After Her (22 page)

“Are you really sleeping with that girl?” I ask again though my voice reminds me of a child agonizing over a parent’s divorce. I can’t conceive why this bothers me. What Adrian chooses to do with his anatomy is none of my business.

His expression leaves a cold sensation of panicked curiosity simmering beneath my skin.

As he sets his stare on me, allowing no room for misinterpretation or ambiguity, he ultimately confesses, “Not currently.”

“Good,” I reply. “Vivian has enough to worry about without obsessing over you keeping it in your pants.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason you asked?” he asks.

“Why else would I care about you and your rampant extramarital sex life if not out of concern for Vivian?” I ask.

He shrugs, exposing no sense of discontent with the subject matter.

“You don’t have to be concerned about Vivian,” he says. “She’s always been able to take care of herself.”

“With you as her husband, it’s no wonder why.” I fling open the door, anxious for a quick escape. My mind maps the route out, mentally evaluating how fast I can get to the elevator, out of the building then to my car.

“Cassandra?” he calls, as I'm one foot into the hallway. I weigh my options, debating whether to respond.

“What?” I say, the word tasting sour on my tongue like a mouthful of bad whiskey.

“You should wear your hair up like that more often,” he remarks. “It really does brings out your eyes.”

I want to disregard his compliment, to treat it as nothing more than the inappropriate advances of a man I should hate. I should be repulsed, should curse or reproach him for coaxing this flattered little girl out of me.

I almost feel giddy, taken by the words like there’s a heady toxin in the air, inebriating my senses. I won’t allow him the pleasure of seeing this side of me. I refuse him the honor by marching out of his office.

Once in the parking lot, sitting in my car, I peer at my reflection in the rearview mirror and bring my hands to my hair. After removing the rubber band to release the chignon, I sigh aloud, feeling a sense of urgency lift from shoulders.

PART THREE

The Truth

23

When I open my eyes, it’s not an intentional gesture.

There is no subliminal voice ordering me to wake. I have no conscious thoughts to move or react. I lie beneath the quilts, peering through holes in the fabric, squinting at the glint of sunlight shining over me.

My alarm clock crows, urging me to acknowledge it. I prefer the stillness, to recollect the contents of last night’s dream. My phone buzzes, displaying a name that I'm not enthusiastic to see illuminating across the screen. I know the consequences of not answering and that is something I don’t need on my ass right now.

“Good morning, Vivian,” I answer, apathetically.

“Ah, Cassandra, I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have called at all.”

She chuckles.

“Just thought I’d remind you of tonight’s festivities.”

I nod, though she can’t see the nonverbal reply.

“I haven’t forgotten about the gala, Vivian. It’s only been yesterday since the last time I saw you.”

“You mean since you started avoiding me?”

“Vivian, I don’t have time for this,” I say. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Fine, the real reason I called is to tell you to open your front door.”

“Why?”

“Do as I say then you’ll know why.”

I set aside the phone and slip into my robe. I head down the narrow hall, past Sasha’s bedroom then into the living room where the deadbolt sits unlatched from the front door. Something in me reacts before my brain can process it. I sprint across the room, clasping hold of the doorknob to peer outside.

Air catches in my throat, pulsing like a sting from a bee. I'm not sure what to expect. With Vivian, I should anticipate anything. Has she been in my apartment? Snuck in while we slept? I see no visible answer to either question.

All I see upon poking my head out the open door is a gift box sitting on the ground. The box is plain on the surface, coated in white wrapping with a single red bow taped to the top. I kneel to retrieve it, briefly noting an unfamiliar black Sedan parked in the lot just below my apartment stairwell.

The person inside sits hidden by tinted windows. I swear I recognize him. I step further outside, leaning against the balcony railing to examine the car. The moment we lock eyes, the Sedan speeds off, exiting the lot. I carry the box inside, perching it atop the arm of the sofa before heading back into my bedroom where my phone remains face down on the bed.

“Okay, three questions, Vivian,” I say after pressing the phone back to my ear. “First: what’s in this box? Second: who’s the weird man driving the black Sedan? Third: how the fuck did he get into my apartment?”

“I sent an employee to deliver it since you weren’t answering my calls,” she replies. “This is what you get for being so difficult.”

“Has he been in my apartment?”

“Don’t get so fussy,” she says. “I assure you that he never entered.”

“What are you trying to prove?” I ask. “Do you want my attention? Fine! I’ll answer all of your stupid phone calls from now on! Now order your affiliates to stay the hell away from my apartment.”

I hear her laugh, refusing to take my words seriously. It ignites something fierce in me, something that breaks me down at the knees, sends me plummeting to the floor in a bundle of quivering limbs. I can’t win with this woman.

“This is stalking,” I say, wishing the words were knives I could drill into her. “You know that, right? Stalking is a crime, Vivian. How long have you been sending strange men to watch my apartment and snap photos of me?”

Vivian hesitates for several seconds, unresponsive. I wonder where she is during this call. Sitting in her car a few blocks from my apartment? Or in bed with a tray of breakfast atop her lap, reading her morning paper, sipping her tea. Business as usual.

“Cassandra, I’ve already admitted to my indiscretions,” she finally replies. “Calvin is the only employee I’ve ever sent to your apartment. I have no idea whomever this mysterious photographer is and my intent was never to frighten you.”

“Really? Are you sure about that?” I ask. “Because you’re doing a crappy job of
not
scaring me!”

“I love you,” she confesses in a timid tone. “You’re the only thing I have left. I can’t lose you again.”

“Vivian, what are you talking about?” What I hear next is a dial tone. No answer to my question. I sit for several minutes, holding the phone to my ear and staring blankly at the floor.

“Cassie?” Sasha calls from the hallway before poking her head into my room. It takes a moment to compose myself and put on a smile phony enough to fool Sasha.

“Hey, you awake?” She knocks several times before I face her.

“Yeah,” I say after turning off my phone and tucking it beneath my pillow. Sasha enters, wearing her frilly nightgown and robe, her bedhead hair in blonde tatters.

“I'm heading down to the campus café to pick up some much needed caffeine. You want me to pick you up a decaf?”

I need this casual small talk, to keep her from noticing my disheveled state.

“Yeah, decaf is fine with a blueberry scone,” I reply.

“Cool. Oh, I was also thinking we could drop by
Shelley’s
to scope out some dresses for the gala tonight. I’m thinking of matching halters with pearl accessories. Or maybe sapphires. My birthstone sucks. Who the fuck wears topazes anyway?”

I nod to appear complacent.

“I’m showering first,” she says. “You don’t mind, right?”

I shake my head.

“No, just um…leave me some hot water.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies before slinking away. Moments later, I hear the water shooting through the faulty pipes in the walls. I gather what’s left of my calm and saunter back into the living room where I’d left the box.

My hands lay splayed atop the box, trembling from the anticipation of what to expect inside. If I don’t do this now, Sasha is bound to hijack the experience from me altogether and swipe the box away before I have a chance to see for myself.

I peel back the layers of wrapping, tearing my nails into the crème paper after removing the decorative red bow. Inside, beneath four layers of crepe papering is a red, sequined cocktail dress, one-shouldered and made from rayon, sure to be very formfitting once I try it on.

I remove the skimpy dress from its box to examine it. Beneath the light, it’s exquisite. The attached price tag explains why.

“Five
thousand
dollars!” I exclaim. “Jesus Christ, Vivian.”

“What’d she do now?” Sasha replies from behind me. She stands in the doorway, detangling her damp hair with her fingers, donning a blouse and jeans and smelling of her favorite butternut cream body wash. She glances at the dress dangling from my hands and her eyes widen.

“Holy shit! That dress is gorgeous. Is that an
Herve
?” she asks. I shrug as she swipes the garment from my hands, fawning over the damn thing like it’s a long lost twin separated from her at birth.

“Oh, I haven’t seen one of these bad boys since Daddy cut off my allowance.”

“Sas, it’s just a dress, not the cure to mankind,” I say.

“To
you
, maybe.”

“If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it?” I say.

She inspects the interior, checking the price and clothing tag.

“Damn,” she replies. “It’s a size three. I won’t even get this thing past my knees.”

“Sasha, you’re not fat,” I say.

“Too fat to wear this dress.” She shoves the dress back into my arms, whirling away from me in a huff of frustration. “If I’d only started eating granola sooner.”

“Well, I'm not wearing it either way,” I say. “I'm sending it back.”

“That’s not what this letter says,” she replies after reading the piece of stationary that arrived with the box. I seize the letter from her hand so fast that she blinks several times to adjust her eyes to the motion.

The letter is written in familiar eloquent handwriting.
Vivian
. Beneath an assortment of aesthetic floral designs is a brief note addressed to me from her, casually asserting:

Your dress for the gala.

Tailored specifically for your body only.

Wear it tonight with your hair up…just the way Adrian likes it.

--Vivian

I grasp the note tighter, crumbling it in my fists, repelling the impulse to shriek aloud. Sasha watches intently, assessing me as if she fears I’ll explode.

“Cass, do you have something to tell me?” she asks.

I glance at her over my shoulder, wanting to punch something. I shove the box onto the floor, wishing I could do more to make myself feel better. Instead, Sasha stands back, gaping bewilderedly at me.

“Cassandra, what is with you?” she demands. I can’t contain my composure any longer.

I buckle at the knees, plopping onto the sofa, feeling the cushions flatten. I swear I could melt between them. I wish I could dissolve beneath them.

“You need to swear you won’t say a word,” I reply. “Promise me, Sas.”

“Whoa, why are you so freaked out?”

“What I'm about to tell you could get you hurt,” I say. “If Vivian finds out, I'm not sure what she’ll do.”

“What has she done to you?”

“She calls it an internship,” I say. “A better name for it is ‘blackmail.’”

Sasha stiffens beside me, gripping my hand, either to console me or to compose herself. “I knew there was something weird about that woman. We’re calling the cops. Getting you a restraining order.”

“No.” I shake my head. “The woman is weird and maybe even a little off, but I don’t think she’s dangerous.”

“Then how are you gonna handle this?”

“She’s dying, Sas. This’ll end one way or another. I’ll just…wait it out.”

“For how long?”

“A few more months,” I say. “Her doctor gave her six.”

She sighs, appearing to acquiesce, somewhat caving to my demands much sooner than I expected her to. I slip my hand out of her grip as she sits staring at me, wondering what more to say or do.

“You’re really putting me in a shitty position,” she mutters. “You expect me to go through this entire night without saying anything to that woman? I'm not sure I can do that with a smile.” She sighs again, her expression exhausted from defeat. “What do you need me to do?”

“Entertain the guests,” I say. “Pretend I didn’t tell you any of this and smile like nothing is wrong. After tonight, I emancipate from Vivian Lynch and we will pretend that none of this ever happened. Deal?”

“Fine. I’ll do it your way, but if you can’t handle it, you know I got your back,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say as she heads toward the door. As it closes behind her, I begin to strategize.