The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield
Page 90
A few minutes later, Jake’s car pulled up.
I was just making my way to it when I heard frantic steps coming from behind me.
“Charlotte, where the hell do you think you’re going?” Brandon demanded as he caught up with me, catching me by the elbow. His grip wasn’t painful but it kept me in place.
“Jake and I have an errand to run,” I snapped, glancing longingly at the waiting car. “As much as I’d love to stay and fight with you more, Brand, I actually have more important things to do.”
“Yes. Important things like mysterious errands with my best friend,” he retorted, his expression harsh when he tipped his face up to the shaft of light coming from one of the lamps that bordered the driveway. “You’d rather go do that than stay here and face your mother once and for all.”
“I didn’t realize I was obliged,” I said with a mocking smile, twisting my arm free. “Entertain her yourself. She’s your guest after all.”
“Charlotte!” Brandon hissed as I turned to go.
I ignored him and scrambled toward the car as fast as I could.
“Everything okay?” Jake asked with a frown knitted between his brows. “I couldn’t hear anything but Brandon kind of looked upset.”
I barked out the hospital name to him, strapped on my seatbelt, and motioned impatiently with my hand for him to go.
“He invited my mother.”
“Your mother?” Jake repeated incredulously. “Your mother—the one who, um... you know.”
“Yes. The same one who walked out on me and rode off into the sunset,” I answered caustically, opening the windows to escape that oppressive heat that seemed to be coming out of me tonight. “You can imagine why I’m so thrilled.”
Jake was quiet for a moment before he gently said, “Brandon was just probably trying to help. You know he loves you.”
I snorted. “I really felt the love when he forced me to confront the one person I have no desire to ever be associated with again.”
“So he made you face your demons,” Jake said in such a diplomatic tone I almost laughed. “He took a page off your book. If there’s a master of good intentions around, it’s you.”
Well, that shut me up.
Somewhere in the back of my mind was a rational, logical argument that explained Brandon’s actions but I didn’t want to fish it out just yet.
Sometimes, in order to fix something, you’ll need to break it again. It makes you wonder whether it’s worth the pain when you’ve managed to limp along just fine.
***
I wasn’t a big fan of hospitals.
The few times I’d been to one, in my recollection, were unpleasant experiences: when my father lashed out on me, when Anna and I were mugged and beaten, when Martin had a heart attack, and tonight, when Bessy earned a busted lip and an array of bruises in exchange for the baby she’d lost.
It was so damned depressing.
Jake and I sat there as Bessy told us how she’d snuck back into her apartment to get a few things she wanted to take with her before flying out to stay with her sister in Florida. Don showed up ten minutes later, drunk and demonic, railing at her for making things worse with Layla who was in the process of getting a restraining order against him while her father was stirring up a storm in the company to get him fired.
He knew that Bessy didn’t go through with the abortion but that he was going to make sure he got rid of any evidence himself.
Bessy, defeated and damaged as I’d never seen her before, went on to tell us that she was passed out for a while before waking up in a pool of blood on the floor, knowing well before the doctors confirmed to her, that the baby was gone. She’d wrapped herself up in a blanket and took a cab to the hospital because Don had taken her cellphone as another insurance that she wouldn’t be able to show any proof of their affair.
I pleaded with Bessy, over and over again, to press charges, but it seemed that she lost her strength along with her baby. She was so drained she couldn’t even shed tears anymore. She told us the entire story with dry but haunted eyes, curling into a ball afterwards when it was over, saying nothing more until she finally fell asleep.
Jake and I sat there for hours. When the clock struck six in the morning, I finally messaged Layla to tell her what happened to her cousin. Bessy didn’t want her involved but she was her only family at the moment.
Layla arrived half an hour later, grim-faced but amazingly calm.
“I’ll deal with it, Charlotte,” she told me as we stepped out of the room to talk privately. “I thought we could all get out of this mess without a scandal but Don has gone too far.”
“He deserves to rot in jail,” I agreed. “This is the last straw, Layla. I won’t be shutting up any more after this.”
Layla closed her eyes briefly as she sighed, her face etched with the evidence of her emotional exhaustion. “I know, Char. And you won’t have to. I’m going after Don. I’ll make sure he gets everything he deserves.”
“Battles are ugly, I know, but we fight them for a good reason,” I told her gently.
Layla’s smile was faint and haunted. “Do you know why Don and I never had a child?”
I shook my head.
“I got pregnant a couple years ago but he caught me sneaking out to see Riley,” she said in a voice filled with aching sadness. “He wanted to teach me a lesson I would never forget. He beat me senseless. I lost the baby too. Since then, I never voluntarily became intimate with him. Besides not being able to stand his touch, I didn’t want to subject a child of mine to a monster of a father, and it seems that fate agrees because I don’t think I can have a child anymore.”
A tear rolled down Layla’s cheek and she brushed it off, bravely smiling at me despite her suffering.
I had no words so I gingerly took a step forward and gave her a hug, willing for some of her pain to go away.
By the time Jake dropped me off at the condo, I was tired, hungry and emotionally wrecked.
I longed for a comfortable bed and a few decent hours of sleep where I could forget every bloody bad thing I had to deal with in the last twelve hours.
At least Brandon would be at his father’s house—I could postpone our fight for a few more hours.
That was what I thought anyway, and apparently I was wrong.
I was just making my way to the bedroom when I spied a figure hunched over Brandon’s desk through the open door of his office.
I stopped in my tracks, instantly recognizing the thick dark brown hair and the broad shoulders. Gone was his tux jacket but with the state of his wrinkled white dress shirt and the unruly mop of his hair, it looked like Brandon had been sitting there for a while, his face buried in his hands.
I felt an unbearable ache in my chest and I nearly pounded on it with a closed fist. Instead, I sucked in a breath and approached him.
He must have heard the click of my heels because he looked up, arresting me on the spot with bloodshot eyes that looked hostile.
I finally noticed the glass and the nearly empty bottle of brandy he had sitting on his desk and the sight filled me with dismay.
“What are you doing here?” I asked in not the friendliest tone.
I should walk away and reserve this discussion when we both had clear heads but despite my physical fatigue, I was still wound up tight emotionally.
“I live here,” Brandon answered with equal distaste. “I’ve lived here in relative peace and quiet for several years before you brought havoc to my life.”
I didn’t miss the bitterness in his statement. “Thanks for making me sound like the plague. You and my Mom must’ve been swapping notes.”
I couldn’t help the swipe at him. If it hadn’t been for him, the dam inside me would’ve stayed shut and well sealed and I wouldn’t be feeling like I was barely holding my head up through the devastating currents of hurt both past and present.
“We couldn’t have,” he replied, leaning back in his seat and surveying me with inscrutable eyes.
“After your spiteful speech, the sobbing woman hightailed out of there to go hide in her hotel.”
My mouth curled into a sneer. “No surprise. She’s quite good at running away.”
“Another talent you inherited from her, it would seem,” Brandon said bluntly and deliberately. “You run away when you can’t handle it—like you did whenever you couldn’t take your father’s drinking anymore, when you hopped on a plane to move to Paris and leave your old life behind, when you walked out on me as I was trying to help you find closure with your mother.”
The remark stung because there was some truth to it, and truth was often like salt flung on top of a bleeding wound.
“It makes me wonder if you’ve inherited more of your mother’s talents,” he said, reaching for a cluttered pile on his desk and shoving them forward in my direction.
I frowned, looking at what seemed to be a pile of large photographs turned face down on the desk.
I picked them up and froze the moment I turned them over.
On top of the pictures was a black and white print-out that simply said: The truth is sometimes right under your nose.
The first picture was of me standing outside of the family clinic with Jake. He was holding me by the elbow and by the looks on our faces, we seemed to be fighting, which we were, because we were arguing about what I was doing there.
The next photographs were more shots of us outside the clinic, the images selected in a way that portrayed us like quarrelling lovers. There were more of us inside the clinic, visible through the glass door even through the slightly grainy quality of the zoomed-in image.
The rest were more photos of me and Jake at the entrance of his condo, a couple of them showing us embracing.
The photo collection was a perfect storyboard for a treacherous love affair.
“They were handed to my driver last night by some guy in a hoodie who quickly disappeared. I sat here and looked at them for hours, refusing to believe what I was seeing.”
My heart was already beating a frantic tattoo, my hands ice-cold but steady despite the sharp and ugly churn of my stomach as it dawned on me what Brandon meant when he referred to other talents I inherited from my mother.
“All those hushed, furtive conversations, those meaningful glances like you two knew a secret no one else did, your growing distance from me, the bleeding heart Jake wears on his sleeve—I must’ve been blind or just plain stupid.”
I swallowed against the painful lump in my throat, biting the inside of my lower lip to keep it from trembling as I raised my eyes to meet Brandon’s own—a golden gaze that burned with fiery hate.
I had a thousand words to say to him—words that might just save us—but I couldn’t find my voice through the nearly lethargic feeling of defeat that seeped into my bones.
And just like that, the trust you thought would stand the test of time crumbled into dust. There would be no explanations—not when the truth is whatever he wants to see.
“I called up my guy in the security department to find out what the clinic does because it doesn’t come up online,” Brandon continued, his voice rising as his accusations piled up like heads on a pike in front of me. “Guess what the shabby little shack’s specialty is—back-alley abortions.”
His gaze wavered from mine as his eyes dropped to my stomach, and the pain that flickered across his face was so raw and potent, I had to gasp out a breath.
“So what’s the story, Charlotte?” he asked bitterly the second he recovered, the mask of disgust and anger back on his face. “Were you Jake’s woman problems? Fooled around together and got knocked up by him? Tried to get rid of the evidence? Did you two fight about it? Did you talk about how poor Brandon shouldn’t know about any of it?”
“Did you go and fuck him while you’re married to me because maybe the very thing you’re afraid of is not your mother but the fact that you might just be exactly like her?”
I stumbled back at the sheer volume and vehemence of his last statement, barely able to recognize the agonized and tortured face of the man who stared back at me.
This wasn’t the man I married—the man who tied the laces of my sneakers when my high heels wore me out, the man who stood up to his family for me when our dirty secret came out, the man who bought me a house I only once dreamily gazed at when I walked the streets alone at night to escape my depressing childhood. This was a man who had made his mind up about me without the slightest doubt or hesitation, even after all that we’d been through together.
For someone who never backed down without a word in, I didn’t have a lot I could say that would mean anything now—even the truth.
They say love hurts. No one warned me it could kill.
It surely felt like dying or something similar because I lost all kinds of feeling in my body except where my heart was pumping out its last supply of blood in a laughable attempt at survival.
If there were tears on my face, I didn’t notice and I didn’t care as I slowly set the photos down on Brandon’s desk.
“That was the cruelest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I said quietly. “And I’ve had so many people give it their best shot.”
Brandon was probably expecting anger from me because at my words, he deflated, his eyes briefly closing in agony as he dragged a hand down his face.
“Charlotte, I’m...” He clenched his fists on the table and exhaled sharply. “I’ve had too much to drink and the pictures—“
I laughed—a sound so grating and crude it jolted me out of the dark anguish I was simply sinking into. “Congratulations, Brand! You’re now the second man to have ever used that excuse with me—the perfect intro to your explanation why you just couldn’t help but hurt me. Of course, you’ve had too much to drink! You stole my father’s line like it’s always been yours. Bravo!”
“What should I have done, Charlotte?” he demanded hotly. “What’s the etiquette on discovering your wife is cheating on you with your best friend? And that she’s possibly pregnant with his child? Huh? You’re the Championette. What’s society’s rule on that?”
“It doesn’t take etiquette classes to know that the first thing you should’ve probably done is ask me for my side of the story,” I returned in a biting tone, my anger back to full force. “The question is whether you’d even recognize the truth when you hear it because from the looks of things, you’ve already declared me guilty.”
I slammed my hands down on his desk, barely noticing the sting on my palm and the tremors that shot up to my elbows. “We both know I can lie well, Brand, and the photographic evidence is damning. And since you obviously think me my mother’s daughter—just as much of a whore as she is, if we use my father’s endearing description of her—why the hell wouldn’t I be cheating on you with your best friend? Why wouldn’t you think me capable of betraying you? Of stirring a torrid affair with a man who’s like a brother to me, even when all this time, I was so fucking in love with you?”
I was close enough that I could see the tears welling up in Brandon’s eyes.
I wanted to reach out and cup his face in my hands, to bring him close enough that I could press my lips against his forehead and tell him we didn’t have to hurt like this, but I didn’t move an inch.
“I don’t know what to think,” Brandon whispered, his head lowering in defeat slowly enough that I couldn’t miss the doubt seared in him.
The pain was crushing but I nodded, blinking back my own tears as I straightened and took a step back, wanting nothing more but to get away from the very place I considered a real home for the first time years. It felt oppressive, like the disappointment that felt like a chain looped around my neck, weighing me down into the cold,
dirty ground where I was going to wait for my eternal torture.
Sometimes, what you thought was everything just isn’t enough.
“I’ll go.”
As if in a strange, lucid dream haze, I made my way to the bedroom. Through a vision that stung and swam with tears, I packed what few things I’d owned before I met Brandon into a small suitcase.
I paused by the open door of his office, knowing he was still sitting where I left him and that he could see me with the suitcase in hand, waiting without looking at him to see if he would stop me, call me back, tell me that we would be okay and that he would listen.
When nothing but agonizing silence stretched in the air, I took a deep breath, forcing it in so that it would fill what was so empty inside me right now, and left.
Clad and chilled in a wilted evening gown, staggering on high heels with bleeding feet, and clutching one of my old, battered suitcases that still had luggage stickers on it, I, the great Mrs. Charlotte Maxfield, got into a cab, my head down and my heart finally broken so completely the fine shards would’ve floated away with the crisp, autumn morning breeze as I left behind the life and the man I never thought I’d love so fiercely.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Finding Fortitude and Freedom
Do you know that image of a person standing solitary while the rest of the world blurred around them?
That was exactly how I felt in the days that followed my departure from the penthouse.
Danny and Riley had taken one look at me when I arrived at the door of my own house before scrambling to prepare my old bedroom.
Danny dismissed my protest and assured me that he was going to be comfortable on the couch. Layla had been using the only other bedroom in the house which was where Riley bunked over as well.
Within an hour, I was curled up in bed in my old pajamas, lethargic and mute, sipping some chicken soup that Danny had made. Riley sat next to me, keeping the conversation going for the both of us as he told me about meeting his grandfather, not minding at all that I barely made a sound.
I dozed off, not having had a wink of sleep since the day of Martin's birthday, and woke up maybe a day later, burning up and croaking with a sore throat.