Awake (12 page)

“Since I was twelve? Oh my god, that is such a violation,” I say completely blown away by the total sham my life has been.

“Don’t worry, he was very discreet,” she says trying to lessen the horror of what she has just told me.

“
He?
Who are you talking about?”

“Who do you think?” she says impatiently.

“Rodrigo?” I ask in disbelief.

“He’s a bodyguard, not a driver,” she says. “Your father usually drives himself to work. Rodrigo was employed just for you. Did you not wonder why he would always be there so fast when you called? He was never too far away. He kept his distance when you needed privacy.”

“Rodrigo took this photo?” I say angrily. I cannot fathom the depths of this betrayal.

“He’s taken a leave of absence,” she says. “He said he had personal matters to attend to, but I suspect it had more to do with this Wade Donovan business than anything else. He always refused to take photos of your coming and goings. Before I even asked him I knew he would not follow you all the way to Las Vegas to spy on your little love tryst. His agency sent another man.”

“I’m twenty-one years old! Are you fucking kidding me? There are men from agencies following me everywhere?”

“This was to be the last week ever of that,” she says. “You’re graduating college. I talked your father into dropping it. I’ve been trying to do that for years, but he was always afraid of losing you.”

“So father knows all about this? And why do you even care? Did you think I was a virgin? Who cares who I kiss in Las Vegas?”

“He does not know. I convinced him that I would coordinate your protection once you turned sixteen.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom!” I say with as much disgust as possible.

“I didn’t think you would want your father knowing about every boy you kissed or every substance you put into your body. A young girl needs some privacy when she’s finding herself.”

“But not from you apparently,” I remind her.

“You are the apple of his eye,” she continues. “I never wanted him to worry about your decisions or question your moral compass.”

I delete the photo on her phone and then scroll through more to find a few other less clear photos by the pool and delete those too. I hand her back the phone. “My private life is not your business and it’s not my father’s business.” I walk for the door.

“Normally I would agree,” she cautions, “but this time it might actually be your father’s business at stake.”

I turn back to her. “What are you talking about?”

“He moved to Los Angeles to play the political side of company business. Tom Wexler has been gunning for control ever since your father merged with his company ten years ago. It’s a chess match and Wexler is much better at stroking board member egos than your father. Your father’s role in the company is hanging by a thread.”

“Can’t you work your magic?” I say. “You are at least as scheming as Tom Wexler, I am sure.”

She walks over to me. “That’s what I’m doing now,” she says apologetically. “It’s why I have been texting you.”

“I don’t understand,” I say feeling pressure mounting in my lungs.

“Stories of possible technological innovation at our Pacific Rim competitors have driven the stock price down. Strong expectation has been mounting that the quarterly numbers will be sluggish.”

“And Wade affects this?” I ask even though I can guess the rest.

“The scandal that would erupt if the daughter of Jack Cassidy stole the fiancé of Tom Wexler’s daughter at the altar would move all sympathies and therefore the trust card would firmly be in the Wexler camp,” she says as clear as if she had been thinking about it non-stop for days. “Your father would be quickly ushered out of his office and given a ceremonial title.”

“It sounds like it might be a matter of time anyway,” I say.

“That may be true,” she agrees. “But not now, not this. Do you really want to be the reason?”

“We planned to keep it a secret for a long time,” I say without a shred of conviction.

“I’ve known since that first day at the shelter,” she confesses. “You and the boy out in the rain. Rodrigo informed me. He said in his estimation the boy was already in love with you then.”

“How unfortunate my existence is to you all,” I say.

“It’s not forever, Erin,” she tells me softly. “It’s for now, maybe a few years, but the boy will have to think it’s forever or he will never stop coming for you. You can’t keep these things secret. It has to end or your father will wander these halls without purpose the rest of his life.”

“And have me to thank for it,” I say under my breath.

“Tom Wexler is already promising to ruin the boy as it is. The boy refuses to share ownership with Tori on his restaurant,” she says. “If you let him go, he can remain at least friendly with Tori and maybe Wexler will not waste his energy on destroying the boy.”

“I feel sick,” I say.

“I know, honey. I hate all of this,” she says softly. She puts her hand tenderly on my shoulder. “Tori will find another man soon enough and then Wade would be free to make his own destiny in the world without powerful enemies.”

“You have it all figured out.”

“It sucks,” she says, “but the world moves in predictable ways, especially the world of money.”

“If I make him believe it’s over forever, he will not be able to wait years,” I say. “He is too sensitive. He’s a momma’s boy. He’ll need to find love to survive this.”

I let her pull me in for a hug. I turn my head to hide the tears, but I know now that I have never really hidden anything from her.

-21-

I decide to stay at my father’s estate all week.

Monday night I duck two calls from Wade and finally text him a simple explanation,
Busy with exams. I’ll call when I can
. Step one of my cold-hearted bitch routine. I don’t think I can look him in the eyes and convince him I don’t want him.

My last exam is Thursday and when I finish, I go to my favorite spot in the botanical gardens to call him. One last call. I have ignored the rest of his calls and texts all week. That was step two of pushing him away.

“It’s Erin,” I say with a hard voice he will not recognize.

He says nothing. I hear him take a breath and exhale.

“It’s been a busy week,” I attempt to explain.

“Tori’s here,” he says quietly. “Call later if you’re not too busy.”

“Wade, wait,” I say almost desperately.

“What?” he says betraying some hurt.

“I don’t need to call later. I called to say goodbye.”

Nothing. Not even a breath.

“You’re a great guy,” I say giving him the cruel
great guy
speech that every man hates to hear. “We’re not right for each other. I’m not feeling it anymore. That’s all I needed to say.”

The silence lingers and this time I decide not to be the one who breaks it. I listen to the final, soundless connection that will ever exist between us. Tears moisten my hot cheekbones. I am tore to pieces by the permanence of our last sad moment sharing a heartbeat.

“Take care, Erin,” he finally says. The line clicks dead.

I throw my cell phone across the path and watch as it skids across the pavement. My knees buckle and I collapse slowly to the ground. I feel my heart dying. I realize that I have not taken a breath for long enough that I need to suddenly gasp for air to fill up my lungs.

This had to happen. I did it for my father. I did it for Wade and even Tori. Their lives will not be crushed by my selfishness. I remind myself that a good person, a person with a proper moral compass, sacrifices for those they care about.

I forget to breathe again. The pain overwhelms and tingles across the surface of my skin like pins and needles. I gasp for more oxygen. I can’t seem to keep enough of it in my lungs.

Strangers offer me a hand. I don’t know how long I sat on the path. I rise for them, tell them I am fine and just a bit clumsy. They ask if I am sure and I tell them that I am.

They leave me reluctantly when I make it to a nearby bench and tell them I just need to catch my breath. I told them the truth. I wonder if humans just stop breathing when they don’t want to live anymore.

I don’t want to move. I don’t want to go back to the estate. I don’t want to go to the gym or go get a massage from Clyde or banter with Kat. I don’t even want to grab a Pinkberry Mango.

I get up and drag myself back to my apartment, another place I don’t want to go. I wander down sidewalks without direction but eventually make it, somehow, to the Ashton.

The comforter lies on the floor. I grab it and fall onto my bed in one motion with my clothes still on. I bury myself below my blanket. I plan to stay here for days, not moving, just trying to breathe.

* * *

I wake up on Friday and get to the bathroom. I take a sip of water from a glass that has been next to my bed for days. I take off my shirt, pants and bra and crawl back into bed to entwine myself in the sheet and comforter in the most pleasing way possible.

My brain starts thinking. I try my best to turn it off. I use an old trick. I think of my mother combing my long golden hair when I was nine on the porch in Minnesota. It works. I fade away. My eyes fall heavily and Friday disappears in a wink.

When another night comes I wake and cannot sleep. I want to cry, but not about new things. I think of all the saddest thoughts of my past until the excessive tears eventually cause me a headache.

Three aspirins go down in a single gulp of apple juice. When I try to disappear again by masturbating I stop disappointed realizing I’d have to think of Wade to finish.

At two in the morning I eat for the first time in more than a day. Two bowls of ice cream. One with hot fudge syrup and the other with hot caramel syrup. I feel inspired. I grab the scissors. I cut the back of my hair off making it short enough so my neck will be completely free and exposed to the air when I try to sleep.

It works. I sleep again.

* * *

It’s Saturday morning. I stand at the mirror in my panties staring at my hacked-up hair. It’s not quite concentration camp frightful, but it is definitely a disaster.

There are things I want now. A hot shower and fresh, comfy clothes for starters. I consider that progress after the last few days. And I really need to hurry to Tula, my hairdresser, to see if she can pull off a miracle with my mangled locks.

After that, I don’t know. Maybe some Thai food and sugary ice tea.

I hide my suicide hair under a Bruins baseball cap. I look like a skinny boy or maybe a hot tranny. My stepmother might have a heart attack when I prance into my fancy graduation party with my little boy hair. I try to smile in the mirror but my lips do not move.

Tula fits me in almost immediately. She starts by taking me back to the shampoo station. I nervously take off my cap.

“Oh, my goodness,” she says when she sees the state of my hair.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I say.

“Don’t worry, not every idea can be a good one,” she says with an encouraging voice.

“Is it a fashion dead end, Tula? Can you fix it?”

“Erin, relax your mind, you are the girl who starts fashions, not follows them.” She tests the water with her hand and then tilts me back in my chair to wet my hair. Tula always says the right thing. I love this about her.

“I love you, Tula,” I say quietly holding my eyes closed as the water pours down on my hair.

“Everybody does,” she says. “Don’t worry, we won’t make you a pixie. I have something special in store. No one will ever forget you.”

Part of me becomes concerned as to what she is planning, but I trust Tula. The warm water on my scalp and Tula’s skilled fingers rubbing the soap make me truly relax for the first time in days.

I think she sensed my stress and massages my scalp longer than normal before rinsing out the soap. I allow myself to think about my life again. The combined graduation party is being held at the Wexler estate because they are a quarter mile closer to the Pacific and have an even more stunning view than we have at our house.

Tula moves me slowly forward in the chair. I rise to follow her to her station. “Today, I will make you immortal. I will give you the Marcel wave. A mix of high fashion and your delicate neck will leave the boys aching for your attention.”

“My graduation party is tomorrow,” I say trying to caution her.

“Perfect,” she says. “You’ll create a sensation.”

* * *

I drive home completely freaked out about what Tula has done to my hair. I have this strange, pressed, wavy 1920s haircut. I don’t look like me. I look worldly and severe in ways that I could never quite pull off before. Tula told me not to overdress for it, just be chill and nonchalant.

Let your petite sexiness captivate all who cross your path.
Where does she even come up with that shit? She knows I like to be low-key and yet she put me in a fashion time machine and I’m forced to pop out in the middle of a party where I’m the guest of honor.

I unlock the door to my apartment and find a folded receipt on the floor. It’s from Peet’s and there’s a note handwritten on the back.

Oh where, oh where has my little ‘Rin gone. Miss you! –Kat

That girl makes me smile. I don’t deserve her.
Oh shit!
When she sees this hair it’s going to be brutal. She does not pull punches. Ever.

I have no choice. I need her in so many ways today. I’ll tell her everything over thrift shopping for retro dresses that match this crazy-ass hair of mine. I’m expecting endless lesbian jokes, but that’s a small price to pay for having my best friend by my side at times like this.

“Kat,” I say when she answers her phone. “Shopping emergency. I’ll be at your curb in ten.”

“Ah, awkward,” she says. “Kip is totally between my legs right now.”

“Yuck, really?”

“You are so gullible, Cassidy. No, not really. I’m giving myself a ghetto pedicure.”

“Screw that,” I say. “Let’s go get real ones.”

“Nine minutes and counting,” she says eagerly and clicks off.