Bennett
* * *
“I don’t like your ECG. And these numbers … this isn’t what I was hoping to see after that round of steroids.” Dr. Rathburn flicks through my chart, tongue clucking, thin lips pursed. “You’ve been taking it easy, right? No working? No pushing yourself? Minimizing stress?”
“Yes.” I speak to the doctor, but my attention is locked on Astaire. Seated in a guest chair in the corner of the room, she nibbles her nails, hardly able to look at me. In fact, I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words since I came to.
I don’t imagine it was easy for her to come home and find me passed out by the door. Honestly, I don’t remember what I was doing when it happened, but at least I had the good sense to unlock the place so someone could find me. My cleaning lady’s the only one with a key and she comes on Fridays …
“Going to run some more tests, Bennett,” the doctor says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to figure this out. Get you back up and running. Any questions?”
“No. Thank you, Doctor.” I steal another glance at Astaire, her knee bouncing.
I’ve never seen her so … worked up.
She’s having second thoughts. Has to be. God knows her life has been nothing but tragedy after tragedy—why should she chain herself to one more?
“If you’re having second thoughts,” I say when we’re finally alone, “I won’t blame you.”
Her knee settles to a stop and her ocean eyes flick my way. “What?”
“I’m sorry if this scared you. If you don’t want to do this anymore, I’m giving you an out.”
“What? No,” she says. But her tone’s far from convincing. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s not going to bring it up now, not when she sees me in this fragile state …
“Hey, would you mind running to my place and grabbing a few things for me?” I ask. “For one, I don’t think I have my phone. Grab a charger too. A change of clothes. My dopp kit.”
Astaire shoots out of her chair, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She can’t get out of here fast enough.
Thirty-Nine
Astaire
* * *
I fold his clothes and place them in the bottom of his duffel bag before grabbing his dopp kit from the en suite. My conversation with Beth has been playing on a loop in my head since this afternoon, and I couldn’t bring myself to say more than a few words to Bennett at the hospital—not that there was time to talk.
Everything happened so fast.
And he was in and out of the room for hours at a time.
It’s 11 PM and yet it’s like I blinked my eyes and the last several hours happened.
Honor is still set to come this Saturday. So far he hasn’t mentioned anything about delaying that, and I don’t even know if he could if he wanted to. Regardless of when we have our conversation, I intend to help every step of the way. I want this to be a memorable occasion for her, nothing but smiles and welcoming hugs.
I zip the duffel and haul it down the hall, stopping when I pass the open door of his study and spot his shiny black phone lying face up in the center of his desk.
The room is immaculate, outfitted leather and polished wood the color of ebony. Brass accents. Gilded antique sconces. Sweeping views of the city that rival the ones in his living room. His personal library spans the length and width of two walls, and I take a quick moment to scan the selections—mostly non-fiction, an abundance of ancient Greek philosophy. You can tell a lot about a man by what they read, and his collection paints a vivid picture of a man obsessed with contemplations.
When I’m finished, I grab his phone, which rests on top of a binder-clipped stack of what appear to be printouts of text messages.
I don’t mean to read the first line, but my eyes accidentally scan it before I even realize what I’m looking at, and it’s so appalling I can’t help but read the next one … and the next … and the next.
My breath hitches. My stomach drops to the floor. Heart in my throat, I flip through the top few pages, my self-control hijacked by the disgusting swirl of sordid curiosity in my belly.
Each page is worse than the one before.
Vile. Dirty. Disgusting messages.
Abusive, controlling language.
Textbook harassment.
Graphic, compromising pictures that send heat to my cheeks.
And then the pregnancy.
Followed by blackmail.
Threats.
Silence.
I place the stack back where I found it, fighting a wave of nausea, not that there’s anything left in my stomach anyway.
If these messages are between Bennett and Larissa … then everything Beth said was true.
Honor is Bennett’s daughter.
And Bennett is a monster.
Forty
Bennett
* * *
When Astaire returns, she places my bag on a spare chair and delivers my phone and charger. She says not a word. The quiet scuffs of her sneakers against the tile floor. The zip of her purse. The heavy exhalations coming from her direction.
Something’s off.
“Astaire,” I say.
“Mm hm?”
“Everything all right?”
Her arms fold—a defensive stance. “Of course.”
“They say it’s just some inflammation. Another round of steroids and I should be good to go. They might try me on a different antirejection regimen.” I try to soothe her worries, but she nods too quickly, like she isn’t even listening.
“That’s good.” She chews the inside of her lip.
“I should be home by Friday for sure. Then I can get everything ready for Honor’s arrival. You said we should get her balloons, right? And a teddy bear?”
“I’ll handle everything.”
The clock by the TV reads 11:38 PM. It’s late. She’s exhausted. These past few hours have been just as draining for her as they’ve been for me, I imagine.
“I know this is a lot for you.” I take her hand and pull her closer.
When she finally looks me in the eyes, I’m met with something I’ve never seen in hers before—fear.
Maybe when she sees me, she thinks of losing her mom. Losing Trevor. Maybe this is becoming too real for her, too fast, and she’s finally starting to think this through.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Now go home, get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
I wave her on. “Yes. Don’t worry about me.”
I settle back in my bed, wide awake and staring at the blank TV screen on the other side of the room. From the corner of my eye, I catch her looking back at me before she goes. She’s all of ten feet away, but there might as well be an ocean between us.
She’s pulling away.
And I can’t fault her for it.
Forty-One
Astaire
* * *
“Astaire, we need to talk.”
I’m arranging flowers in a crystal vase on his island Friday night when he says the words I’ve been wanting to say since two nights ago. A pink “welcome home” balloon floats between us, weighted with a bag of sand wrapped in matching cellophane. A smiling gray teddy bear with a monogrammed platinum locket around its neck completes the homecoming display.