I ask, deciding to try and get dry again with the towel she had given me, all while giving Grim the goat some serious side eye.
“The newspaper,” she says in answer. “My mom wouldn’t let me get a cat or a dog, but she never said anything about goats. And when I saw the ad saying that they had abandoned pigmies that needed homes upstate, I went with Hanna to see them.” She stares down at the tiny goat, smiling as it tries to nibble her finger. “She was the smallest of the five they had, the runt. She ran right up to me the second I entered the pen, and I knew she was my mine.”
“And your parents let you keep it?” I can’t see Lance Montae allowing a goat to run through his house.
“My mom doesn’t care for animals, and neither does my dad, really. But I think he would have let me have a camel if I wanted one. He was impressed that I had found a way around the system.” She snorts, still watching Grim. When she starts to cry again, she places her back on the ground, her little hooves taking her over to the water bowl in the corner. She laps at it happily.