Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed (2 page)

But his reaction makes me think that maybe I had cause.

“I need you to let go of me.”

Dave hesitated. He wanted to hurt me. Maybe he wanted to hurt himself, too. But unlike me, Dave has mastered self-discipline.

He took several steps back and looked away as he gathered up his willpower. I can’t help but admire him for it.

“My keys,” I said again.

He continued to stare at nothing . . . or maybe he was staring at the past. Maybe he was seeing all the missteps that led us to this place.

“I told your mother that it could have happened to anyone,” he said.

I froze. “You spoke to my mother?”

“This was years ago,” he clarified. “We were visiting them in their Carmel home during the Pebble Beach car show. You, your father, and me . . . we all went but your mother pleaded out. A migraine, she said.”

“I remember.”

“I left you there with your dad about an hour into it. I’ve never been into cars and you two don’t get a lot of alone time. I came back to your parents’ house and there was your mother, sitting on her cream-colored couch in her vacation home, photographs scattered all over the coffee table. She was crying.”

“What were the pictures of?”

“Your sister.”

“Those photos don’t exist.”

“Did she tell you that she destroyed them along with the memories? And you believed her?”

I hadn’t answered. I knew everything of Melody’s had been discarded. Her clothes given to Goodwill or thrown in the trash, her old stuffed animals thrown into the Dumpster, her diaries burned with the photos . . . I saw them do it. I watched them as they found a thousand little ways to spit on her memory.

“She kept some,” Dave says gently. “If you were able to see outside yourself, you’d have known that your mother isn’t so callous as to destroy all of it.”

There are some insults that can’t be brushed off. That was one of them.

“Your mother told me she’s haunted,” he continued. “She wanted to know how she failed and I told her that all we had to do was look to you to know that whatever demons consumed Melody were of her own making. If it was your parents’ fault, you would be out of control, too.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore.

“Your mother told me your sister was a whore. I told her you were nothing like that.”

That’s when those mutinous tears escaped, rolled down my cheeks, and left streaks in my foundation.

“How will she live with this, Kasie?” He asked. His voice had grown soft even as the words had grown harsh. It was like being caressed with barbed wire.

“She doesn’t have to know,” I had pleaded.

“If we split up, she does. I’m not like you. I don’t believe pretty lies are better than hard truths. Maybe your parents won’t fail you now the way they must have when you and your sister were children. Maybe they’ll help you, because God knows you need help . . . if you don’t get it . . . think of what happened to your sister, Kasie—”

“That’s not fair.”

“At the very least they need to know that they can’t trust you. They need to know you’re a liar.”

“I lied to
you,
” I screamed, my calm disappeared—memories of Melody, of the pain in my parents’ eyes, of the confusion around her death. . . .

As I lie by Dave’s side now, it’s hard to remember he’s supposed to be the victim and I the outlaw.

“I cheated on you, Dave,” I had said, not quite as loudly this time. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to lie about other stuff. It doesn’t mean I can’t be trusted.”

“And I’m sure that when Melody was first caught doing vodka shots at fourteen, she insisted that it didn’t mean she couldn’t be trusted to resist drugs. You know the saying, once a cheater, always a cheater? Well that’s not basic enough. Cheaters are liars. It’s a perversion. A pervasive problem that colors everything you touch. You’re a liar, Kasie, and you can’t be trusted. Not by me, not by anyone because now we know that when it serves your purposes, when your . . .
pleasure’s
at stake, you
will
lie.”

“Dave—”

“Your parents should know that,” he continued. “Your employer, too. The team that works for you should definitely know that. They should know that you’ve been fucking your client. They should know that you got down on your knees and sucked his dick to get the account. After all, your actions affect them. It’s their account, too. They should know that when he tires of your attentions—and he will tire of you—they should know why he’s taken his business elsewhere.”

“Oh God, please, Dave—”

“And if your parents, your employer, your coworkers, if they all decide to reject you, cast you out the way your parents cast out your sister, you shouldn’t be angry, Kasie. They have the right to protect themselves. They have the right to choose to spend their time with people who have better values and judgment than you.”

“Dave, I’m begging you—“

“Are you?” he asked. His eyes seared into mine but I couldn’t read them. I don’t know that man who stood before me, who sleeps by my side now.

Maybe I don’t know myself, either.

“Are you
begging
me, Kasie?” he asked again. “Do you want my help?’

I didn’t know what to say. It was easier when he was being violent. I’d prefer the blows of his fist to the stabs of his words.

“I want to help you,” he says. “You don’t need to be Melody. I can help you find your way back. If you let me help you, no one will need to know what you did. Do you want that?”

I nod, unable to talk.

“Good. That’s what I want, too.” He walked over to me, stroked my face with the back of his hand. I stood motionless. I felt sick.

“I want the woman I fell in love with. She’s still in there; I know it. You know it, too, don’t you?”

Another nod, another tear.

“Good, good. Because if we’re going to get her back, you have to acknowledge the problem. You have to acknowledge what you’ve become.”

I squeezed my eyes closed. I thought of Robert Dade. I thought of his smile, of his warm hands and kind words.

“I need you to say it, Kasie. I need to know that you realize the full extent of your debasement. I need you to acknowledge where you’re at so we can start to get you back to where I . . . where
everyone
needs you to be.”

“Dave,” I whispered. His name is acidic against my tongue. “Please don’t—”

“Say it, Kasie. Say it so I don’t have to expose all this. Say it so we can get back to where we were.”

I opened my eyes. I wanted to come out of myself again. I wanted to be the bystander.

But I’m in this now and I can’t see a way out.

“Say it.” The look on his face was as cold as it was expectant.

Pain, hate, totally futile anger, memories of Robert Dade’s kisses, memories of peace . . . But that’s gone now. I did this; I gave away all my power, my freedom, my moral compass. With so much already lost, how can I expect to hold on to my pride?

“Dave . . .” I choked the word out again, “Dave . . . I’m a whore.”

And he smiled as I crumbled.

CHAPTER
2

D
AVE DIDN’T TOUCH
ME
that night. That’s good, because if he had, I might have killed him. I would have wanted to stop myself, but I don’t always get what I want.

For instance, I hadn’t wanted to stay at Dave’s but he had insisted. I know why. He didn’t want me to go to Robert. He wanted to watch me, control me, keep me in line.

It’s odd because only a few days ago I had wanted to be controlled; I didn’t really care how much of that control came from within and how much came from without. As long as I was able to stay on the predetermined path, I was good. I had so many goals: success in my career, respect from those in my industry and from those I love . . . but mostly, my goal was not to be Melody. My sister had rejected all the paths available to her. She had sprinted through the trees, pushing aside branches, ignoring the thorns that scratched her skin, oblivious to the living things she crushed under her feet.

Robert had told me that if I chose Dave over him, I would be choosing prison over the unknown. I had countered that we all live in some kind of prison. At least the cage with Dave is gilded.

But as I stand over his bed, watching this man I once loved sleep, nothing in this room seems to shine.

Again I think of violence. I think of putting a pillow over his head and not letting go. Would he be able to fight me off? What if he couldn’t? Could I cover up the crime?

I blanch, shocked at the darkness of my thoughts. It’s not even 6 a.m. I have to get out of here. Because if Dave is right, if I can’t be trusted to resist temptation, then we both have a problem.

I sneak over to his dresser. I haven’t spent the night here for so long. We always stay at my place. I live closer to my office, and to his, too, for that matter. But there’s another reason I prefer my place. My home . . . it breathes. Even when things were good, I had found Dave’s house to be a little stifling. Nothing’s ever out of place. Books and CDs are alphabetized and the corners of every sheet are pulled and tucked with military precision.

But once in a while he would convince me to stay over and for those rare occasions I had some things, including some gym clothes, tucked away in the one drawer Dave has allocated for me. In the closet I find my tennis shoes and I shove them onto my feet as Dave continues to snore.

*    *    *

O
NCE OUTSIDE,
I
start running at a criminal’s speed. My form reeks of panic, not athleticism.

But as I get farther away, I slow to a more rhythmic pace. My heart races though my breathing is measured and I find my stride. The air is crisp and fresh; the pounding of my feet drums up a slew of new ideas.

For the first time I wonder if there is a third way. A different path, one that may have a few bumps but no chasms. If I tread carefully, I can avoid most, if not all, of the thorns. Dry leaves crunch under my rubber soles as I pass the pale yellow and cream homes of Woodland Hills. Every front lawn is perfectly maintained, every door protected by its own security system.

There are thorns and there are
thorns
. I don’t think I can survive humiliation or the pain my affair would cause my parents. I know I can’t survive the public destruction of my career.

They should know that you got down on your knees and sucked his dick to get the account.

It’s not true but it won’t matter. My master’s degree from Harvard Business School, all of my hard work and professional accomplishments, it’ll all be cast off into the riptide of public opinion. My entire career will be pulled out to sea and lost forever.

And my parents will blame themselves, and they will erase me from their lives the same way they erased Melody.

Others have faced ostracization—for example, women in difficult nations who have stood their ground, walked away from husbands even though such action was considered the ultimate act of shame; men who have stood up and proudly admitted to being gay even though they knew it would get them exiled by their community, their church, their family. There are political activists who have spoken out when every one around them insisted they tow the party line.

These are the heroic men and women of our time. But they have the moral advantage; I don’t.

I am a capable, tenacious woman; a survivor through and through. But I have never been brave.

The realization cuts at my gut. If I can’t produce courage, then what? Will my cowardice bind me to Dave forever? Will I have to let him touch me?

Once upon a time I thought Dave was a decent lover. He’s gentle, caring . . . he always looks into my eyes as he climbs on top of me. Always kisses me as he pets my thighs, a polite request for entry.

Robert never really requested anything. He always made sure I knew that all I had to do was say no to get him to back off, but aside from that he just went for it. I like the way he pinned me down. I liked the way he held me still with a look before claiming me, pressing himself inside of me . . .

. . . loving me.

Is Robert falling in love with me the way I’m falling in love with him?

I stop in the middle of an empty street. Sweat trickles down my spine. I’ve run a few miles but I’m not even close to feeling sore or tired. My body barely registers the effort. I am strong. I am a coward.

But I’m also smart. It’s my intelligence that has opened doors for me in the past.

Maybe I can use it to open my cage.

I squint at the rising sun, note how it makes my engagement ring glow, reminding me of fire and blood. It’s a beautiful reminder of the hell I’m in. Reluctantly I turn my back on the light and return to my prison, a new less frantic determination in my gate.

When I get there, Dave’s awake and eyes me suspiciously as I burst through the door.

“Where were you?”

I hold out the fabric of my soaked apparel for his inspection. “Obviously I was running.”

My impertinence brings a crease to his forehead. Apparently he doesn’t think I’ve earned the right to show him anything but deference.

“You know how lucky you are?” he asks.

This gives me pause. “Lucky?”

“I’m giving you a second chance. It’s more than you deserve.”

It’s a stupid, clichéd threat, but he’s betting that I’ll be too scared to call him out on his ineloquence or even remark that I don’t want this “chance.” I only want his silence.

I push past him without a word, but when I’m halfway up the stairs I stop and turn. “I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“You found me at the marina.”

“I did.”

I walk back down the stairs. I keep my eyes lowered hoping that humility will be enough to elicit the answers I need. “You need to know that nothing happened on that boat. I stopped it even before you called me. I went to the marina to end it.”

He still doesn’t believe me. My truths have the same intonation as my deceptions so he rejects it all.

“Nothing happened on that boat,” I say again.

“And before that?”

I lower my head farther, letting my hair fall in my face. “I’ve made mistakes . . . but no more, Dave. I’m not going to let my impulses rule me.”

He laughs. There’s no warmth in it. “You don’t think I’m buying this, do you?” He turns his back on me, which is better.

“No. I know it’ll be a while before you’ll believe anything I say,” I admit, and I mean it. The concoction of guilt, fond memories, and unspeakable anger make my feelings for Dave complicated. I take a deep breath, take a step forward, stand behind him, close enough for it to feel a bit intimate. “But no more lies, all right? I promise. From now on we’ll both be honest with one another.”

He whirls around, once more the predator. “There is only one pretender in this room. Only one of us acted the slut.”

The jagged edges of my rage puncture my heart as I cozy up to him. “I know how angry you are . . . I know I have . . . things to make up for. And I know we need to talk about what happened. Can you tell me how you found me yesterday? You came to the marina, we took my car back here . . . and yet your car is in the garage.”

He’s silent; a malicious smile plays at the corners of his lips.

“Who drove you to the marina?” I ask softly. “Who else knows?”

He wanders past me toward the kitchen, forcing me to follow him for my answer.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he asks as he reaches for a coffee cup.

“What’s hard?”

“Being kept in the dark.”

I don’t answer. I wait a moment as he pours himself a fresh cup of coffee from his coffee maker; he’s only made enough for one cup.

I force myself to turn and leave the room. I’ll find out who knows. I’ll think my way out of this.

But as I climb the stairs toward the shower, I realize that the questions are piling up. I need a solid strategy, I need to know who else knows. . . .

. . . and I need to figure out Dave’s motivations. If he hates me, why does he want to keep me? Control? Or something else?

I go into the bathroom, close the door, and peel my clothes off as I warm up the shower.

The door to the bathroom opens and I turn to see Dave looking at me. I recoil, grabbing a towel and holding it up against me.

“You’re my fiancée,” Dave says, taking a step forward and pulling the towel from me. His gaze oozes over naked skin. “And this is my house,” he adds.

I hold up my head, resist the urge to cover myself again. I stretch out my fingers, keeping my hands stiff as boards so they don’t curl into fists.

Dave quickly tires of his game and turns away, walking back toward the door. “Besides,” he says, calling casually over his shoulder, “it’s not like I’m seeing anything you haven’t shown to any man who asks.”

I bite down on my lip as the door closes. Maybe I can find courage in hate.