“I want to,” Henry says. “And it makes me happy to buy you gifts, so go ahead and open it. I can’t wait to see it on you.”
I slowly untie the ribbon, savoring the unwrapping process. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine getting anything from Tiffany. I would have been blown away by a piece of jewelry from Findley’s in Holland Mall. This is so much more …
“C’mon, Syd,” Henry urges. “Open it already.”
I carefully lift the box’s lid and as I discern what’s inside my jaw drops and my hand flutters over my mouth. “It’s stunning,” is all I can say about the double chain white gold bracelet with a solitaire diamond nestled between the chains.
Henry pries it out gently, and places it on my left wrist where it sits perfectly. It’s like having an elegant watch, but instead of the face with numbers, there’s a diamond.
Holy crap! I got a diamond!
I can’t do anything but gawk at my wrist. Henry nuzzles me and places a tiny kiss on the lips. “On you, it’s even more beautiful,” he says.
I swallow as my eyes well up with tears. I never fathomed anyone being this good to me. Sex is one thing, but this feels more like love. And I guess when it’s love – if that’s what this is - then it’s an entirely different game altogether.
“Let’s skip the Champagne,” Henry suggests. “I’m exhausted and I want to fall asleep holding you.”
We take off our remaining clothes, pull back the duvet and climb in under the sheets. Henry spoons me cozily, and I like the closeness of his bare skin against mine. Within just a few minutes I hear his breathing change to the rhythm of sleep. I’m lying on my side and I can’t stop staring at my bracelet, especially at the way the diamond sparkles even in the dim light that streams in from the bathroom light we neglected to turn off.
Most of me feels like this bracelet is the perfect ending to an extraordinary few days, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t agree. I pull myself out of Henry’s arms and he automatically rolls over onto his other side. I shift in bed, from my back to my stomach, from one side to the other, but I simply cannot find the peace of mind to drift off into my dreams. In fact, my mind is racing and in the near darkness I’m having an easier time reflecting on everything that’s happened in the last few days. So now I’m just lying here staring at the things on the vanity table: the unopened bottle of Champagne, Henry’s phone with the picture of me bare-assed and bending over, and the gold box with the remaining 163 Godiva truffles. I’m mulling over Professor Sparling’s cold-shoulder in the liquor store, the chilling note my father left on Henry’s car, the fervent sex … It’s a lot to take in. The part of me that can’t accept a happily ever after Christmas ending is trying to make sense of the cyclone I’ve been whirling in.
Since the Addison police force is aware that someone may be staking out my apartment, I feel more protected. After Christmas I will have to deal with the note they found in my mailbox, and I feel my heart rate speed up at the thought. What does my father want from me? Is he sneaking around because he’s afraid he’ll be arrested? Can I report him for a rape that happened twenty-three years ago, or is there a statute of limitations? I suppose only my mother could press charges against him, and for reasons unknown to me, that has never happened. My father, the story says, fled to Canada. There is no story I know of that talks about trying to hunt him down there and bring him back to Michigan to face justice. And I certainly wish there were no story about his coming back to town to terrorize his daughter. But here I am splat in the middle of it without any bearing. The soft side of me wants to believe my father has no malevolent intentions and that he doesn’t want to do me any harm. Maybe he just wants to know me the way his father, Abraham Rudd, did. Perhaps seeking me out is his way of trying to make amends. Well, if that’s the case, he can take his amends and shove them. No matter what the circumstances were surrounding the rape of my mother, my father doesn’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t want him in my town, or my state, or even in my country. I don’t want him as any part of my life. And I certainly don’t want his mysterious notes frightening me. The flip side of all this, though, is one very poignant fact: If my father hadn’t raped my mother, I would not exist.
I roll over to look at Henry. He’s now curled up in a fetal position and if not for the shadow of stubble on his jaw, in this dim, forgiving light, he could pass for a boy. He certainly doesn’t fuck like a boy, though. While Henry-my-best-friend is witty and sometimes goofy, Henry-my-lover is demanding, strong, and determined. I don’t have a lot of experience with sex – I was so young with Jake, and it was so many years ago. But it’s definitely different with Henry. It’s far more erotic and I love that, however, when he took a picture of me bent over tonight, hot as it was, there was also some hint of aggression in it that really bothered me. My mind wanders back to the abrasive way he’d said, “This pic is for me,” after I exposed myself to him. How many times can I tell him that I don’t care about Professor Sparling anymore? And why is he so hung up about the whole thing? Tonight’s picture wasn’t like the ‘modeling’ session in my apartment when I’d posed for him willingly. This time it was a shock, and I hadn’t consented to it. I know I’m probably making something out of nothing here, but for some reason, his act of taking that picture makes me feel vulnerable and I’m not sure I like feeling that way. On a certain level, it was a breach of trust. I might feel fine about it if he’d done it with my permission and it had been part of an erotic act between Henry and me. But, instead, it occurred surprisingly (and in the context of Professor Sparling). Henry probably has no idea how important consent is to a woman whose entire life has been lived in the shadow of a rape.
I try to justify Henry’s taking the picture. Maybe snapping it was just one of those spontaneous things. I shouldn’t be focusing so intently it, but I can’t let it go. Isn’t the diamond bracelet enough evidence to demonstrate his loyalty to me? It’s just short of a diamond ring, and neither of us is ready for that route. What other proof of devotion do I need? Still the intensity of the exposure, my most intimate part thrust out to the universe, probably glistening with wetness … Perhaps even my anus is visible. Ugh, that might be too much for me. I don’t want Henry to have a picture of that part of me, at least not yet. And there’s always the risk that it could somehow end up on Twitter. You never know. Henry could forget his phone in a coffee shop and God knows who could find it. I could start popping up on hundreds of porn sites. The thought sickens me, but I know there’s an easy way to prevent it from happening: I’ll just delete the image from Henry’s phone. He won’t mind. I’ve never played with his phone before, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find his camera roll. And if it really bothers him that I deleted the picture, we can always take another one when I feel comfortable, and when I want to.
I get out of bed, still naked, except for the bracelet, take Henry’s phone from the vanity table, and sit down in the velvet chair. I find his camera roll in an instant and easily spot the picture of me on display. But I also see something else there, and it makes no sense at all. Right before my eyes are the two pictures I sent to Professor Sparling. There’s the one of my breasts where only part of my face is visible, and the one I took of myself in the full-length mirror, wearing the open nightshirt and standing with my legs slightly apart. Henry definitely did not take those two pictures. And I’m certain I didn’t send them to him, so he couldn’t have downloaded them from his email to his camera roll. So how the fuck did they get there? How in God’s name does Henry have photos taken explicitly for Professor Sparling and sent to no one else? Did he hack into my email account? Did he hack into Professor Sparling’s account? Doubtful, since Henry is not the hacking type. Of course, he could have hired someone to do it, but why would he do such a thing? As I’m staring down at Henry’s phone deleting the pictures of me, a shiver runs through my naked body, a horrifying realization pierces my heart, and a devastating humiliation takes over me as I begin to put together all of the odd, inexplicable things that have happened over the last few days.
It’s all utterly clear now why Professor Sparling seemed to know me so well, and why he made the incongruous reference to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. And I now understand why Henry knew I was scared of something and came rushing over to my apartment in the middle of the night. I also know why Henry was aware that Professor Sparling was writing from a Gmail account, why Professor Sparling’s behavior in the liquor store was emotionless, and why Henry was so angry that I neglected to mention bumping into Professor Sparling at Shelby’s. If it weren’t the middle of the night and I wasn’t in Ottawa Estate, I would let out a wail so loud it would wake half the state of Michigan, because there’s not a flicker of doubt in my mind right now that Henry, my most trusted friend in the world, is P.Sparling, and everything about the past few days has been nothing but a big, fat lie. But my hunch, no matter how true I know it is, has to be confirmed with irrefutable evidence, so that when I face Henry down on this there is no chance I’m mistaken.
I tap on Henry’s Gmail app and his regular account appears. Then I tap on his photo, a little headshot of him wearing his newsboy cap, and I tap again. The drop down bar shows me Henry’s other email accounts. One of them, as I expected, is P.Sparling. I immediately close my eyes because it stings too much to see the truth.
My face must be burning red, but my body is icy. I set down the phone quietly, grab my clothes out of my backpack and quickly throw on jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt.
Shit
, is all I can think when I realize I didn’t pack a change of shoes. I’ve got nothing but the stilettos. Every curse word I can think of runs through my head as I silently fume. I have to get out of here. Now. But how am I going to do that in high heels on an icy Michigan night? I’m over a mile from home. I’ll never make it. There’s no chance of getting a cab in the middle of a snowy Christmas night in Addison, Michigan, but if I don’t get out of here my head will explode. I pick up one of the shoes and push on the heel to see if I can break it off with my hands. It doesn’t budge. I consider taking Henry’s shoes, but they are at least five sizes too big. I’d never be able to keep them on my feet, and they’d fill with snow after just a few steps. I need to suck up the fact that I’m stuck in Ottawa Estate until at least daylight. Who knew such an enormous place could make a person claustrophobic. I think I may suffocate between now and dawn.
My eyes burn with tears, but I hold back my sobs because I don’t want to wake Henry. Before I face him I need time to think this over, to digest the indignity of it all, the betrayal, and the cruel and shameless way he played with my body and my heart. After almost four years of trust and friendship on the deepest level, I can’t comprehend how he could do this to me. I’m aching. I feel an actual stabbing pain in my stomach that reminds me of the day I learned the truth about my father. It’s a hurt so excruciating it corrodes everything inside of me. In the heat of my agony right now, finding out about Henry’s false identity is as painful as it was to learn about my real one. I’m so sickened that bile rises in my throat, but I manage to choke it back down with a hard swallow. I look over at Henry who is sleeping peacefully on the lavish bed, and I can’t believe what he’s done, or the depth of his deceit. The bracelet he gave me tonight says he loves me, even if he didn’t voice the words. Love was in his eyes, gestures, and touch. But when it’s love you don’t dupe your partner. You don’t play her for a big ass fool.
Realizing how naïve and foolish I am brings another sting to my throat. Each time something seemed off over the last few days, I dismissed it because I wanted Professor Sparling’s interest in me to be true. I’d spent fourteen weeks craving for Professor Sparling’s attention and interest. I yearned for him desperately, and Henry, the only one who knew how I felt, took advantage of my desire. He let me think I had something when in actuality I was never a contender for Professor Sparling. I hadn’t imagined the way he favored Melanie in class. And I didn’t imagine seeing her outside the liquor store. But I was still gullible enough to think he wanted me. I am so fucking stupid that I believed an amazingly brilliant, hotter than hell, mega-talented professor would want to have an affair with me. Stupid, credulous, unsuspecting Sydney Morrison. Of course he didn’t want me. All that ever happened between us was that my essay moved him. He admired the way I expressed myself in words, but never felt a thing romantically or sexually about the pale run-down looking student in old, baggy sweatshirts. Everything in the Henry-as-Sparling emails that turned me on so intensely and made me burn with desire was fraudulent. One. Big. Fat. Lie.
I look down at the elegant bracelet on my wrist and as much as I love it, I know I have to take it off. I do not want a liar’s gift and I do not want a liar’s love and affection. I unclasp the bracelet with a trembling hand and quietly set it on top of its box, so it is very visible. I place the box and bracelet on the bed beside Henry, where, in an honest world I would be sleeping, and sit back down in the velvet chair and pull my knees up so I can rest my forehead on them. I feel so completely screwed.
I fidget uncomfortably in the chair, dozing off for a few minutes here and there, but each time I wake up to the harsh reality of Henry the fucking A-hole sleeping soundly before me, I want to howl out my fury and pain. How dare he sleep like a log! He should be unable to rest because he’s too riddled with guilt over the way he’s deceived me. He doesn’t deserve one ounce of serenity.
Finally, the sun begins to creep up and as daylight descends over Ottawa Estate, I look out the window at the snow-covered gardens behind the house. Everything looks so peaceful, and perfect just the way Christmas morning should be. Sadly, I can’t appreciate the beauty or tranquility. I grab my backpack and walk out of the room barefoot, carrying my stilettos in my hand. I plan to make my way towards the kitchen, knowing that I’m not likely to find anyone who can drive me home at 6:30 in the morning on Christmas day, but if I can, that person is likely to be in the kitchen drinking coffee.