Public

by Xavier Neal

  “Wish we were riding in a limo instead of the company SUV.” The two of us start for the slightly opened door. “They’ve been spoiling him all morning with treats. We’re talking the good shit too. And so many people have visited him today you’d think he was a goddamn war hero.”

  A sliver of joy slinks through my heart.

  “You gonna be good to drive or do you need me to?”

  “It’d probably be best if you-”

  “Raquel?” Calen’s voice cuts mine off as he opens the door the rest of way. “What are you doing out here?”

  She looks up from her phone though remains silent.

  “How long have you been standing out here?” he defensively asks.

  “Just a minute,” our boss brushes off. “I was actually headed back to my office when I stopped to check the alert I just received. Transport is here.”

  My heart lurches back into my throat. “They’re early….”

  “They are, but there’s no point to delay the inevitable. Calen, I need you in your suit now.” Her stern face falls to me. “Brynley I need you greeting the truck and prepping the team.”

  We both nod our understanding. Calen heads back into the employee room while I hustle to the loading and unloading area.

  Despite the fact this isn’t my first time doing a transfer, it is the most painful one. However, the process is executed as flawlessly as always. Steven is loaded into the transport tank then carried on the fork lift to the waiting trailer. Several members from our team and theirs lift Steven out of the tank with the assistance of a net and carefully place him into the moveable exhibit tank being used to haul him to K&T.

  I lean against the outside wall, watching from the sidelines, completely useless.

  Being pregnant I’m not allowed to lift anything his size or even assist in the action. I’m also not allowed to get into the holding pool, which is why I wasn’t the one who went to be with him when he needed me most.

  The light rain seems to pick up speed as if encouraging me to openly weep during the adjustment procedure. Keeping the best maintained distance to let everyone who is actively involved have enough space to work, I swivel my head around double checking from a far that everything is being done with care and perfect precision, not just for their sake, but for his. Once he’s secured inside the travel tank, Calen turns to me, and motions his head for me to get moving.

  With one final bleary-eyed look at his tank, I make my way towards the staff vehicles we use for such trips.

  Today is the worst day of my life. It feels like I’m losing so much more than just a best friend. Feels like someone’s ripping off one of my arms and expecting me to act like it’s no big deal. Like it happens every day. Like I’m not losing a fucking appendage I have relied on for a huge portion of my life. And I know some people will never understand the bond we shared or how lost I’ll feel without him around, but I don’t fucking care. Right now, all that matters is making sure he gets properly accommodated. Afterwards, I’ll pray like hell that Wes has his shit together by the time I step through the door of that mansion tonight because I need him to listen to me cry, listen to me complain, listen to me confess how much losing Steven kills me, and promise me everything will be fine. Because at this moment I’m not sure it will be.

  Bank account statements. Travel logs. Diary entries. Everything…everything confirms that they were having an affair.

  I take another swig out of the bottle, eyes still planted on the photos I have lined up on my desk.

  Pregnant. She was pregnant. He fathered another child and kept it hidden for decades.

  The dark-haired woman in all the photos squeezed in tight beside him haunts me the same way her daughter does. Or shall I say my sister does.

  Disgust crawls onto my taste buds, and I promptly wash it down with the last of the whiskey in the bottle. As soon as it’s empty I toss it into the pile with the others.

  Why is it no matter what I do, no matter how I try to rearrange the facts in front of me I can’t get another answer? Why can’t I even get the one I really wanna fucking know? The one I really need to fucking know. Why! Why the fuck would he cheat on my mother?! On me?! Why the fuck would he throw this fucking family away for her? What the fuck was so special about her? What did she have that was worth ruining our family? Was the sex that fucking fantastic? Was my mother some sort of prude or on a sex strike? Was he that…desperate he had to fly to fucking Texas to get his nuts touched by some backwoods bimbo?

  I grumble, reach for a fresh bottle from the case at my feet, and begin to open it.

  Not really sure how many bottles I’ve gone through in the past few weeks. Not really sure it fucking matters. No matter how much I drink I can’t seem to get the images of them together out of my head. Can’t get his face, his face which is my face minus the deformity, out of my mind. All I see when I shut my eyes are images I’ve read of them together on the ranch that I didn’t even fucking know he had. The two of them taking walks with the horses. Cooking dinner together. Kissing….

  Another shot of whiskey lands in my mouth.

  He gave himself another name. Used it to hide behind. Will Cox. So far from fucking clever yet not obvious enough to catch on he was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. I had barely turned four when my parents apparently separated. There’s no reason why in all the files, in the all the “allowed” statements, in all the minor pieces of evidence the P.I. managed to find. There’s also very little information about the entire span of time from my family’s perspective. He bought a ranch in a small town in Texas through a shell corporation. All employees on it signed a NDA and a mountain of other paperwork keeping me tangled in red tape from asking them anything worth a damn. Their vague fucking answers just infuriate me more. My father’s flights from here to there were never direct. He always flew to other states or countries before visiting his slut away from home. Always made sure to keep his tracks covered. The right people paid off or gagged. Always managed to keep his secrets buried. Well almost. Bet he wasn’t banking on the child to just blow past every one of his road blocks since nothing prevented her from saying anything.

  I put the bottle to my lips at the same time my cell phone rings.

  Other than when M.D., the PI, calls with some new spec of information, I don’t typically answer.

  What’s the point? What the fuck does anyone have to say that could possibly fucking matter? What could any of them know that he has yet to find to make this situation I am stuck studying drastically any better?

  The name on the caller ID nudges me slightly harder to answer.

  Hitting the speaker button I answer, “What?”

  “You’re alive,” J.T. nervously jokes.

  “Mmhm,” I hum while grabbing Mary Catherine’s diary with my free hand.

  Mary fucking Catherine….That was her name.

  “Are you aware you missed an interview today?”

  “Are you aware that he was at the hospital with her when she gave birth? Right there. Holding her fucking hand. Wonder what I was doing.” I steal another swallow. “Wonder if I was pawned off to the nanny. Or at my grandparents’ home in the mountains. Or trying not to fall off my fucking bike….Wonder if I needed him while he was busy playing house with her.”

  “Wes-”

  “I answered as a courtesy,” I sigh thumbing the pages like if I turn them just the right amount of times everything inside will change. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Everyone is worried about you,” he rushes to say. “Everyone. The company is wondering if you’ll be fit to run it again. Matt-”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Wes-”

  “I don’t fucking care, J.T.. I really don’t. The only thing that matters right now is finding the lie in all of this shit. Finding that little smidgen of inconsistency that will make this whole fucking house of cards fall down! That’ll prove my father was a good man! That he loved my mother! That he would never knock up some random fucking w
oman he met in the middle of dirt poor, watermelon farm, Texas and betray everything the Wilcox name stood for!”

  There’s a long pause, and I put the bottle down on the desk to give my face a good scrub.

  Haven’t slept. Not even sure when or what I’ve eaten. Or if I’ve showered. Damn sure haven’t left this room for much longer than it takes to piss or dig through the cellar for something more rare to drink. The only reason I even know time has actually passed is thanks to the cycle of phone calls that gets ignored.

  “Guess that’s true since you missed your pregnant fiancée’s doctor’s appointment over a week ago.”

  The unexpected words shut my eyes.

  “I’m actually starting to believe the reports claiming you don’t want your unborn child.”

  My chest grows tighter.

  “How could you do that, Wes?” J.T. voice meekly asks. “How could you-”

  I end the call without a second thought.

  More guilt. The absolute last fucking thing I need right now. I don’t have enough? If I don’t find some sort of break in Monica’s iron clad story the weight of that guilt will collapse me too. The guilt of being just another asshole in an apparent lineage of assholes who pretends to care where the public can see but won’t even accept all the members of his own family. The guilt of buying into years of perfectly cultivated bullshit. The guilt of wearing our family’s name like a badge of honor instead of the cloak of shame as I truly should. Is that guilt not enough? Is now really a time to tack on the fact I have been blatantly ignoring the only woman I’ve ever met willing to love me for a lifetime? What happens when I find out that’s nothing more than another well executed behind the scenes façade? What happens when Clark comes clean to admit my future wife never truly cared? That everything between us is just another secret that I’ll have to bury from my son or daughter until they find it rubbed in their face by a bitchy reporter?

  Wedging the bottle back between my lips I begin to suck down the amber appeasement. Maybe it won’t kill the guilt rapidly building, but it’ll at least numb it. Or kill me. Both acceptable endings as far as I’m concerned right now.

  I grab the bank statement outlining the automatic monthly transfers that were filtered into an account for her and Monica. Like clockwork he sent a small lump sum on the same day each month for years. Hush money. Compensation in cash. Did he have any idea how much she loved him? Did he fucking care?

  My phone rings again and the sight of Monica’s face pushes me to take another gulp before answering.

  After wiping away the missed droplets with the back of my hand, I hit the green button. “What?”

  “You sound delightful,” she mocks with mirth embedded in her tone. “Is this because your future wife is having doubts about your pending marriage? Because she’s secretly in love with her best friend? Or because she’s debating on leaving you for missing her doctor’s appointment about a week ago?”

  Despite the fact she can’t see my gritted teeth I bare them in irritation.

  How does she know that? Why does she know that? How is it she’s been one fucking step ahead of me every time we talk? I’ve had security triple and quadruple check the entire estate, the penthouse, and even our fucking cars for eavesdropping devices. Nothing. Does she just have impeccable hearing? What is she a fucking dolphin?

  The ocean knowledge from the woman I can’t remember the last time I saw drives misery into the marrow of my bones.

  “Just called to tell you our little family reunion will be airing on the Yea! channel.”

  I sneer at the mention of the network devoted to detailing the lives of anyone with fame stock to their name.

  “It’s next Saturday morning, so mark it on your personal calendar. I’ve already sent out memos to your team.”

  In a cold voice, I demand, “I need more time.”

  “You’ve had enough,” she counters. “You’ve had weeks to comb through everything you can about me, my mother, and the smidgen of information our father was willing to leave open for speculation. Face it, Weston. No matter which way you shake the family tree, I’m still in it.”

  Nausea rolls across my tongue colliding with another fit of anger. “Why now, Monica? You’ve had this information for how long? Why are you just now coming forward? Why are you just now trying to destroy my life? What the fuck is this really about?”

  “My mother died last year and you know what she confessed on her death bed? You know what her biggest regret in life was? Never telling me about the most important man who had a role in my life.”

  The knot I’ve been battling with for weeks expands.

  “So, for decades of silence, I am not only going to sing the truth, I am going to make sure there isn’t a single person who doesn’t know what kind of scum William Willard Wilcox was where the cameras weren’t watching….”

  All of a sudden there’s a sharp pounding on my office door. “Weston fucking Wilcox you open this goddamn door right now!”

  Ending the call, I reach for the bottle once more and lean back in my leather chair, eyes plastered on where I know Brynley is standing on the other side of the door.

  I won’t….

  I can’t….

  Fuck, I’m even more like him than I was already loathing.

  “You don’t fucking think I will keep shouting in the hallway like a lunatic?!” There’s a short pause. “Have you completely fucking forgot who the hell it is you wanna marry?”

  The corner of my lip threatens to lift for the first time in what feels like forever.

  I could never forget her.

  I wish she could forget me.

  Another minor lull goes by before she returns to shouting, “You know yelling is not good for a pregnant woman?! Neither is bawling her fucking eyes out! Or planning a wedding for half the fucking continent all by myself! Maybe you would know that shit had you gone to the fucking doctor with me!” Her fist or foot hits the door. “How could you do that? How could make me go through that alone?”

  Instinctually, I move the bottle towards my lips.

  “How the fuck can you make me go through any of this alone?!” This thud against the door has me picturing her jabbing it like it’s my chest. “Who the hell do you think you are? What kinda weak ass fucking person do you think I am?!”

  She’s not.

  She’s stronger than me that’s for damn sure.

  Why can’t I let her be my strength for me now?

  Why am I so fucking afraid that everything between us is a sham? Just because my parents’ marriage was doesn’t mean mine will be….Does it?

  “Let me make something really fucking clear to you, Weston.” The chomped sound of my name ceases my movements. “As you sit behind this locked door throwing the world’s longest fucking pity party or world’s longest after party for said pity party, over some shit that happened decades ago in a marriage that wasn’t fucking yours, you are running the high risk of ruining your own.”

  Her threat spreads the pain in my heart.

  “You’re also running the high risk of ever being a father, something less than a month ago you swore you wanted to be.”

  The profuse trembling of my jaw matches the one in my hand.

  “This is your final warning that you better figure out a way to walk out of this fucking room before I walk out of your fucking life. For. Good.”

  I’m surprised the raw fire of her words doesn’t burn down the door.

  She gives it one last pound, and my eyes shut tight.

  Thoughtlessly, I slide my hand over the ache in my chest.

  I can’t fucking breathe. There’s not enough goddamn air in this room….I need….I need to get out. Brynley’s right. If I’m ever going to get out of this shit hole I’ve stuffed myself into, I have to start by rushing away from this avalanche of allegation before it kills me. Before I leave my fiancée widowed and my unborn child fatherless, just like Monica grew up.

  Her name and the mixed emotions in my mind lead me
to pressing the HH button on my desk phone.

  With it on speaker, I listen to it ring twice before Clark answers, “Yes, sir. How may I serve you today?”

  “Need a car.”

  His denial is immediate. “Absolutely not, sir. You are in no condition to drive.”

  “A driver. In front. Three minutes,” I grumble and hang up.

  I release a heavy sigh, stand onto my unstable feet, and stumble from the chair to the door. Getting from where I am to where I need to be is done with the grace of a toddler just learning to walk. My body sways like the ground underneath me is anything but steady, proving just how intoxicated I am. Pathetic thing is I’m not even sure it’s after 9 A.M.