Chapter Eleven: “The Reveal”
Chapter Eleven
“The Reveal”
SEWANEE HELD THE GLASS AWARD OUT TO NICK AND HE ARRIVED JUST
in time to keep it from dropping to the floor. His hand cupped her elbow and he leaned in to give her an industry-standard kiss on her cheek. His jaw against hers nearly took her out at the knees. He pulled back, took one full moment to gaze into her eye, and everything passed between them in that second of infinity: confusion, shock, awe, happiness, betrayal–every goddamn thing–and then he, Nick, Nick, Nick turned to the podium and she, Sewanee, stayed rooted to the spot, afraid if she moved an inch she would go down. She stared at him. Under normal circumstances, this would be the appropriate thing to do. Give the honoree one’s full attention. In this circumstance, it wasn’t a choice.
As the applause faded, he spoke. “Apologies, apologies,” he murmured into the microphone, that all-too-familiar Irish lilt on full display. “My aunt would have appreciated my absolute mortification here.” He laughed, and the room laughed with him, and he cleared his throat. “First, I must thank you for honoring her . . .” He abruptly stopped . . . swallowed . . . took a breath. The audience surely thought it was owing to the emotions of the moment. They were more accurate than they knew.
“. . . With this award. She would have so appreciated this night, being feted by those of you who brought such beautiful voice to her words.” He gazed down at the award. “She would have been well chuffed by this, I can tell you that. She loved audio. She loved the melding of writing and performance. And she was in awe of all of you. Especially those who brought her characters, their struggles, their well-earned happily ever afters to life. You have her eternal gratitude.” He assessed the crowd. “And mine as well. Cheers.”
He raised the award once more and grinned, that Harrison Ford grin, that battering ram grin. He turned to take Sewanee’s arm, as was customary, but she was already moving off, head down.
He trailed her into the wings as he’d trailed her through the suite and the MC brushed past them on his way back to the stage. A few people murmured their congratulations, their condolences, and Nick murmured his thanks. Mark was there, waiting to go on. He squeezed Sewanee’s arm and said, “Good save, Swan.” She smiled reflexively and kept walking and then felt a different hand on her arm and finally conceded there was no escaping this.
So she stopped, took a courageous breath, and turned to face him.
His bewildered eyes drank her in. He opened his mouth, repeatedly, a gaping fish on a dock.
She was aware of two things: they had about a million things to say to each other and they were in the wings of a theater. What to say? Where to start?
“Hi,” was all she came up with. But at least she said it quietly.
He barked a laugh. “Hi?!”
It was too loud for backstage. Someone shushed them.
She said, “How are you?” Utterly inane, but at least it, too, was quiet.
“How the hell–” Nick began, but the stage manager hissed at them. Nick rolled his eyes in frustration, took her arm again, and led her to the nearest exit. They burst, missile-like, into a hallway, and he steered her–as he’d once steered her outside into the falling snow–into the empty lobby. They stopped in front of the bar.
After a moment of nothing but staring, Sewanee had to say something. Anything. What came out was, “Surprise.” And then she laughed.
He laughed, too. “I missed that dry wit, Alice.”
A voice behind them: “Swan?” Her eye squeezed shut. “You okay?” Mark entered the lobby. She met his worried, harried eyes. He was supposed to be going onstage any second, but she
had
been bodily removed from the wings by a man Mark didn’t know.
“Yup!” she bleated. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. Get back in there before you miss your cue.” She sounded mostly normal, if perhaps overbright, so after one more wary stare at Nick, Mark retreated down the hallway.
“What’s with the Swan thing?” Nick asked, brow furrowing in a way Sewanee didn’t like. “Pet name?”
Sewanee swallowed. “No. That’s my name.”
“What is?”
“Swan.”
“Like . . . the bird?”
“Sewanee, actually.”
“Well, who’s Alice?”
“There is no Alice. Well, there
is
an Alice, but I’m Sewanee Chester.”
“Are you–but you’re a Romance editor?”
“No.”
“Is Alice the–wait. You don’t have an accent. Why don’t you have an accent?”
“Because I don’t have an accent.”
This was happening too fast. She didn’t know how else it could happen, but her mouth was answering before her ears were hearing and she was only just catching up with the conversation.
He stepped back and quirked his head at her. “Are you a sociopath?”
“No.”
“Pathological liar?”
“No!” Sewanee groaned. “I’m an actor.”
“Can’t say I see the difference.” He grinned indulgently, a bit pityingly, a touch ruefully.
Sewanee took a deep breath, trying to regroup. She was keenly aware of the bartenders packing up, pretending they weren’t riveted by this.
“Well,” he continued, blowing out a breath. “I have to give it to you . . . Sewanee, was it? Wonderfully convincing.”
She closed her eye. “Okay, please–you have to let me explain.” She opened her eye. “Please.”
Nick dropped an elbow onto the bar, crossed his feet at the ankles. “I’m all yours.”
Given an opening, Sewanee froze. She didn’t know where to begin. How to begin.
Nick watched her expectantly. “Why all the lying?” He twirled a finger. “Annnnd action.”
She stomped her foot in frustration, threw her head back, and said, a bit too loudly, to the ceiling, “Because I’d had a bad day!” She took a get-control-of-yourself breath and continued. “Because some random guy approached me in a bar. Because it was only supposed to be one drink.” Now that she had started, she gushed. “I felt terrible about it, Nick. As soon as we got to dinner, I thought, tell him the truth, but–again–you were leaving
after that and, and . . .” She sighed. “I was protecting myself. Maybe. I don’t know, but it doesn’t really matter why I did it, I just shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry.” She looked into his eyes, really looked. “So, so, so sorry, but please believe me when I say that what started as a lie did not end as one.”
He just stared at her.
Unable to hold his gaze, she looked at her shoes. “Go ahead. Say it. I deserve it.”
“How could you . . .” He drifted off and, stomach in her throat, Sewanee glanced up. “Keep all of that going the whole time?” There was a genuine note of reverence in his voice. “I mean . . .” He lowered his gaze at her. “The
whole
time.”
She opened her mouth to explain further, but he started clapping. “An editor from Texas named Alice. Brilliant!” Then he shrugged. “And, yeah, I get it. Vegas.” He pointed at the bar. “Wanna drink?”
“Are you . . . you’re not upset?”
“Upset? I want to take lessons from you.”
“That’s–that’s it?”
“Well, that and . . .” His eyes roved down her body. “That’s a beautiful dress.” He turned to the bar, pitched his voice. “Mate! Before you pack it all up, could I bother you for–” He turned back to Sewanee with a collusive smile. “Vodka soda, was it?” At her open-mouthed blank stare, he said to the bartender, “Two vodka sodas, please.” He came back to her once again, leaned an elbow on the bar once again. “So how you been?”
“Can we . . . I have a few hundred questions for
you
, June French’s
nephew
, that I’d like to–”
“Ah, sure, yes, shoot.”
She began vibrating. A pulsing vibration. Before she could ponder how he had this effect on her, she realized the vibration was real and coming from her ballgown’s right pocket. She dug
her phone out to dismiss the call, assuming it was Mark checking in on her, only to see on the screen: SEASONS.
“I-I actually have to–”
“No worries. I’ll be here. Admiring that dress.”
Flustered, still looking at him, she brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? What?” She pivoted away, her attention going fully to the call. “When? I was just there! I’ll be right over. No, I’m coming right now, don’t do anything else.” She dropped the phone from her ear, but instead of moving, she simply stood there, let it dangle at her hip.
Nick straightened. “Everything all right?”
“It’s my grandmother.” Sewanee raised her eye to his. Heard herself say, “She tried to kill herself.” Once the words were said, she jolted into movement. “I have to go. Oh my God.” But she stopped again.
“What can I do?” Nick’s voice helped spur her to movement once more.
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m sorry, I . . . I have to go.” She went out the main doors, Nick right behind her. There was a taxi parked in a waiting zone. Then Nick was opening the door and she was plunging through it. He jumped in after her, she told the driver where to go, that it was an emergency, and minutes later, Sewanee was jumping out before the car had fully stopped. Nick threw cash at the driver and charged after her.
She was already through the front doors when Nick called out, “I’ll wait in the lobby!”
She heard the words, but made no acknowledgment. She was already navigating the hallways leading to Blah.
SEWANEE ROUNDED THE
corner into her grandmother’s room. There were three people huddled around the bed. “Where is she?” Sewanee demanded.
All three turned to her and stepped away, revealing Blah’s frail form slumping upright, nightgown twisted around her thin, veiny thighs. “Blah.” Sewanee went right over to her. “It’s okay, I’m here.” She tried to catch her grandmother’s gaze, but her eyes were unfocused and glassy, wide with residual terror, darting loopily around the room. “What happened?” Sewanee asked, trying to sound steady.
“She’d been–” a young female nurse started, cleared her throat. “She was agitated. Telling people to get away from her, but no one was there. Then she wanted to go see the movie. And that seemed to calm her down. But when it was over–”
“Before it was over,” an older woman chimed in.
The nurse–who, Sewanee glimpsed from her name tag, was Gina–nodded. “Before it was over, she started up conversations with imaginary people–”
“What was she saying?” Sewanee asked.
“Things like, ‘You’re always like this’ and ‘leave me alone.’ So I brought her back to her room, got her into bed, and then I went to talk to Carlos about meds–”
Carlos interjected, professionally, “I suggested her usual dose of Ativan.”
“And?”
“I got the Ativan,” Gina continued, “came back into her room and . . .” She pointed at the window. “She was halfway out.”
“How the hell did–” But Sewanee stopped.
The window had been open.
Because she’d opened it.
And not closed it.
This was her fault.
“I yelled for Carlos. We pulled her back inside and that’s when the screaming started.” Sewanee noticed Gina was holding her right forearm with her left hand. There was gauze underneath
her fingers. At Sewanee’s questioning look, Gina said, “She scratched me. Just a little. I’m fine.”
Reeling, Sewanee turned back to Blah. She appeared completely disoriented. Her mouth had gone slack, her hair was standing up as if she’d been in a pillow fight.
“Blah?” Sewanee reached for her hand. “Everything’s fine. I’m here.”
Her grandmother’s eyes settled on Sewanee’s face and went wide. Sewanee smiled, trying to provide a hint of familiarity, of normalcy. But then Blah said, “Who are you?”
Sewanee squeezed her hand. “Sewanee.”
Blah pulled her hand back. “Get away from me.”
Sewanee took it again. “Blah, please, it’s Dollface–”
Blah yanked it back. “No!” Her voice was raw. “Don’t you touch me!” Frantic, too. Sewanee leaned in closer, which only made Blah retreat further, which made Sewanee say, desperately, “I’m Henry’s daughter, your granddaughter–”
“Help!” Blah screeched. “Somebody help me!”
Sewanee felt Carlos’s hand on her shoulder, urging her back. She threw it off. “BlahBlah!” Sewanee barked.
Blah thrashed, trying to get away, get up, get out. Gina grabbed her shoulder.
The older aide said, “We may have to call an ambulance.”
Sewanee changed tactics. She made shushing noises, and in her gentlest voice said, “You’re my grandmother and I love you and you’re safe and everything’s fine.”
“AAAHHHHHHH!” She’d reached banshee hysteria.
“Okay, Barbara, okay, easy,” Carlos murmured, grabbing her other shoulder.
Sewanee made one final attempt. She couldn’t help it. She took Blah’s face in her hands, looked in her eyes, trying to connect through force of will alone. “BlahBlah, listen to–”
Blah spit in her face.
Sewanee was so shocked, so utterly dumbfounded, that all she could do was nothing. She was paralyzed.
“You’re not my granddaughter! My granddaughter is beautiful!”
“Blah–” Sewanee choked.
“MONSTER!!!”
Sewanee didn’t remember leaving the room. She didn’t know how she ended up downstairs and outside, on her knees in the grass in the garden sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. She felt faint and nauseous and inflamed all at once. She felt as though she were on fire. The sounds coming from her were the primal keens of the mortally wounded. Her forehead dug into the muddy grass, she pulled clumps of it up by the handful. She cradled her head and burrowed the mud into her scalp. Her throat burned like a crematorium. Eventually the sounds subsided and what was left were residual heaves. And the hand on her back.
The hand. On her back. Not moving, not soothing, not petting. Resting. The full span of it nested between her shoulder blades.
WHEN SHE RESURFACED
, she was surprised to find herself curled in Nick’s lap. That they were sitting on a bench in the garden, the one she’d sat on with Amanda. She opened her eye and, through the blur, could see that the chest of his tuxedo shirt was a mess. Wet and smeared with the remnants of her mascara, lipstick, and foundation. It looked like a crime scene. She couldn’t fathom what she must look like. She also couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m so sorry,” she choked out.
“Shhhh.” He brought his hand to the side of her head, guiding it to his shoulder, his jacket soft and dry.
“This was–” Then, to herself, “Oh God.” Back to Nick: “You don’t have to stay, I’m fine now–”
“Don’t be an arse,” he murmured, his tone soothing despite the playful admonishment, “I’m not going anywhere.”
So she let herself be cradled by him. In fact, she brought her arm up across his chest and around his other shoulder, snuggling closer. She let his fingers play at her hairline, took comfort in the steady beating of his heart.
After an epoch, when she felt she had returned to some reasonable baseline, she was left with the heady, slightly-stoned feeling extreme sobbing generates. She wanted to talk, but wasn’t sure she was capable of coherent speech. She took a breath and gave it a try, rhetorically murmuring, “June’s nephew. No wonder you were so good at the Romance version.”
She felt his chuckle like thunder in his chest. “I could have been a wee bit more honest, too.”
Sewanee paused. “Your name is Nick, right?”
“Yes, you see,
I
didn’t know we were making up names.” She heard the teasing in his voice. “But I shouldn’t have played it dumb.”
“Why did you? You didn’t have to. You had an opening. ‘I’m a Romance editor.’ ‘Oh, what a coincidence, my aunt basically built the entire category, perhaps you’ve heard of her?’”
“Right. That would have been a thing to say.” He paused. “What would you have said to that?”
Sewanee thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe I would have taken the opportunity to come clean. You wouldn’t have been some random guy in a bar anymore.”
“But I was a random guy in a bar.”
She dared to look up. He made a pouting smile, probably at the absolute disaster of her face. She started to go back into hiding, into the safety of his jacket. But he stopped her. Put his hand on her chin and kept her head up. He gazed at her. “I think we both wanted random,” he murmured. “That was the fantasy, no?”
The word “fantasy” sparked a dormant ember inside her.
Brock McNight.
She sat up. “What time is it?” She fumbled in her pocket.
“Probably ten or so,” Nick answered, but Sewanee already had her phone out. 10:30. 10:30! She’d been crying for, what, an hour? She stood up, shakily, her hand clinging to Nick’s shoulder. “I have to make a call.”
“Of course.” He probably thought she needed to call family, and she did. She did. But first, this.
She moved away from him then, about twenty feet. She pulled up her text chain with Brock and started typing.
I’m so sorry. You won’t believe this, but a family 911 . . .
She paused. Deleted. Started again.
I had an emergency and I’m so sorry for the super late notice but I won’t be able to
Everything felt inadequate. She owed him more than a text. He’d have questions and she wanted to be able to answer them. She wanted to hear his voice and, more importantly, she wanted him to hear hers. To hear how sorry she was. That she wasn’t getting cold feet. That it was a matter of timing, nothing else. After all these months, she finally
wanted
to talk to him.
So, she took a steadying breath, tapped his name, and pressed the phone icon. She brought it to her ear.
First ring.
Second ring.
There was a ring in the garden, too.
Third ring.
Again, in the garden. Annoying.
She put a finger in her ear and looked around. She saw Nick stand up, turn away from her, and answer
his
phone.
In her phone, Brock finally picked up. “Sarah?” That familiar richness, that burned caramel, of eighty thousand downloads and counting.
Relieved, Sewanee said, “Yes, hi.”
“Well, hello.” His voice came through her phone.
And, also, simultaneously, across the night air.
He continued, “I’m glad you called. I might be a bit late.”
His voice was in stereo.
“Something unexpected came up. I’ll explain when I see you.”
Again, stereo.
Her eye stayed glued to Nick’s back. “Did you hear me?”
A word finally dropped from her mouth. “Brock?”
Again. Stereo: “Yes?”
Immediately, she said, into the phone, “Nick?”
Automatically, he answered, into the phone, “Yes?”
Silence. Deafening silence.
Then she shouted, finally, across the courtyard, “What the
fuck
?”