Chapter Thirteen - Cindy
God, I feel awful being here for this. I shouldn’t be here for this. I stand up, walk the two paces that separates my chair from Paxton’s, and place my hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think you raped her, Pax.”
He looks up at me, eyes angry and red and hurt. “Who gives a fuck what you think?”
I recoil, stepping back on my heels. I’m just about to rip him a new one when he looks at his mother and he… deflates.
That’s whose opinion he gives a fuck about, I realize. Hers.
He’s right. I don’t matter. None of this is about me. He was the one accused of raping a girl ten years ago and he was the one who had to explain things to his mother after that happened. I can see they love each other. I can see they are very close. He respects her. She is tough and there is so much dignity spilling out of her blue blood, she practically smells like class.
“Thank you,” Mariel says. “for telling me the truth after all these years. And I’d like to say, Paxton, that never once—not even for a moment—did I ever think you were guilty of that crime.”
“So what?” Paxton yells. “The only thing that matters was the accusation, right? It’s enough, isn’t it? To ruin a guy. To take away all his chances. All his plans. Erase his future. Do you think I’d be doing what I do now if I had graduated from Brown?”
“That isn’t what matters—”
Pax slams his fist on the desk, scattering dust into the air. “It does matter, goddammit. It is what matters. I shouldn’t have had to make that fucking call. I shouldn’t have had to explain myself. I shouldn’t have had to do any of that. It was a fucking game. She was laughing. It was a joke. And those fucking bitches—”
“Who?” Mariel asks, standing up from her chair, both hands flat on the dirty desk as she leans forward. “Who were they? I need names, Paxton. I need names.”
Holy fuck. “I need to go,” I say, standing up and walking quickly towards the door. I unlock it, pull it open, and walk out before either of them can trap me there with their commands.
I’m somewhere on the backstretch of the Del Mar Racetrack. It’s dark now, we’ve been talking long enough for that to happen. The lights are on in the barns and there are a million people bustling around. Grooms and horses, trainers and owners. Just so many people it’s hard to reconcile the back room talk with the celebratory fun going on out here.
“Cindy,” Pax yells behind me. “Stop,” he says.
I keep walking, thankful I wore chunky-heeled shoes for this trip into the barn, because there is dust everywhere and the only thing between me and the filth are these platform sandals. I feel like I’m choking on it. Like this dirt represents all the disgusting things that happened to the Misters ten years ago. To my brother, I realize. Oliver was part of that. He made that same phone call. He had to explain himself too. He had to look my mother in the eyes and say, “They’re gonna say I raped her, Mom. And I just need you to be brave and tune it all out.”
And my parents had to call the lawyers, and Ronin. Fucking Ronin. And then Ford showed up, and Five. And…
“Cindy,” Pax says, his hand on my shoulder.
I realize I’m crying. Not like some little dribble, either. But a full-on waterfall of tears are streaming down my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why are you crying? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell, I swear. And my mother can get a little intense. She’s sorry too. Stop,” he says, gripping my shoulder tightly now, making me halt. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
But I can’t even tell him, can I? Not without giving away who I am. And I’m not going to do that. I don’t think there’s a future for us after all. I think what’s happening here is me getting a big ol’ dose of reality. Of adulting. Or… coming to terms with a fantasy that will never be anything more than some teenager’s crush on a man she never really knew.
I never understood. But I do now. I understand what that accusation did to them. To Oliver, who hasn’t had a real relationship with a woman since. To my mother and father, who already had so much sadness to deal with over the years, and who had to put on their brave faces and say, “No! Our son did not do this.” And probably all my sisters as well. I was too young, I realize. Too fucking young and stupid to comprehend what that word really meant.
Rape.
“I need to go home,” I say quietly, unable to look him in the face.
“You can’t drive home tonight. It’s far, Cindy. Almost four hours away.”
No. Home is more than a thousand miles away and that’s where I want to be right now. With Oliver. And my sisters. I want to see my brother and sisters and my mom and dad. And give them all a huge hug. Say, “I’m sorry this happened. I’m fucking sorry I didn’t understand. And most of all, I’m sorry I ran away chasing some phantom man named Paxton Vance.”
I should’ve been concerned with Oliver. Why wasn’t I focused on what really matters? Him. His innocence. His reputation and good name. Especially after all the bullshit they went through when I was little
Oliver. My sweet, sweet brother. My only brother.
I should be looking for who set him up. I should give up on Paxton Vance and concentrate on the only Mister who matters. Match.
“Cindy?” Pax has been talking this entire time. I am wiping my tears away, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. But it’s dark where we’re standing. On the edge of the barn and the paddock area. There are a ton of people. Trainers, jockeys, owners all dressed up in their special clothes as they drink champagne and laugh and hope for their horses to come back winners.
“I’ll take you home,” Pax says, finally understanding that I’m not going to talk to him anymore. “But my mother will be very disappointed if we don’t at least stay for the race. It’s up next, then the day is over and I’ll take you home if you want.”
I nod, still silent, and let him lead me through the paddock, down the aisle towards the stands, and then back up into the clubhouse.
This time when we get to the Turf Club, every table is full except the five Paxton leads me towards. We stop at the one centered between two more empty tables on either side and Pax sighs, reading my mind. “These are reserved for groups of twenty. My mother hates crowds, so she buys all four seats at each of the five tables and then watches the race alone.”
I feel like I’m maybe under control again. My face is dry, the tears have stopped. “I guess she won’t be here alone tonight, will she?”
Pax smiles. I think it might be the first real smile I’ve ever seen from him. It’s not a grin, like the ones he used on me in Malibu. Or a smirk, his default setting. Just small, and warm, and kind. “No,” he says. “She won’t be alone tonight.”
The golden filly’s name is Aladdin’s Cinderella. Full sister to Aladdin’s Prince Charming, last year’s Triple Crown winner. The first such winner in almost thirty years, I figure out through conversation. When Mariel and her friend, William, start shouting her name as they come down the homestretch, Pax shoots me a weird look.
And when the race is over and Pax leans in to kiss his mother, saying, “Congratulations, Mother. You did it again. She won,” Mariel Hawthorne looks straight at me and deadpans, “Of course she did.”
I think about those words as Pax and I walk to his car. He is insisting on taking me home. Saying he will take care of my car, but there is no way in hell I’m driving home alone tonight. I think about all the things those words could’ve meant but only come up with one that makes sense.
Of course she did.
Like it was ordained.