Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

She bites her lip and the mask slips. Her eyes fill. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “Sorry for what?”

  She blinks rapidly, eyelashes flashing, her voice low. “If I don’t do this, he’s going to ruin Charlie.”

  “Who’s going to ruin Charlie?”

  Her eyes flick to the window behind me.

  When I turn, there are paparazzi snapping photos. I shake my head and turn back to her. “What is this?”

  She covers my hand with hers and leans closer. “I have to protect her. You should check on Bethany. I think your dad fired her this morning.”

  “What?” I pull away and stand.

  She speaks loudly enough so the press standing outside can hear. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” Then she stalks out the door.

  A little dramatic, but if the flashing camera lights are any indication, it doesn’t matter. People will eat it up.

  None of that matters. Who’s going to ruin Charlie? Dad? Did someone find out about them? I have to call Bethany.

  I stalk to the elevator as quickly as possible, waving off the concerned look the security guy gives me.

  Once I’m in the elevator I call Bethany, but it goes to voicemail.

  Worry niggles at me.

  Dammit, Dad.

  He’s next on the list and he answers right away.

  “I’m not marrying Angela Sinclair.” Might as well cut right to the point.

  “You don’t have to marry her. She’s a pretty girl, just date her for a bit until this deal goes through.”

  “I can’t date Angela. I’m dating someone else.” And so is Angela, but I’m not getting into that right now.

  “Look, Son, I know you think you like Beth but she’s not for you. You have to suck it up and do this for the good of the family business.”

  I make it back to my apartment and shut the door with a hard thunk. “What is it with you and this business?” I explode. “You don’t need the Sinclairs. It’s not like we’re suffering. You want me to do something that makes me unhappy just to make a few extra bucks?”

  “We’re talking millions here, Brent.”

  “What does it matter? We have millions. You’re seventy-six years old. You can’t pack up all that money and take it with you when you’re gone.”

  He doesn’t even hear me. His voice rises. “What does it matter to you? I’m asking you to take a pretty girl out for a couple months and you’re acting like it’s this big hassle. I’m talking about our family legacy, getting the Crawford name into households everywhere. It will live forever.”

  With my free hand, I pick up my old football from where I left it on the couch and squeeze the firm leather with my fingers. “I don’t care about any of that. I care about my life, right now. I found someone, someone important, and I’m not going to ruin it.”

  There’s a long pause. “You can’t screw the help your whole life.”

  “It’s not like that.” I swallow. “Did you really fire her?”

  “You’re damn right I did.”

  “She is the best thing that happened to that place since Marc left.”

  He doesn’t even bother acknowledging my statement. “I know what it’s like to want to chase tail around the office all day, believe me.”

  “I’m not chasing her. We’re together. Don’t you understand? I need her. She’s different.”

  He scoffs. “They’re all good pretenders until they accidentally get pregnant and then she’s got you by the balls and the bank account for eighteen years. At least Angela knows the score.”

  I slam the football against the wall in frustration. “You’re not listening to me.”

  How can I get him to take me seriously? The phone beeps in my ear.

  “I’ve gotta go. Roger is calling.” I hang up before he can say anything else, taking a second to take a few deep breaths and pick up my ball from where it rolled on the floor.

  He doesn’t understand.

  Money isn’t important. Fame isn’t important. What’s important is right now, this moment, being with the people I love . . . making memories. My eyes fall shut.

  Life is short. I can’t make him see that, though. He has to see it for himself. Just like I had to.

  I answer the other line. “Hey, Roger.”

  “Brent. We have a problem.”

  “What is it?” What now?

  He sighs. “I just got a call from a friend at Stylz. They’re running an article tomorrow about you having some kind of terminal heart condition. Is that true?”

  Said organ thumps in my chest. “What? How . . . ?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Shock forces me into silence. Someone spilled. But who? My hand flexes around the football and I stare down at the worn leather. “It’s not necessarily fatal, but they’re not exactly wrong, either. Who’s the source?”

  “I don’t know. They’re anonymous and apparently have some kind of recording of you talking about a heart problem and . . . there’s no easy way to say this but they have you talking about not being able to get it up. I tried to get them to trash the story, but there’s no way to stop it. They paid handsomely for the information and they’re running it no matter what.”

  I shake my head. “That’s . . . what?”

  The only people who know the whole story are my doctors and Bethany, and she wouldn’t.

  Dad just fired her, a little voice in my head pipes up. And she needs the money for her mom.

  No.

  “Is it true? About your heart, I mean. Honestly, bud, we all have that other problem sometimes and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I was going to tell you. I’m having surgery in three weeks.”

  “We’ll have to figure out how all of this affects your career. Is this why you’ve been avoiding signing the contract?”

  “Yeah.” But right now, I don’t give a fuck about my career. Someone betrayed me. And the sinking feeling in my stomach is pointing to the only person I’ve given the power to completely destroy me.

  My father’s words ring in my mind.

  I shut my eyes but it doesn’t stop them from replaying in my head.

  They’re all pretenders.

  No.

  No.

  Not Bethany. She’s a terrible liar. She wouldn’t do that. Images flash into my mind from this morning, staring into each other eyes, laughing in the sunlight. We were so connected.

  I think about Bella. Marissa. Even Gwen. Maybe I’m the one who can’t be trusted. Can I trust my own instincts?

  “Is there any way to find out who this anonymous source is?” Because despite the evidence, despite my father’s claims, despite my past, I don’t believe Bethany would do this.

  “I can try. I’ll talk to my friend at the magazine. I doubt they’ll spill, but I might have other ways to track them down.” Roger’s voice is gentle but firm. “Brent, this is a huge thing to keep under wraps for as long as you did. You signed a health statement at the end of last season. The team could sue you. Besides all that, I need you here as soon as possible. We’ll have to set up something before this article runs, put our own spin on it.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up on him and then silence my phone.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, trying to breathe around the ache in my chest. It could be minutes, it could be an hour. This is it, the end of my career.

  There’s a knock at the door and I know who it is. There’s only one person security allows up without calling first.

  I open the door and she walks right by me, like she belongs here. Like it’s any normal day.

  “Ugh, today has been killer.” She hangs her purse on the stand by the door, then she grimaces. “Bad choice of words. Don’t freak, but Mr. Crawford fired me, for reals this time, because he saw those pictures of us . . .” She trails off as she takes in my expression and then reaches for my hands. “Are you okay? What’s goin
g on? Is it your heart?”

  She’s so concerned. So guileless. Her eyes are clear and open, the emotion written all over her face. This can’t be a ruse. It can’t be.

  But I have to ask. Because there’s still that inkling in the back of my mind, that “what if” that can’t trust anyone. If she did do it . . . well, I wouldn’t even care.

  The realization stuns me.

  I would understand, given what she’s gone through, but I need to know for sure. I want her to be able to tell me everything. Anything. Good, bad, indifferent, shameful. All of it.

  I care more about her than I do about my career or reputation or . . . anything else.

  Her hands still in mine, I tug her into my chest and I’m finally able to breathe. “I got a call from Roger. There’s uh . . .” I shake my head, clearing it. “Someone at Stylz got ahold of information about me. About my medical condition. They’re printing an article tomorrow. They know everything. About my heart. About the side effects from the medication. All of it.”

  She pulls back to look up at me, her mouth popping open. “They . . . what? How?”

  I keep my eyes focused on her face. “I hate to even ask, but do you know anything about it?”

  Her brows crawl up her forehead. “You think I told them? Why would I do that?”

  I rush to explain. “I would understand if you did. I mean, my dad did just fire you. And I know what you’re going through with your mom. And it’s just, there’s no one else who knows—”

  “You think I would sell you out for money?”

  “No. I mean, not entirely.”

  She steps back, away from me, and when I try to follow she holds a hand up to stop me. “First your dad fires me for putting you—for putting us—before him and my job, and now you are accusing me of using you for money? Don’t you think I would have taken you up on your offer to help yesterday if that was the case?” Her voice rises as she speaks.

  This is not going how I imagined. “I don’t think you would betray me like this, but I just had to ask. No one else knows.”

  “Your doctor knows.” Her arms cross over her chest.

  My jaw clenches. I rub the back of my neck. I know she’s had a bad day, but she’s not the only one. “My doctor could lose her license. What do you have to lose?”

  She blanches and goes pale.

  I immediately regret the words. “Bethany, I didn’t mean—”

  “Maybe I should leave.” She walks back toward the door, grabbing her purse from the stand.

  “Please don’t.” I follow her, wanting to hold her, wanting to convince her I didn’t mean it, but when she turns to face me, her expression is closed and guarded. I try once more. “Can we talk about this?”

  “I think I need some space.” Her breath hitches on the words. She won’t meet my eyes. She pulls something from her bag and, instead of handing it to me, places it on the table in the entryway.

  With a whisper of sound, she’s out the door, shutting it gently behind her.

  I walk over to the table and pick up the object she left behind. My watch. My super-expensive, six-thousand-dollar watch. I must have left it at her apartment.

  Crushed with the weight of the last half hour, I slide down the wall to the floor, gripping the watch in my hand.

  How can a day that started so beautifully twist so quickly into hell?

  My chest tightens with pain. I choke back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me.

  There’s no time to rail at the unfairness of the universe. I have go see Roger and fix this mess. But my heart isn’t in it. My heart just walked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  Courage doesn’t mean you don’t get afraid. Courage means you don’t let fear stop you.

  –Bethany Hamilton

  Bethany

  People always use the same old adages when you’re going through a breakup.

  He wasn’t good enough for you.

  There are other fish in the sea.

  This, too, shall pass.

  Those people are morons.

  Brent is good enough for me, when he’s not being an idiot who thinks that I could betray him. And there might be other fish in the sea, but none of them are him. And time heals nothing. It just makes the ache less acute.

  But this is why I’m glad my friends are not those people.

  “Did you watch the press conference?”

  “I couldn’t. It hurt too much. I’m still angry.”

  “He looks like a shit sandwich,” Freya says, trying to make me feel better.

  “If a shit sandwich was also slang for a hot-ass football player,” Ted says.

  We’re video chatting. I’m on the couch in my PJs and Ted and Freya are together on the other end of the call, squeezed into the frame of my laptop.

  “You’re not helping, Ted.” Freya nudges him with a shoulder and rolls her eyes at me.

  “What? It’s true. He would look good covered in dirty baby diapers. Bethany, you look like balls.”

  “I feel like balls. Tiny, sensitive, lumpy balls.”

  And Brent hasn’t even tried to call me. Not once. I mean, we didn’t really break up, did we? We just had a fight. A fight that is all his fault and he hasn’t even called to apologize. Or come over.

  “He did look tired,” Freya says.

  Ted snorts. “Well, he’s dying, so I guess that will do it to you.”

  “I can’t believe he has this horrible thing and you knew and somehow it got leaked. Who do you think told?”

  “I have no idea. I just know it wasn’t me.”

  “Well. We believe you. You’re a crap liar.”

  “I know!” The words are punctuated with my righteous anger. Righteous anger that has spiked and deflated a million times over the last few days. “Brent knows that, too, and still he thinks I would do something like this. For money. Look at me. I haven’t dyed my hair in six months, I’m wearing a dirty shirt, and I’m eating expired ramen. If I had sold his story for money, I wouldn’t be sitting here like this, now would I?”

  “Are you going to move back home?” Freya asks.

  “No. I have a job interview tomorrow. I’m not giving up. I sublet this place from Gwen and promised to stay a year. I did send her an email to give her a heads-up, just in case. But I can’t leave now.”

  Negative thoughts swirl in my head like crap down the sewer. What if I can’t find another job? What then? It’s not exactly easy in the Big Apple, thousands of people arriving every day, searching for their dreams. What do I have to offer?

  This is the same thought that’s been plaguing me about Brent. What do I have to offer? Nothing.

  No wonder he hasn’t called.

  “I know how you can feel better.” Freya holds up one finger and sticks it into a hole created by her other hand. “I won’t even judge you. You’ve earned it for reals.”

  I laugh. “You know, I actually haven’t slept with anyone in over a year.”

  “Right. Like you totally didn’t go home with that guy after that concert downtown last year.”

  “I did go home with him. I slept on his couch. He was too hammered anyway. I drove him home and he passed out.”

  Freya blinks slowly. “You’re being serious.”

  “Why would you do that?” Ted asks. “Why not just go home?”

  Here it is. I have to tell them the truth. “There’s something I should tell you guys.”

  “Oh my God. You’re pregnant,” Freya gasps.

  “What? No.”

  “You’re an alien.”

  “Freya, focus.” Ted smacks her on the arm.

  “My mom is an alcoholic. Like a bad one.”

  They share a glance and then look back at me. “Yeah. We know.”

  I rock back on the couch. “You know?”

  Freya leans toward the computer, her expression softening. “It was pretty obvious that one time I tried to bring you chicken soup when
you were sick. She kept yelling, ‘Hi ho, Silver,’ because I brought the bowl with the black and white cow print.”

  Ted laughs and then claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Not funny. We didn’t say anything because we knew you were embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about it. So we just called you a slut to make you feel better.”

  “Well. I was a slut in college.”

  Ted nods. “Yeah so was I.”

  “Not me,” Freya says.

  “Prude,” Ted and I say at the same time.

  We dissolve into giggles.

  I want to hug my computer screen. Then I do.

  “Ew, boobs,” Ted says.

  I pull back. “I miss you guys.”

  “We miss you, too, skank face,” Freya says.

  ~*~

  The next day I’m flying around the house getting ready for my interview. There are clothes everywhere. I’m half-dressed and panicking.

  I’m going to be late.

  I’ve finally settled on an outfit and I’m buttoning my shirt when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Hey, Natalie.”

  She’s standing in the door in surprisingly bird-free clothing, black T-shirt and dark jeans, with a sheepish expression. “Sorry to bug you. Can I use your bathroom real quick? Martha’s been in ours all morning and I really have to go.”

  “I’m running late, but go ahead.”

  “I can lock the door as I’m leaving.”

  “No worries, I’ll wait.” I turn to grab my laptop case, throwing a résumé in the pocket.

  “Well, you don’t want to be late and miss out on the job.”

  My hands still on the zipper of my bag. “How did you know I was late for an interview?” I turn around and face Natalie. I’m sure I didn’t mention it. I haven’t seen or talked to any of my neighbors in days.

  Just like I’m pretty sure I never mentioned my love of tater tots to her. Or to Steven and Martha.

  Our eyes lock and then the pretty brunette smiles.

  It’s not a nice, easygoing, you’re so funny smile, it’s an oops I screwed up and now I want to kill you smile.

  Bad news.

  Tense energy crackles between us like lightning about to strike.