The night our lives changed forever.
Leaning down, I press a kiss to my sister’s forehead and tell her, “So many you would be shocked. That’s why I know they would spoil Ben rotten.”
The admonishing look falls from Carys’s face. It’s replaced by one of serenity. “They would, wouldn’t they?” She goes to press a kiss to Ben’s chubby cheek, which he intercepts, so it lands smack on his lips.
We laugh.
“Yeah. They’d be so proud of the family you’ve built here, Carrie.” I ruffle Ben’s hair and then try to do the same to Carys’s, but she’s fast and avoids my brotherly love by ducking outside the door.
“Ha! I’m too quick. Oomph!” She backs up right into her husband’s chest.
David catches my eye before he wraps one arm around his wife and son, using the other hand to ruffle Carys’s perfectly styled hair. “David,” she screeches in laughter. “Stop!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop ganging up on me with Ward!”
“You might be able to negotiate that, Counselor.” He smiles down at her as he lifts their son off her hip onto his own. As he does, he brushes a kiss on her lips. “Hmm, that’s a good start.” He turns and walks down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Dinner’s ready!”
Carys is staring after her husband and son, unmoving. I loop an arm around her shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I just like to count my blessings. You know you’re one of them.”
“Carys,” I begin, but she interrupts me by wrapping her arm around my waist and squeezing.
“Come on. I want to try to get my hands on my baby sometime tonight.”
“Your husband or your child?” I deadpan.
“Oh, you.” Carys begins tickling my ribs which means I have to retaliate. So, just like when we were kids running up and down the halls of this very home, we arrive at the dinner table out of breath and laughing.
And once again two people are waiting for us with smiles on their faces. Just like our parents did when they were still alive.
Hours later, the elevator opens directly into my penthouse condominium in Tribeca. I move forward without seeing the framed photos on the wall, each one priceless because they were taken by my mother not because of any gallery’s assessed value. They’re certainly not like the collection of Quentin Blakes I gifted Carys when Ben was born, nor are they like the soul-wrenching Holly Freemans that hang in the gallery down the hall I scored after her first showing at the Met.
Shrugging off my coat, I toss it over the mahogany coat tree before heading into one of the three rooms I use in the ridiculous space I let my Realtor talk me into buying when I went house shopping years ago. “It’s perfect for a man with your reputation in the community,” she cooed.
“Yeah, what reputation is that?” I wonder aloud as I flick on the lights to my sanctuary—my home office. It’s one of two spaces I had a personal hand in every inch of the remodel, likely why I eschew the rest of my home for the comfort I find here. Dropping down onto the chesterfield, I find the remote and flick on the television just in time to catch the lead-in about my former bosses’ client XMedia. “In business news, XMedia’s again in the news with a possible merger. With the founder’s son, Michael Clarke, now taking his seat on the board of directors, will this resurrect the speculation of assault charges in his past? More news at ten.”
Hitting Mute, I toss the remote in disgust to the side. “Of course it will because you meddling savages will ensure it will.”
Having been an unwilling victim of the paparazzi after my parents died, I feel a small spark of compassion for everyone involved in the long-ago situation: the man, the woman, and the individuals who had to make a judgment on their fate. Because no matter what they decided, someone’s life was going to be destroyed.
Remembering what it was like for me and Carys after our parents died, being set upon with cameras and microphones every time we tried to leave the condo, I can’t help but sneer at the news reporter chattering away on mute. Sure there was a law passed here in 2015 stating paparazzi can’t use drones to take pictures of unsuspecting celebrities on their own property, but essentially that’s putting the individual under house arrest for what? Being famous? Being an overnight media sensation when they never wanted to be one? Imprisoning them even more than they already were inside their own minds?
At least that’s how it felt to me. I can’t even presume to imagine what it’s like when you’re scarred mentally and physically because of fate. The thought propels me to my feet. I quickly fire off a text to my former boss with a quick Good luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.
His response is the middle finger emoji, which makes me grin before I settle down and flip open my laptop to review the contracts David dropped into my drive for me on Friday.
Soon, I’m muttering aloud, “Any charges, fees, or royalties payable for music rights or any other rights not covered by this Agreement shall be additional to the Royalties and covered by separate agreement. Forgot that one, David.” I grin, knowing he’s going to be annoyed at missing a fairly straightforward clause about covering the use of music outside of the documented agreement, an item that should be standard language in all our contracts. I flag it and make a note to ask if it was excluded for a reason before moving on to the next file.
And with it, I find solace.
Five
Angela
There are certain things in New York that never seem to change: a hot dog that tastes like no other in the world, the ball coming down on New Year’s Eve, and Beckett Miller always wearing his trademark white shirt half-open regardless of the season. Thank God.
@PRyanPOfficial
Every day I feel overwhelmed. Anxious. Fearful.
I haven’t been able to let go of these emotions since I left college. Then again, I’ve been too withdrawn to feel anything else on a regular basis since that time in my life. There have been moments of occasional happiness and joy, but those days are rare.
My stomach churns as the train slows.
It isn’t New York that makes me feel that way, but people in general. And this city is filled with too damn many of them on an off day. But I need to work, and the work I do, well, there’s no better city for it.
Sliding my hands inside my hood, I gently rub my temples. I can feel the pressure rising already. After listening to the news last night before bed, I’m waiting for all of it to start up again. Some enterprising researcher is going to drag out old media reports—hell, old photos. Each time it comes up, it hits harder and harder. As if it’s not bad enough, I’ll wake up screaming until I find another way to beat back the memories. Again.
But today, I’m too aware of who I was. Hell, who I am. After all, nothing ever really goes away. You’re really just given a personal choice to move past it and survive or fade away. And with what happened to me, I never had the luxury for option two.
On a day like today, I’m hyperaware of everything and everyone. I want to bury my head and scurry home to let the storm unleash around me. Then I remember I caused the storm because I believed in the power of honor and truth. That alone forces me to crawl from my bed and get ready to face the day.