Last Heartbreak (13 page)

T
wo hours
, a shower, and a self pep talk in the bathroom mirror later, I call Mindy. She agrees to meet me in the hotel bar. It feels rash, but I have to ask her. I have to know.

I hide my swollen cheek by sweeping my hair in front of it, just until I reach the booth in the corner. She’s already waiting for me when I arrive.

“I was beginning to think I’d only see you with your nerdy new boyfriend and that snot-nosed kid. What does he call her? Lobster? Seahorse?”

“Her name is Lori.”

Mindy frowns. “So what gives? Why do you suddenly have time for… God, Kienna! What happened to your face?”

I sit at the table and tuck my hair behind my ears. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about my face. I asked you here to talk about Lori. Did you buy cocaine from a bodyguard in front of her at the Trystan Scott concert?”

Mindy swipes her nose absentmindedly with her left hand and clutches her purse to her chest with her right. “I… Why would you think… Did she say something? You know how kids are, she must be mistaken.” She clutches the purse tighter, her eyes flicking toward the door.

“Let me see your purse, Mindy.”

“I’m not on trial. I don’t answer to you. Why do you suddenly care about me anyway? What difference does it make if I’m enjoying myself or not?”

“The difference,” I hiss, “is that someone claims to have photographed you buying cocaine while you were watching that little girl and Graham could lose custody of her because of you!” It hurts to even say his name, but I’m angry enough to push forward. “Now show me what’s inside your purse! I want to see what was so goddamned important it couldn’t wait until you were alone!”

I reach across the table and grab for the purse just as she tries to bolt from the booth. The flap comes open and the contents spill out across the table—lipstick, a single hoop earring, her cell phone, and three tiny plastic bags of white powder. But it’s not the cocaine that catches my attention--it’s the teal-colored fountain pen landing directly in front of me.

Mindy freezes as I pick it up, turning it over in my hands and popping the cap off to reveal a large gold nib. I reach into her purse to snatch the corner of a wrinkled sheet of hotel stationary, placing it on the table in front of me. My eyes flick from the gold nib to Mindy to the paper, as my brain knits together all the pieces.

Mindy says nothing, still standing frozen with her empty purse.

I place the pen nib against the cream-colored paper and begin to scrawl out a message in playful teal-colored ink:

A visible shudder runs through her body as she reads, then collapses back on the bench across from me. “Kienna, you have to under—“

“Stop.” She closes her mouth, mid-sentence, cutting the word in half. I return the cap to the pen with a snap and place it back on the table between us. “I just want to know why. What do you think I’ve done, and why would you send notes instead of talking to me?” She opens and closes her mouth a few times before getting a sound out again.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” Her eyes stare unblinking into mine.

“Excuse me?” Her response is unexpected.

“A few months ago, you spent the night at my place. I’d done everything I could think of to make you notice me, to make you love me, to convince you it was safe to have fun with me, but all you wanted me for was a refuge from your family. That had been enough for me, but that night you screamed in your sleep for Alyson—over and over again, always Alyson. I was jealous.” She shrugs her shoulders and waits.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You sent the notes because you were jealous? Jealous of who?”

“Of Alyson, of course. If I convinced you the relationship was no longer secret, maybe you’d break it off with her. Or better yet, you’d confide in me and I could confide in you. I wanted to tell you how I feel for you, how much it hurts me to hear you scream another woman’s name in your sleep.” She reaches out to touch my face but sees my expression and lets her hand drop back to the table.

“God, Mindy, how fucked up are you? I was having nightmares, not wet dreams! How could you not tell the difference?” My eyes rest, finally, on the tiny bags of white powder. “Of course, you couldn’t tell—you were too fucking high. Mindy you have a problem. You need to get help.”

“Then you started seeing Graham, and it was different. You really love him don’t you?” Her voice sounds broken. She rubs her nose again, hands twitching to grab the cocaine still in plain view on the table.

“I thought I did, but he’s just like the others—a lying bastard. It shouldn’t prevent him from caring for his little girl, though.” I cradle my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I’ve got to go.”

I stand to slide out of the booth and Mindy simultaneously begins shoveling things into her purse—powder-filled bags first. I put a hand over hers, pausing her efforts.

“Mindy, you need help,” I say again gently. “Please, call this number and let them give you resources for getting clean—before you ruin more lives than your own.” I pick up the teal-colored pen and pop the cap again, scribbling the number for the Midtown Crisis Call Center.

“Kienna, about Lori, I—“

“Nope, Mindy, that’s over. And so are we.” I squeeze her hand and leave the bar, not bothering to cover my bruised face on my way to the elevator, and not looking back.

H
ow can
a whole month pass so quickly, when each single day seems to take forever? I'm alone in a conference room, setting everything up for a two o'clock meeting, making sure everyone has handouts, pens, notepads, clean glasses, and full pitchers of ice-cold water. The silence in the room is too loud. My head pounds constantly, and my eyes are burning. No amount of cold compresses can control the puffiness.

I cry without ceasing.

It's the only thing that feels real right now. It happens a lot. Sometimes for no reason whatsoever, but most of the time it's because I miss him and hate myself for it. Sometimes I cry in bed at night when it's impossible to sleep. Sometimes I cry curled up naked in a ball in the middle of the bathroom floor.

In public, I smile. Stephen Dougherty is officially the youngest elected mayor in the history of New York City. It's a happy time, so I smile. I go into work every day. Work is easy. I simply look away. I purposefully don't pay any attention to the secret dealings my father has with Stephen, who grants him construction permits for new hotels outside of city laws. I know what my role is, now. This is why he wanted me here. As my father would say, everyone has a price. Even the mayor. I'm tired of fighting for the good guy. He doesn't exist, and I have no more fight left in me.

I was stupid, pretending to be someone I'm not. I keep Mr. Sin's severed head in one of my potted plants, a constant reminder to never trust again.

Rumors about my supposed anorexia are running wild. I'm not anorexic. I eat. Sometimes. When was the last time I ate? Was it yesterday or the day before? Doesn't matter. Room service is delivered every morning even though I don't order it, even though I don't eat it. The hotel staff is all scared of me. They should be. The hotel fired Graham, and they could be too if they show any display of kindness toward me. I don't deserve kindness.

I try not to think about him, but it's hard. Every ray of sunlight reminds me of him, so I close the blinds to block him out. A foolish part of me wants to believe he truly is an honorable man, but then I remember his lie. I can't stop thinking about Lori, but I try to remember that door is closed.

Speaking of doors, the one to the conference room finally opens. It's show time. I stand straight and smile, greeting everyone as they come in. Until I see a face I never thought I'd see again.

"Kia? Is that you?"

My heart freezes. No one calls me that anymore. "Lilah? What are you doing here?"

She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly as uncomfortable seeing me as I am seeing her. "I'm here for the presentation. To renegotiate the donation from the City for EPYC?"

"Oh, right! I didn't realize. When I saw the name, I didn't think to make it into an acronym. Are you on the Elise Parker Youth Center Committee? That's great! I'm sure everything will go well. It's an excellent program with an awesome staff providing a much-needed service to the community." Frick! I've been feeling like a damn robot for so long, seeing Lilah and talking about EPYC brings back both happy and sad feelings. I want to be numb again. I don't want to feel. "Well, I'll let you get started with your meeting. It was good to see you again. Good luck in there!"

She eyes me curiously, so I leave before she gets a chance to say anything. My heart is already pounding too hard, my lip is quivering, and my chest is convulsing, the first sign another wave of tears is on its way. I don't want to do this here. The light in the conference room dims, and a slide show gets started. I walk over to my desk and grab a tissue, soaking up the moisture as it builds at the corner of my eyes. All is calm for a few minutes, and then the conference room erupts in protests.

The other representative with Lilah, an older administrative looking woman, speaks up. "Mayor Dougherty, I understand your concern, but Elise was a remarkable woman. If you read our application outline, you'll see the list of struggles she endured to open up our youth center. She fought to ensure families with low incomes had access to affordable, responsible childcare. She was barely a child herself when she opened our facility, and she beat the odds. I don't understand how you can mistake her for a negative role model."

"Ms. Leone," Stephen begins in a robotically polite voice, "I admire your conviction, but you can hardly ask me to believe a high school dropout and runaway, pregnant at the age of sixteen is a positive role model for our youth. Especially considering she orphaned her two children by taking her life. I can't justify spending our taxpayer's money condoning such irresponsible, selfish, and cowardly acts. What kind of message would that send? Your mission is admirable. If you disassociate yourself from Ms. Parker, the City may be willing to contribute. If I remember correctly, your facility almost closed once already because she repulsed people. Do yourself a favor, Ms. Leone. Make a new start with a new image."

The meeting continues with heated discussions about the right and wrong doings of Elise Parker. Curious, I pick up my copy of the meeting's handouts and sift through the information. Among spreadsheets detailing operational costs, projected costs, donations, and registration fees, there's also an information sheet with the history of the center, mostly centered on its founder.

Elise Parker was a teenage runaway from an abusive family. I wonder, briefly, what my life would have been like if I'd escaped my father's clutches in my teens. Every time his hand collided with my face, I'd fantasize about leaving, but I wasn't brave enough to do it. Elise was.

My fingers scan the page, wanting to know more about this young woman and what happened to her, what could have happened to me if I'd chosen a different path. She lived on the street for a couple of months until she got pregnant, then moved into a series of women's shelters. As a single, undereducated parent, she was unable to find a job and also afford childcare. That's when she founded the facility that would become the EPYC, while her son, Graham, was still a baby.

The documents fall to the desk as I make the connection between the names. This is the story of Graham's mother. I snatch the paper back up, scanning the information about the success and growing expansion of the center, her marriage to the love of her life, and the eventual birth of their daughter, Lorianne, sixteen years after the birth of her son.

My knees bounce up and down nervously, as my eyes scan the pages for more. Graham is Lori's older brother, not her father. It's getting too hot in here. I need air. I pick up my things, including my handouts, and run out the door. Outside, I lean against the brick wall and continue reading.

One year after Lori was born, Elise killed herself, unable to overcome a severe case of postpartum depression. Her husband cared for the two children, working full-time as a hotel janitor until he succumbed to a heart attack. Graham was eighteen, on his way to college. Lori was two.

I press my fingers to my mouth. I can only imagine the pain they suffered. They always seem so happy.

The door next to me opens as Lilah and Ms. Leone step out, flustered and frustrated.

"Ass." Ms. Leone says as the door clicks shut.

I try to look composed and give them my best sympathetic look. "I gather things didn't go well?"

Ms. Leone shuts her eyes tight and leans back against the door. "They single-handedly closed us down by refusing to maintain the City's donation. Why? Because Elise suffered from an illness they don't understand. Oh, Lilah. How will I explain this to Graham? This will crush him. We've fought so hard to keep the place open, and we're no better off than when Elise first left us. What about the parents and the kids? We'll have to hike our prices. How will they afford it?"

"We made it through then, and we'll make it through now. We'll work on plan B together. We don't need the City. We'll find people sympathetic to our cause. Please, don't strip away Elise's name." Lilah's sweet voice sounds pleading.

Ms. Leone takes Lilah's hand in hers and pats it gently. "We'll close down completely before we let those ignorant naysayers kill her memory. You're right, Lilah. We'll find another solution. I'll get on the phone immediately. Maybe Graham has some insight on this. Maybe he can get us in contact with his suicide prevention support groups. With a joint effort, we can put a positive spin on this nightmare. I guess we've got a big week ahead of us. Are you coming back with me to the center or are you headed home?"

I feel Lilah's gaze on me, but I ignore it. "I'll go back to the center, but there's something I need to do first. I'll meet you there."

"Of course, Lilah, take your time. Thank you for coming with me today." Ms. Leone walks away, but Lilah lingers.

I don't know why I'm still standing here, but I can't seem to force my legs to move. My fingers flip the corners of the document nervously. Lilah stays silent, watching her boss walk away. Once Ms. Leone is out of earshot, she turns to me. "He looks like hell, too, if you're wondering. He doesn't smile anymore, and I've never known him not to smile, other than when his mother passed away. A part of me wants to hate you, Kienna. But that would make me like one of them." She lifts her chin toward the mayor's office window. "I know you must think that it's none of my business—"

I push myself off the wall, and I'm in her face. "You're right, Lilah. It's none of your business. But if you must know, he lied to me. I'm sorry for his loss. I am." I lift the documents up to eye level. "No child should ever go through what he and Lori did, but that doesn't give him a free pass to toy with people as he did with me. He deceived me in an unforgivable way."

Sweet Lilah, with the silky blond hair and preppy clothing, narrows her eyes and gives me such a fierce expression part of me yearns to step back. "I can imagine. In fact, I know more about it than what you'd think. I know he lied to you. He told me, although I had no idea it was you at the time. He also mentioned he tried to explain, but you wouldn't let him."

I clench my jaw tight. I don't want to have this conversation, but I can't walk away. As long as I'm talking to her, a part of me is with him.

"I've known Graham my whole life. We were babies together at EPYC when his mother first opened it. He's the kindest, smartest, most selfless man I've ever known. Did you know he gave up a scholarship at MIT to care for his baby sister? So she wouldn't end up in Foster Care, separated from family? He could have been a brilliant engineer instead of a hotel waiter. He gave up his entire life for that little girl. He let you in because he trusted you—he loves you—and you judged him without a trial, just like those assholes did with his mother. Yes, he lied to you, but you never bothered asking the right questions. You're not the only one hurting, Kienna. Sometimes, the big picture is too big to see from up close."

My stomach churns. Her words hit me hard. Too many times I've been the victim of people's harsh judgments. That's how I lost Alyson. She never let me explain. I look up at the building where I work every day. My voice is small, shaky. "How can I know for sure he isn't using me?"

Her tone is softer, more like the kind caregiver I've seen in the park. "You can't. None of us can. You can only trust." She nods to the papers in my hands. "Go home. Do your research. Who knows? Maybe by reading more about Elise, you'll see why he kept certain things from you. Maybe you'll even learn a lesson or two. I'm not a mean person, Kienna, and I don't say these things to hurt you. I simply can't watch Graham bury another loved one—and, right now, that's where you're headed. Don't make the same mistake Elise made. You can't do this alone. Get some real help." She turns her back to me and runs to catch up to Ms. Leone.

My life has changed so much since I lost Graham. I replay our last discussion over and over in my mind. He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell me. Why didn't I let him? We've always been able to solve our problems by talking about it, and I did the opposite. I shut him out. I pulled an Alyson on him. All because I was too sick to realize what was going on. I grab the papers tighter in my hands and push my feet off the concrete, willing my legs to move. I have to fix this.