Okay (32 page)

Chapter Twenty

I
am a royal asshole. I've known guilt before, but nothing like this. It's eating me alive. I watch her warily as we dress for court, terrified that she's going to panic again.

She rolls her eyes. She thinks I'm treating her like glass, like I'm overreacting.

But she didn't have to see what I did. She lived it, yes, but she didn't have to watch it.  The girl I love fighting for breath on the balcony, her eyes rolling back, unseeing, unable to hear a word I said.

And she doesn't have to stomach the guilt of blame. Of lies.

I hate myself. I fucking despise myself.

But there's no other choice. Not right now.

I try calling her mother again, but again, it goes straight to voicemail. I leave her a third message, asking her why court was delayed, why she isn't riding with us to court, and to please call me back.

I wipe my sweaty palm on my suit pants before I take Rory's hand. Her brows pinch together. My nerves are out of character and for the first time I wish she didn't know me as well as she does.

Her friend Chip is waiting inside the courthouse just past security. He asks about the delay, and neither of us can offer more than a shrug.

No one is in the hall when we arrive, and we're only two minutes early, so we head right inside.

I freeze at the scene that greets us.

I don't understand it.

Rory's mother stands with the prosecutor, huddled over some papers, marking things urgently.
That
motherfucking bastard
sits dejectedly at the defense's table, and his father sits beside him, his own expression reflecting that of his son, but with an added veil of anger. Their lawyers talk to them, or
at
them as they don't seem especially responsive, and then one walks over to the prosecutor to murmur something.

But the strangest thing is Rory's father. He's sitting behind the prosecution's table. On the wrong side of the room.

Something's happened. But what? We haven't talked to anyone yet, haven't reported the Facebook message. I look down at Rory who obviously has no clue what's going on either, but she's so confused by the scene that I worry she might panic again. I squeeze her hand in a reassurance I don't actually feel, and lead her to the bench behind the prosecutor, as far away from her father as possible.

Her mother sees us and motions for us to sit, too preoccupied to even tell us what the hell is going on, and it pisses me off.

"What the hell is goin' on?" Rory voices my very thoughts, her accent betraying her nerves.

"Seriously," Chip adds.

He's a nice kid and he seems to really care about my girl, and fortunately not in a way that makes me want to kick his ass, but right now I wish he wasn't here. I don't know what's going on and it all feels too personal.

I slide my arm around Rory's shoulders, no longer giving a shit what the judge—who isn't even here yet—will think. "I don't know, baby girl, but it's going to be okay, I promise." I hope to fucking God I didn't just tell her another lie.

The bailiff comes in to announce the judge's arrival and silence falls over the room. We all stand automatically, but fuck, now we can't even talk to the prosecutor, or Rory's mom, who's now standing beside her as if she's her second chair.

Rory and I exchange a worried glance. The judge tells us to be seated. Rory's grip on my hand tightens almost painfully and I rub little circles on her shoulder with my thumb.

It's going to be okay, baby girl. It has to be.

"So I hear you've all had a busy morning," the judge says.

I hold my breath.

"Yes, Your Honor," both the defense lawyer and the prosecutor say in a stagger.

"Do you have the agreement?" the judge asks.

"Yes, Your Honor," the Prosecutor says again, and the judge motions her forward.

Prosecutor Counter approaches the bench and hands the judge the documents she and Rory's mother had been working on until the moment the judge arrived. The judge skims through them with interest.

Agreement
. What fucking
agreement?
Would they have gone behind Rory's back and pled
that motherfucking bastard
out? Would Rory's mother do that to her?

Shit
, I need to tell them about the Facebook message before it's too late!

"Amy," I loud whisper, trying to get her mother's attention. She turns back to me and presses her index finger over her lips, indicating that I should be quiet. Fuck that. "
Amy
," I whisper louder.

She turns again, her face intently serious and she fucking
shushes
me. I'm so stunned by her dismissiveness that it actually does shut me up.

"Okay," the judge says loudly, seemingly satisfied with whatever she's read, and we all turn back toward the bench.

I tighten my hold on Rory's shoulders.

"So, Mr. Forbes, you've decided to change your plea then?"

I was fucking right. A fucking plea deal.

Goddamn it.

Rory was right all along. I can't believe I let this happen! And I can't do a thing other than sit here and watch it unfold.

That motherfucking bastard's
lawyer nudges him and he stands.

"Yes ma'am." His voice is toneless.

"And it is?"

"Guilty."

Rory audibly gasps. I don't know if she thinks this is a good thing, or if she understands the implications—that this is just part of the deal.

What is he getting? Probation? Community Service? The thought makes my stomach coil into a tight knot.

"You have been charged with knowingly violating an Injunction for Protection against Aurora Pine, sexual assault and battery. You plead guilty to all of these counts?"

"Yes ma'am."

What the fuck?

Rory looks to me, but I can't even spare her a glance. I have no answers. This makes no sense. There is no reasonable scenario in which he would cop to the violation of his restraining order. Not unless he knew he'd lose the motion.

Did someone else see the Facebook message somehow?

"Do you have anything you'd like to say to the court?" the judge asks.

There's a pause, before he grits out "No, ma'am."

The judge sighs. "Well I suppose we can move onto sentencing then."

"
Sentencing
," Rory breathes. I don't even think she meant to say it, I think she's just in shock.

"Robin Wayne Forbes, you've been found guilty of violating an Injunction for Protection against Aurora Pine, sexual assault and battery. The charges together carry with them potential for up to fifteen years. As a result of your plea agreement with the Prosecutor's Office, I accept their recommendation of seven to ten years, of which you will serve the minimum with good behavior." The judge sighs again. "I hope that will give you ample time to reflect on your choices up until this point in your life, and make better ones in the future. You made a wise decision." A meaningful pause. "I'd have given you the maximum."

It's then that I'm able to unglue my gaze from the judge enough to remember the most out of place piece in this game—Rory's father sitting on the same bench as us, perched at the opposite aisle.

His conversation with Robert Forbes from yesterday, his story about the vase, it all ricochets through my mind and I finally understand.

The fucking asshole finally took up for his own daughter.

In that same moment I also realize—with no small amount of heartache and shame—I hurt Rory for nothing.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
hear the words, but I have to silently repeat them several times to myself before I can process their meaning. Sam's fingers have stopped drawing on my shoulder and he seems just as stunned as I am.

Jail.

The judge instructs the bailiff to take the defendant into custody, and they handcuff Robin right there in the courtroom, Cindy Forbes wailing like wounded animal.

Seven years.

I stand when Sam does, still staring blankly as the judge adjourns the court.

"Baby," Sam finally gets my attention.

I turn to him and it's when I register his smile, the utter relief coloring his cheeks, that I finally understand.

This is real.

"He's going to jail." My voice is shaky and disbelieving.

Sam nods. "He's going to jail, Ror," he confirms.

I whimper a sigh of relief, the weight of more than a year of fear and suffering finally lifting off of my very sore shoulders, before I fall into his arms. Sam lifts me from the ground, holding me so tightly I think he's more unburdened than I am. When he puts me down Chip musses my hair playfully like he used to do when we were kids and I blink up at him. And then my mother is there with tears in her eyes, and it's contagious. We hug and cry.

I'm so unbelievably intoxicated with relief that the fact that I don't understand what just happened, why Robin would take the plea deal for seven years, doesn't even register.

Well, that is until I glance back up at Sam to find him glaring over my shoulder with a strange mix of hostility and awe. I follow his gaze, surprised when it leads to my father, and even more surprised when I absorb his own expression. It's one I haven't seen before, not from him… humility. Regret.

I look back to Sam and eye him curiously; he seems to know something I don't.

"Sam?"

He snaps out of whatever had a hold on him, slinging an arm around my shoulder, and turning me so that my father is no longer in my line of sight. "Let's go celebrate, yeah?"

I offer him a small, uncertain smile. "Yeah."

****

I
t was my father. I can't believe it, but it was.

He called the prosecutor's office last night, and told them he was the one who told the Forbeses I'd be in Miami. That he'd mentioned it to Mayor Forbes over dinner, and that Robin was there. That there's no way it was a coincidence, and that he would testify to the fact.

The prosecutor called my mother early this morning and they decided to leverage it for a one time plea deal offer. Seven to ten if he agreed today. They wanted to protect me from enduring my cross-examination. And I guess they agreed. And as the judge said, they were wise to, because apparently otherwise he'd be doing fifteen instead of seven to ten, but not without a long, torturous trial that would undoubtedly take over much of my life for the next year.

Still, I can't believe it's really over.

After court, my mother, Sam, Chip, and I enjoy a jubilant late lunch at some fancy restaurant in South Beach.

I feel lighter. It's strange knowing without a doubt that Robin can't hurt me. That he's locked up. For the first time in the longest time, I feel
free
. Suddenly Miami itself is a different place, the sun brighter, the ocean bluer.

I can't help but think of Lacey's old words, about how I ruined Robin's life. After all, A year ago he was a football star on his way to a glorious college career and then very likely to the NFL. It's ruined now for certain. He's nothing more than a prisoner with a number as his identity. For the next seven years, and that's with good behavior. I'm not sure Robin even knows what that is. He's not even a has-been. More like an almost-was-but-never-will-be-now.

But I can't feel any guilt. Because his life may be ruined, but it wasn't me who did it. He did it all by his damned self.

My mother suggests changing our flights to tonight instead of tomorrow night, apparently she has a lot of missed work to make up for. Sam has another suggestion.

"Or, we could change our flights to Sunday night."

My mother blinks at him. He shrugs.

"I just thought that since Rory had to cut her spring break short, it wouldn't kill her to enjoy a few days vacation. We're already here," he shrugs again.

I'm surprised by the excitement I feel at the idea. My mother looks between Sam and me.

"I—uh, I really do have a lot of work to catch up on. I can't stay three more days," my mom says.

"So don't stay," I reply, surprising myself again. From the corner of my eye I watch Sam try to fight his smirk.

My mother narrows her eyes. "So you're suggesting I leave my teenage daughter alone in Miami with her boyfriend?"

"It's not like we're going to do anything here we wouldn't do at home," I retort, before my hand flies to my mouth.

I'm getting way to open with my mother.

Sam cracks up with laughter before my mother's censuring look stifles it for him.  

"I don't have anywhere to be. I could get used to this free hotel room thing," Chip murmurs. That's the thing about Miami in June. A great deal on a hotel room price turned into zero price. At least for Sam.

My mother glares at Chip, but her lip curls up into a mildly amused smile. "You know I've always adored you, Franklin, but forgive me if you're not exactly an ideal chaperone."

Chip shrugs, sipping his soda as if he couldn't care less either way.

"I'm eighteen, mom. May I remind you I'm going to college in a couple of months?" She knows what I'm saying. What's the difference between hotel rooms and dorm rooms—or in Sam's case, an Upper West Side apartment?

Sam and I are adults, we love each other, and even though we haven't actually had sex since we got back together, she must know we're not going to be celibate. Particularly since she knows we've slept together before. I confided as much to her on our last flight home from Miami.

I stare at her meaningfully, imploring her to support me on this. If anyone deserves a few days vacation with her boyfriend, it's me, isn't it?

My mom stares back. She's actually considering me.

I try a little sincerity. "We'll be okay. I… I'd really like to stay."

My mother pushes her chair back, flinging her napkin onto the table. "Well, Rory, like you said, you're eighteen. I suppose you're old enough to make your own choices, and I suppose I'll have to trust your judgment."

Holy shit.

She takes a step toward the restroom, but pauses. "But, Sam, as much as I like you, you should know, if you do anything to hurt my daughter, it won't be jail you have to worry about."

Sam's eyes widen and he chokes on his soda. My mother just threatened him. Chip chuckles loudly.

"Oh, and Rory, this counts as your graduation present," she adds, before walking away.

I stare at Sam incredulously.

"Did your mom just—"

"Yup."

Sam leans over and kisses me deeply. Chip coughs exaggeratedly.

"I'm still here, you know," he reminds us, and I pull away, pressing my fingers to my tingling lips, blushing scarlet.

"You know, I was almost starting to like you," Sam retorts.

****

W
e
agree to change our flights. My mother to tonight, Sam and I for Sunday. Chip has no flight to change, but he decides he will drive back to Linton Saturday.

Chip offers to drive my mother to the airport tonight and we all return to our hotel rooms, my mother to pack, Sam and me to relax, and Chip—well, who knows.

I'm still feeling exhilarated as we enter Sam's suite, but he's putting off a strange nervous energy that dulls my excitement. I change from my skirt and blouse ensemble into a tank top and cutoffs, but Sam sits on the sofa like a statue, still in his navy blue suit, eerily silent and pensive.

I wait for him to snap out of his unfathomable mood, but the more the minutes pass, the more he only seems to sink further into it. When I finish washing my face in the bathroom I check flights on my phone.

"There's a flight Sunday at six," I call to him from the bedroom.

No response.

I make my way to the living room and find he hasn't moved, except to hang his head, his fingers massaging his temples. My stomach starts rolling, telling me something is very wrong.

"Sam?"

His head jerks up. I sit beside him and he watches me warily. "You okay?" he asks.

Am
I
okay? I roll my eyes. "I'd be great if you were. What's up with you?"

Sam licks his lips like he does when he has something important to say and it puts me even more on edge.

"I need to tell you something. Before we change our flights," he says intently. He seems ashamed, guilty of something, and I can't imagine what, but it terrifies me.

"Sam, whatever it is, it will be okay. Just tell me." I want to soothe him, I want my words to be true.

Sam's fingers brush softly over my cheek, following the frame of my face, and he tucks my hair behind my ear. He looks at me as if he's trying to memorize my features, as if whatever he's about to tell me is going to change everything. It makes my pulse race.

"I don't know if it will be," he admits. A few hours ago I would have agreed with him. I thought nothing could ever be okay. But now, we're so close that whatever this obstacle is, I need to believe it won't destroy what we only barely almost have.

"Sam?"

"I never meant to hurt you." His voice cracks. "You were never supposed to know."

I don't understand. Did he hook up with someone else? My stomach drops, my heart beating erratically. Was it when we were broken up, or together? God, I don't even think I want to know. Why would he tell me
now?

"The plan was for me to borrow your phone, find the message, and show it to your mother. Then she would—well, do what she did, just with the Facebook message rather than your father's statement, but—"

"What are you talking about, Sam?" Now I'm even more confused. This obviously isn't about another girl, but… "What plan? How could you have known about the—" I cut myself off. Sam looks at me meaningfully, his eyes confessing even more than his words.

"I couldn't leave it up to chance."

"You sent it." It's not a question. Sam wasn't out walking the beach last night, he was sending me that message from Robin. "But,
how?"

Same smiles sadly, regretfully. "Come on, baby. You know my uncle's hotel connections go beyond discounted rates. The hotel the Forbeses were staying at is under the same ownership." Sam shrugs. "It was as simple as the manager letting me know when his room was empty, disabling the cameras for an hour of 'routine maintenance', and counting on the assumption that a moron like him would keep his account logged into either a tablet or a computer, which he did."

I stare at him, processing. Sam sent the Facebook message. Sam caused my panic attack.

I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry.

Now his apologies make sense.

"I never wanted you to see it. But then your mother texted us about the postponement, and you took your phone out onto the balcony, and you checked Facebook.
Why
did you check Facebook?"

He's not really asking me, he's asking fate. Neither of us have an answer for him.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "You snuck into his hotel room and sent that message?" I don't know why I ask him to admit it again.

"Yes."

I'll never forget the terror I felt reading those words. The desperation for air, the pain of my chest being constricted by panic. But it's Sam's decision to take such a big risk, to frame Robin like that, that has me reeling.

I stand up. "You could have gotten into so much trouble!"

"I covered all the bases, Ror," he says in defense.

"
The bases?!
The bases of a
frame job?!
Do you have no regard for your own goddamned future?!" I sound hysterical—I
am
hysterical.