by Lex Martin
Around ten, I finally get the nerve to dial Gavin, but the second the phone starts ringing, my stomach twists into a tight knot. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.
“Gavin, hey, I’m sorry about how we left things yesterday. I… I miss you. Call me when you get a chance.”
When I hang up, I realize he doesn’t know I’m staying at a hotel or that Wheeler threatened me. At least you’ll have something to talk about when he calls. The thought almost cheers me. Except he never calls. I write three thousand words on my story, people-watch out my window for an hour, and veg out to two reruns of CSI, and my phone never rings.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and like any modern woman with half a brain, I cyber-stalk him on Google. He’s been busy. Gavin’s had several articles in the BU newspaper in the last two weeks and a front-page article about sexual predators on college campuses in the Globe that ran yesterday. That piques my interest.
Apparently, a girl at a nearby college recently got attacked by her ex-boyfriend, but the school didn’t believe her because it was a he-said/she-said situation, which Gavin uses to explore how much evidence a woman needs to prove her claims in a situation like this. That hits close to home. I wonder how much inspiration he got from what happened with my professor, but he never asked me for an interview. He must have thought I’d turn him down.
Eventually, early Saturday afternoon, my phone rings.
It’s Jenna. Damn.
She asks about the restraining order, which the police won’t reissue because they say there isn’t enough evidence to consider Wheeler a threat. The fact that Wheeler sounds like he wants to eat my insides Hannibal Lecter-style doesn’t seem to bother them at all, so I call Jax and tell him I might crash with him next week if I can’t figure out what to do. And I really don’t want to stay with my brother. The last time I did, his late-night hookup came waltzing out of his bedroom buck naked and asked if I had seen her thong.
“Are you coming to the show tonight?” Jenna asks, interrupting that unpleasant memory.
I sigh. “Shit. With everything going on this week, I forgot about it.”
“You really should come. Remember, stake your territory, mark your man, maybe show him your goodies.”
“Jenna, I am not showing him my goodies.” I don’t know why I say that. Out of principle, I suppose. After all, he’s already seen my goodies, but he and I aren’t like that anyway. That’s not what our relationship is about.
The club is one train ride away, and the B-line will drop me off in front of the venue. Unless Wheeler is lurking in the bushes right outside of my hotel, which is unlikely since no one knows I’m here, I’m probably okay for a quick trip. I have to go because the writing is on the wall: Gavin must think we’re over. If he doesn’t, that’s where this is headed if things don’t turn around ASAP.
“Yeah, I’ll try to make it.” The thought of seeing him makes my insides squirm with excitement and fear, but I need to be a big girl and deal with this.
“Great. I’ll make sure your name is on the VIP list.”
I wish I had realized the band was playing this weekend. Maybe I would have packed more than jeans and t-shirts. But the idea of gorgeous girls in barely-there fabric draping themselves all over him is enough to motivate me. I can see Angry Red now, shaking her big tits in the front row, and my blood boils.
A quick trip to the mall across the street suddenly seems like a brilliant idea. I need something for the interview my publicist set up for tomorrow morning anyway, so maybe I can kill two birds with my MasterCard.
About two dozen outfit changes later, I drag myself back into my room, toss my packages on the bed and bury myself in the blankets for a nap. Jenna can shop endlessly for days, and I can barely manage a few hours.
Truth be told, I can’t wait to see Gavin. I’ve never seen him perform with Ryan’s band, but the impromptu open mic with his students a few weeks ago has me wanting more. He’s so damn sexy when he plays the guitar.
With thoughts of that hot man tumbling around in my head, I put my whole heart into getting ready. I straighten my hair, do my makeup, making sure to play up my eyes, and then wiggle into my dress, which I think hugs in all the right places. He liked the outfit I wore on my birthday, and this one is similar, but it’s fire-engine red—a bit of a departure for me, but I know I need to pull out all the stops if I want to stave off the hungry droves of women who might be pining for him.
And suddenly, nothing could be clearer. I don’t want to lose him. If he says he hasn’t been cheating on me, I believe him. That’s probably stupid and naive, and I’m setting myself up for heartbreak, but I’m tired of living life on the sidelines, and if I don’t take a chance with Gavin Murphy, I think I’ll always regret it.
I know my problem. After years of consuming a steady diet of romantic comedies with Jenna and Harper, I think I’ve been waiting for the big gesture, the one where the guy stands in the rain and declares his love or makes some scene at a football game that ends with the crowd doing the slow clap. It’s official. Romantic comedies have ruined my life.
Maybe tonight I just need to tell him how I’m feeling, that I want to work this out. Maybe that will be enough, and he’ll tell me what happened with Angelique last weekend. Of course, there’s a chance I might vomit before I get the opportunity because I don’t do well with these kinds of declarations.
On the bright side, there’s never any puking in romantic comedies.
I check myself in the mirror one last time before I reach for the door, but I flinch when a loud knock startles me. Through the peephole, I see two men in black suits. I put the chain on the door before I open it slowly.
One waves a badge.
“Ms. Avery? We’re with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Jason Wheeler.”
Holy crap on toast.
* * *
The two men are probably in their early thirties. I wonder if the FBI deliberately recruits people who have mastered the blank stare because these guys have it down pat.
“I know you,” I say to the one with brown hair, Agent Robertson. “I tripped on you in my writing class.”
He nods almost imperceptibly and points to the love seat, motioning for me to sit down.
“This might take a while,” he says as he glances around my room. He pulls up two chairs, one for him and one for his partner. “We understand you had a run-in with Wheeler your freshman year, and we’d like to understand the details of what happened.”
“Sure, but I filed a police report that should contain all the information you need.”
Robertson looks briefly at his partner and back to me. “We would, except there’s no record of it.”
“But… I just spoke to a detective.” Who told you there were some anomalies with this situation but refused to elaborate. Then he stonewalled by saying there wasn’t enough evidence. Shit.
He tilts his head forward. “The department is digitizing its files. It’s possible the file was misplaced. It happens.”
I swallow, trying to gather my bearings. “Okay, but this can’t be about a three-year-old restraining order or the argument Wheeler and I had in class the other day.”
Robertson nods again as he whips out a pen and notepad. “We’re investigating Olivia Lawrence’s disappearance.”
I’m glad I’m sitting or I’d have fallen on my ass.
My stomach lurches at the question banging around in my head. It comes out a whisper. “Do you think he’s killed Olivia? Like the character in his book?”
Robertson’s lips tighten, and his silence weighs heavily in the air.
And all this time I thought Wheeler was threatening me. Maybe he was. Maybe I was next. I get chills thinking about all the time we spent alone, working on my book. He could have killed me.
I think back to the conversation I had with Kade. “You know that Olivia’s sister thought she was talking to a new guy, right?”
“Her phone records do not indicate any anomalies
.”
“But what if they were using burners or prepaid phones? People use those all the time when they go abroad.”
Robertson doesn’t respond, but he jots a few notes in the file that sits in his lap. He asks me about my relationship with Wheeler, how we grew close, when things started to get weird, and when I noticed him stalking me. The hardest part is answering questions about the attack. I must be visibly shaken when I’m done because I almost sense sympathy in their eyes.
The agents appear to be wrapping up the interview when it hits me.
“Oh my God. Brigit.” I’ve been so wrapped up in my stupid book and Wheeler’s creepy phone call, I forgot about meeting up with her this week. “You need to make sure she’s okay. You have to go now!”
The agents look at each other and one gets up and grabs me a glass of water.
“Slow down,” Robertson says, handing me the drink.
“Brigit is the freshman Wheeler has taken under his wing this year. He’s editing her book, and she told me he’s been acting really moody lately. I wanted to warn her about him, but I didn’t get the chance.”
I try to take a sip of water, but my hand is shaking so badly, I can barely bring it to my mouth. I set it down instead and take a deep breath.
“He taught abroad in London,” I say to myself. I look up at Robertson. “Is that how he knows Olivia?”
“We’re not at liberty to say, but if you can give us Brigit’s contact information, that would be helpful.”
By the time the agents get ready to leave, it’s midnight. I can’t believe we’ve been talking for almost four hours. I’m exhausted, stunned and more than a little overwhelmed.
As they reach the door, Robertson turns back to me. “I would keep our conversation confidential, and it’s a good idea to stay here for a few more days. Until we can take further action.” He reaches into his pocket. “Ms. Avery, here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else that might help our investigation.” Although he never outright says I’m in danger, there’s a warning in his eyes.
When the door closes, when the reality of the situation really starts to sink in, I’m afraid. With shaky hands, I gulp down some water and sit on the couch trying to understand what just happened.
I don’t know how long I sit, trying to absorb what’s happened tonight, but as I walk into the bathroom to splash my face with cold water, I see my red dress. I missed Gavin’s show. Crap.
Grabbing my phone, I realize Jenna sent me a text.
Get your ass over here!
I’m about to write her back when I notice the attachment. As the picture opens, I see the red hair.
Shit. It’s a photo of Angelique and Gavin standing side by side, laughing.
Okay, that doesn’t mean anything, just that she was at his show. And you weren’t.
I leave a brief message for Jenna, who doesn’t pick up. If she’s still out with Ryan, it’s possible she can’t hear her cell ringing.
I grab my coat and run out the door because there’s only one person I want to see right now.
* * *
As I knock on Gavin’s door, I start to wonder about what led Robertson’s investigation to Wheeler. Kicking myself for not asking more questions, I realize how long I’ve been standing here. I smooth down my dress. Although I didn’t go to the show, hopefully I still look presentable.
I check my phone. It’s 1:30 a.m. Maybe no one’s home. Gavin might have gone out with Ryan after their gig. It’s probably totally obnoxious that I’m here anyway.
I start to turn back toward the elevator when I hear laughter from within his room. Female laughter. My stomach knots.
Then the door opens.
And my heart free-falls out of my chest.
Angelique answers only wearing a t-shirt, one of Gavin’s. She eyes me coolly and runs her hand through her tangled long hair. Her lips are smeared with what used to be lipstick, and black mascara rings her eyes. She looks like she’s been… Oh, God.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asks with a smirk. “Guess you’re looking for Gavin, huh? Well, he’s busy.”
Behind her, a voice calls for her. “Angie, who’s there?”
He calls her Angie. He calls her Angie, and he fucks her. Guess he got tired of waiting.
I don’t wait for her response before I bolt for the stairs, going as fast as I can in heels. I stop a few flights down and sob into my hands.
Maybe I did this. Maybe I drove him to her. But that doesn’t make the cleaver in my heart hurt any less.
-
27 -
How do you prepare for a national interview after discovering that your boyfriend is sleeping with his ex?
He’s not your boyfriend. You were on a break, remember?
I dry off another tear.
Whatever. He told me to wait. No, he begged me to wait and swore he wasn’t sleeping with Angelique. But you let him think something was going on with Daren. But all he had to do was tell me what he was doing in Rhode Island, and I said I’d explain.
I continue arguing with myself as I drink my first cup of coffee. It’s still early. I have a couple of hours before I need to meet my publicist and attorney downstairs.
My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and I would kill for one of my blue pills, but they’re back home. Guess the Regent Hotel doesn’t come fully stocked with meds. So I opt for the next best thing. Room service.
“Yes, this is the Vega Suite.” My voice is hoarse, and I cover the phone to cough. “I’d like an ice cream sundae with chocolate syrup, a rum and coke, and a plate of chilled cucumber slices.” The silence on the line makes me wonder if there’s a problem with the connection, but then the woman realizes I’m serious and tells me it’ll be up in fifteen.
After a shower where I cry some more, the food arrives. I take a few half-hearted bites of the sundae, place slices of cucumber on my eyes and sprawl back on the bed.
God, how many times will I do this to myself? Let myself get crushed by a guy? Salty tears stream down my face as I think about how much he’s hurt me. It could have been worse. You could have had sex with him. The insidious thought that if I had slept with him, I wouldn’t be here alone right now, haunts me. I can almost hear my mother saying those exact same words she told me years ago.
I think of all the times Gavin and I snuggled in bed together, talking, touching, falling asleep together. And now he’s doing the same things with Angelique. Of course he wanted to have sex. What twenty-one-year-old male doesn’t? But I thought we had more. And I was so close to going all the way so many times. Not that my body needs to be hermetically sealed because I definitely wanted to take that step with him, but I feared this very situation. Being with a man who would be unfaithful. Having my heart broken. Falling apart.
Well, I’m not going to fall apart. Fuck that. I’ve come too far to have a man rip me to shreds. I’m not going to let myself dwell on this. Not right now. In about three hours, when I’m done with my interview, I plan to curl up in this bed and cry some more so that when I see him next week or the week after, I won’t look like I want to die, like he’s eviscerated my heart, even though he has. I’ll be stronger than that.
Trudging back into the bathroom, I place my rum and coke on the counter and spread out my makeup. Using lots of concealer and eyeliner helps hide the fact that I’ve been up half the night crying. I get out my iPhone and earbuds and blast some music. By the time I’m dressed in a pair of black pants and a gray blouse, I think I’m put together enough to do this.
* * *
On the ride to the news studio, my attorney Kate, an intense-looking woman in her early thirties, goes over a few topics I should try to avoid and some standard types of comments to get the reporter to back off. Although she’s not pleased I won’t let her do the interview with me, she says that this early in the media cycle, it’s probably good to “not look lawyered up.”
I don’t care how it looks. I just think having her sit next to me during my interview will make m
e nervous.
My publicist Maeve, in contrast, looks pleased as a petunia to have me doing something to market my book and simply says that any attention is good attention.
I don’t mention the FBI’s visit last night to either of them. That’s a hurdle for another day.
When we get to NBC, I’m briefly introduced to the anchors before I’m escorted to a seating area that has two small couches that face each other. Maeve and Kate stand off camera. The reporter who sits across from me looks young but polished. I’ve seen her around campus. Her long, black hair is swept back into a mock bun, and she looks stunning in a pinstriped suit.
“Hi, Clementine,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Madeline McDermott, but my friends call me Maddie.” She lowers her voice. “I heard The Today Show wanted to fly you to New York to be interviewed by Matt Lauer tomorrow morning, but you preferred to be interviewed by a BU intern.” Her flawless face scrunches up in confusion.
Maeve almost had a heart attack when I explained this point was non-negotiable. If I’ve learned anything from my mother it’s that you can make demands when you’re in demand. In the scheme of things, I don’t think this is such a big deal. But I see why this perplexes Maddie.
“I’ve gotten a few breaks professionally, and I thought I could pay it forward and provide one for someone else.”
I think back to how my book sales took off in the first place. A blogger with a huge following stumbled across Say It Isn’t So and loved my story, so she shared it with her fans. The next day my novel began jumping up the charts.
Maddie smiles brightly. “Well, I can’t thank you enough.”