Until I'm Yours (24 page)

“Get out of my damn office.” I shift my weight from one stiletto to the other, grabbing my cell phone from my pocket when he makes no move to comply. “Get out now, or I’m calling the cops.”

When I mention the cops, the two gorillas by Gil’s desk stand and step forward. Kyle crosses the office with swift strides, but slows and stops in front of me.

“Your parents don’t even believe you. What makes you think anyone else will?”

He doesn’t give me the chance to respond, which is probably good because I have no comeback for that. My own mother is against me. My own father threatened me. With that thought hanging over my head, and Kyle and his gorillas gone, I look around the office and realize I’m still well and truly alone.

I
’m in the privacy of my own home with Stil, my closest friend, nearby. My trusted team members—the lawyer, manager, and publicist who’ve been with me most of my career—sit just a few feet away. I should feel at ease. But how can I when one huge eye—the camera—opens up my home to millions of strangers, belying the illusion of privacy. Maybe my whole life has been an illusion of privacy, and this thing with Kyle will just expose the public as cruel voyeurs who watch and point and ridicule.

Or maybe they’ll believe me. Maybe they’ll sympathize. Maybe they’ll be kinder than I expect them to be.

“You ready?” Karen Sims perches on the edge of my sofa.

“Is that a rhetorical, it’s-too-late-to-turn-back-now kind of question?” I ask. “Or do you mean am-I-ready-right-now-to-do-this kind of question?”

“I think the latter.” Karen laughs a little, something I haven’t seen her do much in the last few days as we prepared for this. “It’s not too late you know. This is a huge step, and it’s a risk, Sofie. No one would think less of you for not doing it.”

That’s a lie. I would think less of myself. Meeting Shaunti made me wonder who else he’s tied up and jacked off on and bitten. Who else has he humiliated and left broken? I got into counseling immediately and put myself back together. That night is a distant memory for me, but what if there’s a woman out there for whom it’s a fresh nightmare she keeps playing over and over in her head? What if she’s afraid to come forward? What if, like Halima said, my hurt can help?

“And someone wants to speak to you.” Karen proffers her phone, a small smile softening her thin lips.

I take the phone and say hello tentatively.

“Hi, Sofie,” Shaunti says from the other end.

“Shaunti, hi.” It’s irrational, but tears spring to my eyes at the sound of her voice.

“I’m room mother today and my son has a game this afternoon. Too much to make it into the city and back in time,” she says in a rush. “But I wanted you to know how much I appreciate this. I really wanted to do it, but when you love someone, sometimes you have to put them first. Above everything. And I just couldn’t expose my husband and son to what Kyle’s team had planned.”

“Shaunti, you don’t have to explain.” I blink furiously, determined not to ruin Stil’s perfect cat eye with tears. “I was just sitting here thinking that if I had spoken up fifteen years ago…”

My voice is so dampened by tears of regret and guilt, I can’t get words out for a second. I clear my throat and try to finish.

“If I had spoken up fifteen years ago, maybe none of that would have happened to you.”

“Don’t take on guilt that is all Kyle’s,” Shaunti says, her voice tightening. “We’re taking him down, Sofie, and you’re the key. I have to go, but just wanted to wish you the best, and to say thank you.”

“That actually means a whole lot to me, Shaunti. Thanks.”

We hang up, and I just hold the phone for a few seconds like it’s still emitting strength from miles away, and I can just absorb the conviction I heard in Shaunti’s voice if I keep holding it.

“You ready?” Karen extends her hand for her phone.

“I’m ready.” I fluff my hair around my shoulders, smoothing the simple green dress Stil and I agonized over. Green has become my signature color because it matches my eyes. It feels ludicrous debating my dress color considering the weight of this broadcast, but Stil and Geena insisted we go with green. Stil and Geena cared about it. I could be wearing plaid burlap for all I care right now.

Stil walks over to add a touch more lipstick, her hand trembling as she applies it. She blinks furiously, tears standing in her eyes.

“Hey.” I grab her hand, pulling her to sit down beside me. “You okay?”

“Am
I
okay?” She strangles a laugh in her throat. “You walk around for fifteen years with this hanging over your head. You’re about to take on this monster, and you’re asking if I’m okay? Yeah, I’m fine, Sof. Just peachy. How ’bout you?”

“Look, I know you—”

“You could have told me,” she cuts in, hurt and anger cocktailing in her eyes. “You
should
have told me. I’m your best friend. How could you not tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone, Stil.” I squeeze her hand. “I wanted to put it behind me. I fooled myself into thinking I could just walk away, but it doesn’t work that way.”

Stil nods, glancing around surreptitiously.

“Did you tell them that he came to the office?” Her quiet words rise only as far as my ears.

I glance at everyone in the room before returning my eyes to Stil.

“No, and I don’t want to. It won’t help. He was a jerk, but he didn’t admit to anything. Didn’t incriminate himself any further. And it is just more of what we already have. More of my word against his. I’m set on doing this. He didn’t change that.”

“But you’ll tell Trevor, right?”

I pull my lips into my mouth, releasing a deep breath through my nose.

“I’m not sure. We’ll see.”

“You should tell him.” Stil stiffens her lips in that stubborn way I hate. “Tell him or I will.”

“You wouldn’t.” I aim a glare at her that seems to bounce right off. “This isn’t the best time to discuss this, Stil. I’m about to tell the whole world Kyle Manchester raped me. Can we talk—”

“You’re right.” She pats my shoulder, her eyes softer. “You focus on this. Get through this, and we’ll talk about it later.”

I smile faintly when she stands. The last thing I want to do is tell Trevor. Clearly Kyle knows Trevor is my weakness and would love to see him involved in any way he can. He wants to drag him into this however he can. It’ll be hard enough for me to see this through without worrying that Trevor will be hurt in the process.

My lawyer, Connor, walks over, squatting in front of me and taking my fingers in his bigger hand. He’s not exactly been a father figure to me. He’s only in his mid-forties, but definitely avuncular. He’s as honest as Abe and a shark when he needs to be on my behalf, but never with me.

“Just stick to what’s on the teleprompter,” he says. “We’ve all agreed on that statement. It tells the truth, but doesn’t give everything away yet. We need to roll this information out carefully.”

“Teleprompter, got it.” I glance at the large screen mounted above the camera with the words scrolling as Geena checks the statement one last time.

“Okay, let’s do it then,” Karen says.

At my very first photo shoot, I realized that I loved the camera. Everyone said it loved me back, and I’m counting on that today. The nausea churning my stomach, the sweat slicking my palms, the anxiety like a studded choker around my neck—all fall away as soon as soon as that camera goes live.

“Hello, I’m Sofie Baston.” My hands lay relaxed in my lap. “Many of you know me from magazines, or the runway, or ads for your favorite perfume and clothes. I’ve been very fortunate to find success as a model over the last fifteen years. Modeling has made my life very public, but there is one thing I’ve never talked about publicly until now.”

I draw a deep breath, knowing that once these words leave my mouth, I can’t take them back. Once I level these accusations at one of the country’s most powerful men, I can’t rewind.

And he’ll come after me.

When I think of how he hurt me that night—stole my virginity and stripped me of my dignity—and did the same thing to Shaunti and God knows who else, there is only one thought singing through my head.

Bring it.

“Fifteen years ago it was my high school prom night,” I continue. “I was nervous and excited. There were pictures and dancing. All the things you hope your prom will be. I had no idea that it would be one of the worst nights of my life. That night, my date raped me.”

I pause to swallow, the word “rape” curdling on my tongue.

“It was the most humiliating night of my life, and there are some things I’ve blocked, things I’ve tried to forget, but I remember who did it.”

I tip my chin up an extra inch, eyes locked on the camera like it’s a person right there I have to convince.

“It was Kyle Manchester, one of the leading candidates in next year’s U.S. Senate race. I know many will wonder why now. Why, after fifteen years of silence, I’ve decided to come forward. I held back for the same reasons so many other women do. Fear. Shame. I was unsure that people would believe me. I was young and scared then, and trusted the wrong man. Last week someone else made this accusation, and seeing that person’s courage spurred me to come forward, even after all this time.”

The line on the teleprompter says that I should be saying thank you and wrapping it up, but I can’t. Despite what Connor told me about sticking to the script, there is something I have to say that isn’t written on that screen.

“And if there’s anyone out there who might feel what I was feeling. Afraid. Ashamed. Unsure.” I look down at my lap before returning my eyes to the camera. “Humiliated and dirty because this man did the same thing to you, I want you to know that if you come forward, I’ll stand with you. When this happened, I felt for a while like everything that mattered about me was taken away, but I was wrong. I have my voice. I have truth, and no one can take that.”

I narrow my eyes at the camera.

“Don’t let him take that from you.”

Now I’m not sure how to finish after my detour, so I go back to the line that is paused and flashing for me to read.

“That’s all I have to say for now. Thank you for your time.”

I
knew my announcement would make a splash, but I really had no idea it would be of “break the Internet” proportions. I find myself the center of a storm of my own making, but over which I have no control. Kyle’s camp fired back literally within minutes of my video with denials and prepared statements. My parents have made no contact, other than a regretful message from Baker indicating that he has been told I’m no longer a part of his responsibility to the Baston family and will need to find other means of transportation. I guess that’s my parents’ way of disowning me.

Kyle’s team has already resurrected the most scandalous of my exploits: the affair with a married man—
homewrecker
. The picture I knew could be out there somewhere, of me snorting a line of cocaine during Paris Fashion Week years ago—
druggie
. The two guys who claimed we had a threesome on that tequila-drenched night that I barely remember—
whore
. And, of course, my infamous
Playboy
spread—
exhibitionist
.

Mine.

Trevor said that was the only label I needed to worry about, but every day a new label is slapped on my back, each one weighing more than the last. I wish he were here, but I would never ask him to miss the Collective meetings so crucial to his future.

Every speck of dirt from my past Kyle’s team could dredge up, they have. None of it’s new, but one incident piled on another heaped on another has many people skeptical about the validity of my claims. It is definitely my word against his. Kyle’s trotting out his devoted wife, their 2.5 kids and half a dog, along with all the work he’s done “for the community” over the years, makes him look like a responsible, upstanding citizen and me look like a promiscuous, privileged wild child living a life so far beyond what the average woman could imagine, she just may find it hard to relate to me. Or worse, to believe me.

Well played, Kyle Manchester. Well played.

I’m sure it all hurts. My parents’ condemning silence and all the accusations, the slurs virtually flung at me from Kyle’s conservative supporters, the bloggers speculating. It probably all hurts when each blow lands on me, but one thing I’ve learned to do over the years like an evolutionary defense mechanism is to thicken my skin as needed. Only this time, the skin has grown so thick so fast, I can’t feel anything. Even the support many rape advocates have expressed doesn’t help much because I can’t feel that either. I guess I’m numb. I’m really just afraid Kyle has a knife up his sleeve so sharp it will slice through those inches of protective layers, and I’ll feel everything, and all at once, so deeply, I won’t be able to stand.

“You ready for this?” Stil asks across from me in the backseat of the car we’re sharing.

“Huh?” I look up from my phone to see Stil frowning.

“Stop reading those posts, Sofie. Kyle has those bloggers and reporters in his pocket, so of course they’ll take his side. There’s a whole other group of folks already calling for him to withdraw from the race. Two women in two weeks accusing him of rape has hurt his image and his chances.”

She grabs my purse and iPad from the floor, handing them to me.

“You’re making headway, so keep your chin up, honey.”

She flicks her head toward the quaint Tribeca brownstone where my next meeting takes place.

“You sure you’ll be okay in there alone?”

“You mean without my guard dog?” I meet the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. We’ve compromised a little on security, using one of the guys guarding me to double as a driver. I persuaded Stil I’d be okay inside this meeting without him, and that he can drive her on to the office.

“Miraculously, I don’t think we’ve been followed,” I reassure her. “And even if we have, I can manage the ten steps between the sidewalk and the front door without being attacked.”

“Get in there and close the deal with Kerris.” Stil glances back to the brownstone where Walsh grew up and now lives with his family. “We all really love her stuff and want it on Haven’s site.”

“And you’re afraid I’ll what?” I’ve smiled so little the last few days, my lips barely remember how to do it, but they manage. “Claw her eyes out?”

“No, you two have some history, I know,” Stil says. “But your head’s in the game, and she’s a sweetheart.”

“Must be nice for people to think you’re a sweetheart.” I twist my lips and sigh. “Something I definitely won’t be mistaken for anytime soon.”

Stil sniffs the air.

“Is that self-pity I smell?” She wrinkles her nose. “I wouldn’t think a woman with her own fragrance would abide a scent so foul.”

“It’s not my fragrance. It’s François’s, and it’s not self-pity.” I slump into the backseat. “I’m just feeling a little sorry for myself.”

“Ahhhh.” Stil nods her little black-and-pink head sagely. “I see the subtle difference between the two. Look, nobody said this would be easy, but do you think it will be worth it?”

“I know it will.”

Her tough-love face softens.

“Then just endure.” She reaches over to tuck a chunk of hair behind my ear. “And just think. Your new man will be back soon. Bet that’ll make things better, right?”

Or worse. The only thing worse than all this public tarring and feathering from Kyle’s supporters and his crafty team would be Trevor having a front-row seat for it. Or even worse than
that
worse, him being tainted by it.

“He’ll be home in, like, four days.”

An eternity.

“You guys talk every day?”

“For a little bit.” I swipe through screens on my iPad looking for Kerris’s designs. “There’s a six-hour time difference, and his schedule there trying to sort out that Collective mess is even crazier.”

“Well, once he’s back in your bed, you’ll feel better for sure.” Stil sneaks a look at me under her falsies. “I mean, you guys have…you know. Sealed the deal. Dipped the stick, right?”

Now I do out-and-out grin.

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

I’ve always been extremely forthcoming with Stil about my sex life. Once I even sketched a guy’s junk for her when I realized he was uncircumcised. So, yeah. No holds have ever been barred until now. With Trevor…I just can’t. It’s so different with him. So intimate. So clean. So
right
. Talking about it like we’re in a locker room would defile it somehow.

“You know I live vicariously through your vagina.” Stil grimaces, and rightfully so. “That came out wrong, but you know what I mean. Just tell me if he’s as hung as he seems to be. I mean, a guy that big has gotta be hanging pretty low, right?”

I gather my things, shaking my head the whole time. I reach for the door and step out onto the sidewalk, drawing my cashmere coat a little closer against the wind. I lean into the car for a parting shot.

“I’ll only say that he delivers on the promise his body makes.”

As I slam the door, I hear her screeching.

“I
knew
it!”

I’m still grinning when the door opens to Kerris standing there. There was a time when I pretended not to see what Walsh saw in this girl, but I do. She’s petite and beautiful, with dark hair and a sweet nature. The opposite of me in every way, inside and out.

She’s also very pregnant. That belly looks much too large for her small frame.

“Are you having twins again?” I blurt out, regretting it immediately. I can’t believe I’m one of
those
people who says insensitive things to pregnant women. Next I’ll be feeling up her belly in the grocery store.

She laughs good-naturedly, stepping back to allow me into their home.

“Um, no. Just one this time.” She passes her hand over that mound of baby, a small smile on her mouth. “One little boy due any day now, but maybe he’s just a big guy like his daddy.”

She searches my eyes, looking contrite. At first I can’t figure out why, but then I realize she must think this was my dream. To be home with two of Walsh’s kids and another on the way in the brownstone where he grew up. No, this wasn’t what I envisioned for Walsh and me. I certainly wouldn’t have answered my own door. I’d have help for that. I wouldn’t have dinner going, the house fragrant with my domesticity. I’d have some version of Millie for that. As for the kids…who knows how having children would have affected me?

“It’s okay, Kerris.” I walk deeper into the house, stopping by the bannister that leads upstairs. “I’m good and over Walsh. I realize now that if we had gotten married, we would have basically become our parents. He would have become his father, working around the clock and neglecting his family. I would have become my mother, glad to see the back of him and probably living a separate life.”

I look back to Walsh’s sweet little wife in her maternity skinny jeans and a simple tunic blouse. This place, with its shiny floors and little baby gate at the top of the stairs, the smell of something already cooking for dinner, shows me she is exactly what a man like Walsh needs. This house—
she
—must be a haven for Walsh after the cutthroat world he occupies all day. For a man who never wanted to grow up to be like his father, he married a woman who would make sure he never does.

“I practically grew up here, too, you know.” I tap my shoe over a familiar nick in the floor. “Walsh and I used to slide down this banister like monkeys.”

I open my mouth widely enough for her to closely examine my front tooth.

“I actually chipped my tooth here doing that.” I laugh, tapping the tooth in question. “Mother was furious. We got it fixed the next day, of course, but Walsh teased me for the longest.”

“I never realized that you and Walsh were…” She trails off, searching for the word.

“Friends?” I nod. “Yeah, even though my parents wanted us to be the cornerstone of the Bennett dynasty, and convinced me that I wanted that, too, we were friends first. Walsh has always been good to me.”

“He’s furious that your father isn’t supporting you against Kyle Manchester.” Kerris’s face shows her sympathy, her concern. “I’m sorry, by the way. I knew there was a reason that man made my skin crawl.”

She lifts her hands for the coat I’m sliding from my shoulders, hanging it on a vintage-looking coat tree tucked into a corner of the foyer. She walks back to me, hands slid into her back pockets and expression hesitant.

“I, um…well, I just wanted to say our situations are different, obviously,” she says. “But I know what it feels like to be violated, Sofie. The man who hurt me had been dead for years by the time I spoke out. The man who hurt you is not only still alive, but powerful and prominent, with many people supporting him. I think what you’re doing is incredibly brave.”

I’ve never heard Kerris’s full story, but I know she speaks from time to time for the Walsh Foundation about being molested as a child. She’s sorry for me? I can’t imagine the things she endured so young.

“I appreciate that, Kerris.” Something lodges in my throat. Maybe it’s the crow I need to eat. “Look, I know you and I have never been on friendly terms. I was a bit of a bitch to you. Old habits die hard.”

We both laugh at my admission, and I wonder if one day we could be friends. I don’t have many of those. Never have, but I sure could use some in this three-ring circus.

“But it’s obvious that you make Walsh happy,” I continue. “And believe it or not, ultimately, that makes me happy. This is probably as close to apologizing as I’ll get, by the way.”

Kerris meets my eyes, a fractional smile settling on her lips.

“Wow, Sofie.” She toys with a slim necklace hanging at her throat. “I never thought I’d see the day when you almost apologized.”

We laugh again, and I feel things loosen between us a little more.

“I gladly accept your almost apology.” Still smiling, she gestures toward what used to be, and I assume still is, the kitchen. “Let me check on this stew I’ve got going, and then we can head downstairs to my studio. The girls’ nap is over in about an hour, and nothing gets done once they’re up. They’re tyrants, both of them.”

“It smells delicious.”

I sniff the air appreciatively, sitting at the farmhouse table a stone’s throw from the island and counters that make up Kerris’s work space. I remember Kristeene Bennett’s kitchen as warm and cozy, but dark. They’ve renovated, adding a skylight that ushers in natural light to brighten the space.

“I know I’m totally the housewife stereotype, Crock-Pot and all.” She lifts the lid, stirring the savory-smelling stew. “But I’m a country girl. That’s never going to change. Walsh had them install a small greenhouse on the roof, so I grow my own vegetables. All the veggies in here were grown right over our heads.”

The distance between the wife I would have been to Walsh and the wife he needed continues to grow. Pictures of their girls, Brooklin and Harlim, decorate the refrigerator. Framed finger paintings hold a place of pride on one wall. A toy bin in the corner rests on a rug, and I can imagine the twins playing there while Kerris prepares dinner. It’s a scene, a life of domesticity I’m not sure I could ever achieve.

Only…something feels good about it. Looks are deceiving because Kerris, in spite of her modesty, is anything but the typical housewife. She owns a thriving high-end thrift store back in North Carolina and has someone like me here courting her to design jewelry. It’s apparent, though, that this is her first love. This life with Walsh and her children, it’s her first priority. I never saw this, not in my home and not with my friends growing up. Walsh at least had Kristeene for a mother, and a greater woman you’d never find. She probably planted the seed for this vision in Walsh’s head.

A peace deepens inside me as that dream my parents planted gasps its final breath, dying right here in the kitchen where Kristeene used to serve Walsh and me banana bread after school. There’s no doubt in my mind I could never have satisfied Walsh. And honestly, he probably could never have satisfied me. He didn’t want me enough, and I realize now, experiencing the way Trevor wants me, and for the reasons he does, how it feels to be wanted and prioritized that much, that way. I don’t know that I can ever settle for less than that again.