The Truth (11 page)

I lure her into a lunch date under the pretense of going over wedding plans and show her some samples I have for bridesmaid’s dresses. I plan to tell her the whole truth and then some.

Whitney walks into the restaurant just as I’m being seated at a table. “Hi, sorry I’m late, a client ran over.”

“Totally understand,” I reassure her. She hugs me and I remain stiff. It takes every bit of self-control I have not to hug her neck...with my hands...until she turns blue.

“Come on, sit. I have samples for you.”

“Are you okay?” she eyes me strangely. “Are you getting sick or something? You look pale and tired.”

“Thanks for the ego boost.”

“I didn’t mean—you just don’t look like yourself. Are you feeling all right?”

“Actually, no. Let’s order drinks. I’m going to need a drink to discuss it.” Saved by the waiter.

“Can I start you ladies out with something to drink?” he asks, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of his feet with his hands behind his back.

“I’ll have a top-shelf Bloody Mary, please.”

“I’ll have the same.” He nods at us and takes his leave.

“This is Bloody Mary serious? What the hell is going on?” Whitney questions me with a cocked brow.

“It’s Grant. He’s having an affair.” That sentence burns my throat like cheap vodka.

Whitney gasps. “What? How do you know? Do you know who he’s having an affair with?”

“Yes, I do,” I answer directly. I want her to stew and think she’s busted. Whitney looks ashen, and I can visibly see her gulp in anticipation of what I’m going to say next.

“Do you remember in Vegas when Grant left the Cirque and never met back up with us?”

“Yeah.” Confusion is etched in her face.
Wait for it
… “Well, I found her panties that night when I got back to the room.” I watch the relief as it shows clear as day in her features.

“What?” 

“Yeah, I thought they were just left by the previous guests and the cleaning lady missed them. How stupid could I be, right?”

“Lys, you’re not stupid. You just trusted your husband.”

Oh, but I was stupid. I was stupid to trust Grant, and I was stupid to have trusted Whitney all this time. I’d seen her screw people over before. I thought I was immune to it because we were best friends. We had a special bond. But when push came to shove, Whitney was out for Whitney. The more I think about it, the more perfect Whitney and Grant seem for each other. Ugh, the thought of them together turns my stomach.

“Maybe,” I sniffle. The plan had been to sell this as if I were really upset. There seems to be zero acting involved as the tears flow freely. “It gets worse.”

“Worse?”

“Worse.”

Whitney slugs down her drink the waiter had just dropped off and I follow suit. “Another round,” we both sound in unison to the waiter.

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“Well, one day, Grant forgot his phone at home. He’s always so damn attached to his stupid phone. I happened to find it when I was changing. I picked it up and it went off in my hand. I went through his phone.”

Whitney doesn’t move a muscle, she sits listening intently.

“Well, there were about a million women in his phone and the messages weren’t business related. I even found pictures of one of them of their lady bits. I was completely mortified, but then part of me thought that’s what you get for snooping.”

“That asshole! Who does he think he is, cheating? And you have every right to go through his phone. You’re his wife.”

“I haven’t gotten to the worst part yet.”

“There is more? I ought to chop his dick off and feed it to him.”

“Take a number.”

“So, what else did Mr. Wonderful do?” she asks, but in a strange way it sounds like she feels cheated on more than she sounds outraged for me. Poor little lamb thought she was the only one.

“Whit, I was right. Before, when I thought I was pregnant. But I lost the baby.”

“No.”

“I don’t really want to get into it, but yes. He gave me a STD. It wasn’t serious, but it causes infertility, and it didn’t do anything good for my pregnancy.”

“I am so sorry. I know how much you wanted a baby.”

And I believe she is sorry about this. But I still want to hurt her. 

“Whitney, he got her pregnant, too.”

“Who?”

“The girl he’s cheating with.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m her OBGYN. She must not have put two and two together since I go by Dr. Silver at the practice.”

“Pregnant? That piece of shit got another girl pregnant?”

Yeah, how does it feel? Hope it hurts half as bad as you hurt me, bitch.

“Yep, she’s having his child. Hell, she is a child. She’s only twenty-two.” The second round of drinks arrives just then.

“I can’t—I don’t even know what to say, Lys. I’m so sorry.”

That’s my cue. “Sorry?” I tilt my head to the side as if I’m confused. “What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong,
did
you?”

“What do you mean?” she starts to fiddle with her napkin. That’s her tell. When Whitney has nervous energy, she has to do something with her hands.

“What’s wrong, Whitney? Why are you nervous?” I ask looking straight at her hands. She drops the napkin and attempts to recover.

“Nothing, I’m just upset for you. I can’t believe Grant would do this to you.”

“Oh, but can’t you?” The tears have stopped. The past month has been like riding a subway of bad emotions where, at each stop, a new stinky passenger gets on. At this stop, rage hopped on the train for another ride.

“Let me tell you a little story. Once upon a time, there were two girls who bonded while drawing sidewalk chalk butterflies. After that, these girls became inseparable. They loved each other and shared everything. Fast forward twenty-five years to one of the little girls coming home early from work to surprise her husband, only to find out there was truly nothing off-limits for them to share. The poor little girl could do nothing but stand there, watching as her husband defiled her best friend—in her own home no less.”

By the end of my tale, Whitney has her hand over her mouth and her skin has a slight green tinge to it.

“Alyssa, I—”

“Save it.” I lean in close so I make sure she hears the words coming out of my mouth. “You were like a sister to me, and you betrayed me, worse than anyone else in the world could have. I will never, ever forgive you. I don’t know why you would do this, and quite frankly, I don’t care. This isn’t some high school boyfriend, Whitney. You fucked my husband. I hate you. From today forward, I don’t know you. You don’t exist.”

By the time I finish talking, Whitney is shaking silently as tears gush down her face. Good.

I wish I could slap her, but it would draw too much attention in this restaurant. Standing up to leave, I lean over and pour my fresh Bloody Mary into the lap of her cream Chanel dress.

“Have a nice life. Oh, and say hello to Ralph for me.”

And with that, I turn my back on Whitney and walk out of the restaurant with my head held high.

* * *

Weeks upon weeks
go by. I push through my daily routine trying to avoid Grant and waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he says nothing the first couple of weeks, I held out hope he might be getting a lawyer and drawing up divorce papers behind my back. When a few more weeks pass, I start to lose all faith. She evidently found out she isn’t really pregnant or decided not to tell him. My eggs were all in that basket and the wicker seems to have unraveled.

I turn to alcohol to ease the dreariness that is my life. Almost every night, I stop at a bar near the office for a drink or three.

“The usual?” Sam asks as I slide onto the cold stool.

“Yeah.” I smile at him. “Thanks.”

A little while later, I’m using my straw to play with the ice in the empty tumbler in front of me when a familiar voice startles me.

“Another drink for the lady and an amber draft for me please,” he instructs the bartender.

“Well, hello stranger.” I can’t believe it’s Keith. “What are you doing here?” I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see someone. All the years I’ve known him, he’s always been the person who never fails to cheer me up when I’m feeling low.

Once, when we were kids, Whit, Liam, Keith and I were roller-skating, and I fell pretty hard on my knees in the gravel on the side of the road. I sat there crying my eyes out and feeling totally embarrassed. Keith came over and told me a story of one time when he wiped out going down a hill. The story was gruesome, but I didn’t even notice he was picking the pieces of gravel out of my knee while he talked. By the end of the story of blood and bones sticking out of his arm, we were all making noises of disgust and laughing. I hadn’t even noticed I had stopped crying and all the gravel was out of both knees. He helped me up and held my hand all the way home. That was Keith, though. He was always there to make you feel better.

Keith and I have drinks and a round of shots and chat for an hour or so. When I leave the bar, I feel a lot better. Nothing in my life has been resolved by talking to him, and yet I just feel comforted somehow. Drinks with an old friend are nice. I make a mental note when I drive home to do it more often.

A week and a few days later, I am reading in my room in my favorite chair, when I hear a loud knock on the front door.

I’m catching up
on some work in my den when I hear the knock on the door. I hurry to get the door so Alyssa isn’t disturbed. I’m trying to make amends for all the wrongs I’ve done to her—and there have been a lot. I’m not even sure where to start to try to fix things.

I’ve had so many indiscretions in our marriage—I’m not sure I can amend for them. She lost our baby and I wasn’t even there for her. The cheating? Fuck, I never thought she would find out. I was stupid to think I could do whatever I wanted without any consequences. How can she forgive me for any of that? To make matters worse, when she confronted me, I physically forced her to stay. Maybe I should let her go, but I can’t. She loved me once. I can make her love me again. I can change. I have to change if I want to keep her.

Racing down the stairs, I reach the door and swipe my hand over the metal plate to wave it open. When I take in who is on the other side of my door, I am stunned to into silence. Why would the police chief himself show up at my doorstep unless it were something very serious? For a moment, I consider they are going to tell me someone I love has had an accident.

“Grant Kennedy?” one of them asks.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“May we come in?”

“Sure.” I agree, praying no one is dead. “Can I ask what this is in regards to?” I move back to allow them to come in. 

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Stephanie Jones.” One officer turns me and begins to cuff my hands.

I am so confused. Murder? Stephanie is dead? Someone killed Stephanie? “What are you talking about? Get your hands off me. This is obviously a misunderstanding.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer continues as he clicks the second cuff on my other wrist.

“Grant? What is going on here?” Alyssa asks, looking around panicked.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned.” The officer continues to read me my rights while he guides me out of the house.

“Alyssa, call the attorney!” I shout over my shoulder. What the fuck have I gotten myself into now?

On the ride down to the station, I sit silent, focusing all my attention on the aching in my wrists latched behind me. I say nothing. They process me and still, I say nothing. They throw me in a holding cell, and I sit and stew in all the
fucked-upness
that is my life. Pity party—table for one.

I wonder if the media has caught on yet. It’s only a matter of time before they are circling like sharks in the water. Hours later, I’m ushered into a meeting room where, thank God, Kyle, Alyssa, and some other lady are led in soon after. As it turns out, the media caught wind of the arrest, and Kyle Reed, our attorney, was already on his way and assembling a team.

Kyle introduces the other female as Olivia Kaspen, defense attorney extraordinaire. “Grant this is Olivia Kaspen. I called her. She’s the best attorney all your money can buy, and from what I’ve heard already about this case, you’re going to need her.”

There are about a million questions going through my head as I listen to the lawyers break the case down for me, or at least, what they know so far. “I didn’t kill her. I knew her, but I didn’t kill her. I had no idea she was pregnant.” How could she have been pregnant? Pregnant with my child? I always used a condom. I mean, except for that one night, but that was just one night. She was on birth control. She told me she was on birth control. I even saw her pop one out of her little round pill thing one time.

She was pregnant and now she’s dead.

I sink into my chair as the evidence makes me look more than guilty. If I were anyone else, I’d believe I was guilty, too. I’m sure in the courtroom it will only get worse.

I steal a glance at Alyssa. She is slumped in a chair motionless, saying nothing. I think my wife believes I did it. And why shouldn’t she? Look at all I’ve done to her. If she thinks I’m guilty, there is no way a jury will believe otherwise.

The trial drags on for almost a year. The prosecution details everything they can from my affair with Steph through witnesses. It’s painful to hear all the details of my infidelity while my wife is in the same room.

Day after day, they throw more evidence in my face. Each time a new piece of evidence is submitted to the jury, the smug prosecutor shoots me a look that seems to say, ‘I’m going to fry your ass.’ In all honesty, he probably will. Your gun comes up missing and it’s the kind of gun that killed Stephanie—
Sssss.
You have no alibi for the time of the murder—
Sssss
. She was pregnant with your child when she was murdered—
Sssss
.

A few weeks in, I start trying to make eye contact with one of the female jurors. It’s the last thing I should be doing, but you use what you know. I’ve always used my face and charm to get what I want in life. On the rare occasion, when those two things didn’t cut it, I’d pay to get my way. I’m finally face to face with something I can’t buy my way out of. I’ve bought the best lawyer money can buy, but she isn’t a for sure thing—so I resort to my other crutch. Charisma.

At some point—I think it’s when they share the evidence of nude photos of me that Steph had taken while I was sleeping—I give up hope. I start to pray though, in my head, it sounds more like pleading and bartering than praying. God, please, if you get me out of this, I will do everything right this time. Please, help me, and I will make things right for Alyssa. I promise I won’t ever hurt her again.

After deliberating for the longest and shortest twelve hours of my life, the jury finds me unanimously guilty on all counts.

* * *

She’s here. Alyssa
has come to see me before I am transferred in two days. My emotions range from happy to see her to pure embarrassment. I don’t want her to see me like this. I can’t help the small hope burrowed deep in my chest that maybe she still believes in me. The realization she hates my fucking guts sets back in and my shoulders fall forward as I’m escorted to visitation.

The asshole guard pushes me down into my seat. I can’t look up at her. I don’t want to lose it. For days, all I’ve done is think about all the horrible things I’ve put her through. Now I have a lifetime of doing the same—thinking of all the fucked up shit I’ve done. Remembering we don’t have much time, I finally look up into those same beautiful eyes that sucked me in the moment I first met her. 

“I will take your silence as an admission of guilt.”

No! No, no, no, no! I see a million shades of the same color RED. If anyone, other than my mother, were to believe in me, it should be her. I’ve officially destroyed everything!

“Are you kidding me? You think I killed that girl, too?” I spit out, seething. All I can do is shake my head and attempt to reign in my temper. “I know I haven’t always been the best husband—”

“Understatement of the year,” she cuts me off.

I shoot daggers in her direction, though I immediately feel remorse for the anger I’m deflecting at her. “I know I wasn’t perfect. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.” I pause and look her straight in the eye. I need her to believe me when I say, “But, baby, I swear to you—I didn’t kill anyone.”

I don’t understand the anger I see flash in her features until she rips into me. “Don’t! Don’t you fucking dare baby me! If you didn’t kill her, then who did, Grant? She was pregnant with your child! Do you have any idea how bad it looks? Why should I believe anything you say when everything you’ve ever told me was a lie?”

“Alyssa, I suck, okay? I’m a big, giant asshole. I’ve done many terrible things. I’ve hurt you, but I do love you. I always have and I always will.”

One big gasp of laughter explodes from her. “Do you even know what love means? If you loved me, you wouldn’t fuck other women! You wouldn’t lie to me nonstop! If you loved me, you would have let me go instead of threatening to ruin me! You don’t know what love is. You loved the idea of me maybe, but the truth is, you love yourself way too much to ever truly love someone else, Grant. So, no, I don’t believe you.”

“Alyssa, baby, please,” Please believe me. Please find a way to get me out of here. Please believe me and I’ll be better. I plead with her in my own mind, willing her to help me. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer. You know me.”

“No, I don’t think I ever really did. Or—maybe I do, and that’s the problem.” She places both hands on the table in front of her and pushes up to stand. She moves her face so we are nose to nose, separated only by the glass. “Grant,
baby
, take a good look at this face. Commit it to memory. Hell, you can even imagine it while Bubba in prison is pummeling your pretty ass. But I promise you this—you will never, ever be seeing it again.” She stands up and runs her hands down her clothes, smoothing them out. She starts to walk away, and I want to beg some more for her to help me, believe me, but there is nothing left I can say to her. Before she exits, she turns back to me. “Oh, and Grant? I think you’re right where you belong. Orange looks good on you,” she says before turning and walking away from me, leaving me here to rot.

The damage is already done. I know there is nothing that can be done. I’m going to spend the rest of my days in a dark and dusky cell to pay for all the mistakes I’ve made in life.