One
“She ain’t sorry – or at least, that was sports news sweetheart Wil Cunningham’s attitude just last night when she was captured on video giving the middle finger and plenty of “boy byes” to her – apparently – former fiancé at a popular local club. Beyonce’s “Sorry” was the backing track for the dramatic scene, that a witness tells us was sparked by actor Darius Hayward’s attempt to pull his estranged fiancé down from dancing on a table. Three days ago, we broke the story of Darius’ steamy affair with his “Boardroom” costar, actress Jessica Leigh.
An anonymous source reached out to us with videos, pictures, and screenshots that collectively, served as irrefutable evidence that Darius – recently honored by Sugar&Spice magazine as their annual sexiest man – is no angel. The news came just two days before the couple, often revered as hashtag, relationship goals, was due to get married. Our source from this video claims that Wil was out with friends and family who had come to New York for the wedding, in an attempt to mitigate her heartbreak over her fiance’s dramatic betrayal with drinking and dancing. Someone spilled the beans on where the anti-bachelorette party was taking place, and Darius decided to pop up in attempt to communicate with Wil, who has reportedly not been speaking to him.
Her limited response to his attempt was an emphatic declaration that she wasn’t thinking about him, and advice that he would be better served by “finding Becky”. Sounds like Darius might want to get used to the bitter taste of sour lemonade.”
I rolled my eyes at that corny last line and then tapped the screen of my phone to close the browser window where the video had been playing. Of course I knew better than to watch gossip news, but my cousin had sent me the clip, so I couldn’t help it. Hell, watching a cheesy video about that particular drama was preferable to living it.
Here I was, doing both.
I navigated my phone back to my music app, where I cranked up the brand-new playlist I’d created during a bout of sleeplessness two nights ago. Once it started up, pounding through the Bluetooth surround system Darius had been so adamant about needing, I picked up his golf club again.
Ciara and Nicki Minaj serenaded my angry soul with “I’m Out” as I positioned a tiny, frosted vellum box of chocolates inscribed with “Wil & Darius get hitched” in the perfect spot on the floor. Cici was just reminding me that I was better than the new chick my “King” was on when I swung, sending the offending chocolates soaring through the air. The package – like the fifty or so before it, broke open, causing the chocolates to land haphazardly among the lighted shelves that contained Darius’ prized sneaker collection. A whole damn room full of shoes he valued and cared for and treated like the babies we’d planned to have.
Once I finished my game, I would crank the heat for this room straight to hell.
The thought made me smile.
“Wil! Wil! Girl, I’ve been looking all over this house for you! What is all this mess?!”
I grinned a bit more at the sound of my mother’s voice, looking up from a freshly positioned box of chocolates as she appeared at the door. There was clear concern etched into features that mirrored my own. Enviably thick brows that required weekly trips for grooming to avoid looking werewolf-ish, thick lashes that made the thick brows not seem quite so bad. The kind of lips that been declared “soup coolers” – and worse – on the playground, and that cute nose we shared? Wrinkled.
“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, big brown eyes growing even bigger as she surveyed the room from her place in the door.
I smirked, then swung the golf club, causing her to let out a little shriek as chocolates flew in the air. Picking up another box, I put it into position before I answered. “Working out my aggression.”
She snorted as Jhene Aiko began with Lyin’ King, singing about a man who essentially lied and broke hearts for the fun of it. “Is that what you’re calling this?”
“Yes.”
“So that flower massacre I passed in dining room… should I assume that was part of your self-prescribed anger management as well?”
I swung again, muttering “yes”! as the chocolates from that particular box landed perfectly against a pair of white on white on white suede sneakers Darius had paid a particularly exorbitant amount for. “Yes,” I said again, a little louder, this time answering my mother’s question. “And you know how I feel about flowers.”
“I do,” she nodded. “Those looked like peonies, so you must have been particularly upset,” she mused, stepping fully into the room and brushing aside a few random chocolates to take a seat on the bench Darius used to change his shoes – another reason I should have known better than to agree to marrying his ass.
I shrugged. “I think anger right now is pretty valid, don’t you? I mean, you would think he would get the message – leave me alone. But no, he has sorry ass apology flowers with a sorry ass apology note delivered on what should have been our wedding day. So maybe I did shred four dozen peonies by hand, who hasn’t?”
Instead of replying, my mother sighed, looking around the room for another few moments before she spoke. “Well… you haven’t been speaking to him, or letting him back in the house, so I suppose he’s trying to get through to you any way he can. And before you say I’m defending him, I most certainly am not. Simply stating facts.”
“I’m not keeping him from anything,” I contended, even though we both understood the shaky veracity of that claim. “Just because I changed the code for the gate and called and had his name removed as an authorized person with the security company doesn’t really mean that much. If he was really about that action, he would figure it out.”
She raised a single eyebrow. “But the security guards know the code, and know him - yet no one is letting him in. You have nothing to do with that either?”
“If they took sides, that’s not my fault. They love me. Everybody that matters does… except, apparently… the man I almost married.”
A harsh sigh burst from my lips after that and I shook my head, grabbing another box of chocolates from the plastic bin they were stored in. I was barely halfway through, and my shoulders were starting to ache from swinging the golf club.
Maybe I should just dump the rest and call it a day.
Feeling my mother’s gaze against my back, I turned to find her staring at me, and lifted an eyebrow. “What?” I asked, and she straightened a little, resting clasped hands atop crossed legs in that uniquely Carla Ann Cunningham way that always made me question my manners.
But there was no scolding, only a slight raise of her shoulders as she leveled me with a steady, kindly gaze. “Nothing, I guess. I think I assumed your statement about Darius was going to be followed by tears. I was just waiting.”
I laughed at that. A deep, hearty laugh that turned the kindness in my mother’s eyes to concern for my sanity as I straightened up, clutching my stomach. Looking her right in the face, I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not. I refuse to cry over him. Haven’t shed a single tear yet, and don’t plan to. Ever.”
My mother’s deep, knowing sigh set my teeth on edge. That universal sound of oh, just you keep living was all too familiar, and as usual, ill-timed. Three days ago, my world had been turned upside down. I wanted to stay firmly rooted in my anger, strong in my conviction that this man, this situation, would not break me, wouldn’t bring any tears from my eyes.
Of course, if they did… I would’ve been justified.
Three days ago, I was happy.
I was just days away from being Mrs. Darius Hayward, and we were going to celebrate after in the most major turn up possible. Aunts, uncles, great-grands and cousins were starting to filter into town, with my mother’s home serving as central station. My phone was blowing up with delivery and vendor confirmations, and the working out of last minute details.
I was over the moon.
We were taking one of the last moments of quiet we would have together until after the wedding. My man liked fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, yams, and collards, so that’s what I was cooking for him. He didn’t stay in the kitchen to keep me company while I cooked, but I didn’t mind that. I had the TV blasting some trashy gossip news while he was upstairs in his ManCaveTM, or maybe smelling the leather in his sneaker room, which was right beside it.
I laughed when his name came from the TV. Rumors and fake scandals came with the territory, and I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. The lies about he and Jessica were nothing new, and they were ridiculous. The woman had hugged me, told me she watched the show, gushed over my engagement ring. Shaking my head, I’d gone to the wall and pressed the intercom button for upstairs. “Hey babe,” I giggled, knowing my voice was echoing through the whole second floor of the home we’d shared for nearly two years, to my mother’s chagrin. “They’re talking about you again. Apparently, they have “undeniable evidence” about you and Jessica now,” I laughed.
They didn’t have anything. She was his coworker, nothing more.
I took my finger off the button and turned to look at the screen.
His coworker that he’d supposedly been sexting.
They showed the screenshots, like those couldn’t be faked.
His coworker he’d supposedly been sending pictures of his dick, with downright filthy captions. They showed those, with the naughtiest parts blurred out, like it couldn’t have been pictures of anybody.
His coworker he’d supposedly been screwing long enough to have a whole playlist worth of clandestinely shot sex tapes with. They couldn’t really show any of those, but assured the audience that it was her, and it was him.
I took my eyes away from the TV screen long enough to look up at where Darius had come down the stairs, and was staring at the screen too. There was tension in his shoulders, anger in his curled fists, and when he turned to look at me, fear in his eyes. Fear, and… guilt.
The stick of butter I’d been holding – I didn’t skimp on the butter in my man’s yams – fell from my hands and hit the floor with a wet thump.
It was him.
He didn’t even bother denying it. After years of denying that anything was going on with the woman… this time he didn’t. This point, three days before I was set to devote my life to him, that’s when he decided there had been enough lying.
Only because he couldn’t anymore, when there was video, and pictures.
So, no.
There would be no tears.
“You know he had the nerve to have special temperature controls installed for the room? Just this one.” I tossed down the golf club and grabbed handfuls of chocolate boxes, opening and spreading them throughout the shoes to make sure they all had their own special treat. “To protect the leather, he said.” Once I was done, I turned back to my mother, who’d been silently watching.
“You know he’s going to sue you about these shoes, right?” she asked, a question that made me shrug.
“If he does, his judgement can come out of whatever I’m awarded in my countersuit for emotional pain and suffering.”
I walked up to the temperature control pad and cranked the green numbers as high as it would let me, then motioned for my mother to follow me out. She shook her head about it as I used my phone to turn the music off, then closed the door behind us.
“I feel so much better now.” I told her as I headed down the hall. Her hand on my wrist stopped me, and she gave me a little tug intended to make me turn around. But I didn’t want to. She tugged me again and I turned around anyway.
“Do you really?” she asked, looking me right in the eyes. “What are you doing, Wil? Trying to hurt him because he hurt you?”
I swallowed the lie that I wasn’t hurting, and averted my gaze. “Maybe.”
“Don’t.” Her reprimand was firm, but not unkind. “Let this be the last move you make that’s intended to hurt him back, because I promise you baby girl – there is only more pain down that path.”
I pulled in a deep breath through my nose, letting it filter back out before I shook my head. “He humiliated me, Mama. I’m out here with my face splashed across gossip blogs and entertainment news looking like a fool because I trusted him!”
“And the best thing you can do for yourself now is to not let him see you sweat. You want to hurt, scream, curse, cry, baby girl do it. But when he, or a camera sees you? Your head had damn well better be high. No more of these video clips, or destroying his property. You need an outlet, you get yourself to a track or a boxing ring. You understand me?”
I scoffed. “So he just gets let off the hook, and that’s okay with you? He gets to betray and embarrass me with no repercussions while I pretend to be the bigger person?”
“No repercussions?” My mother laughed, and shook her head before she raised her hands to cup my face. “Sweetheart… you were always the best thing that happened to that man. Anyone would have been lucky to be able to claim you as theirs, and now he has lost that opportunity. Trust me, my love. He will see you whole and happy without him, and it will tear him up inside.”
I chewed at the inside of my lip, trying my best not to give in to the heat building in my cheeks, and the tears pricking the corners of my eyes. It wasn’t until I felt them subside that I shook my head. “If I was so good to him, good for him… why?”
My mother’s expression softened to a wistful smile. “Sweetheart… he probably can’t even answer that for himself. But I can tell you this – it’s about him. Not you.”
She was my mother. That was what she had to say, to attempt soothing her daughter’s broken heart. Instead of arguing, I just nodded, knowing I really didn’t have the energy for anything else.
“Have you eaten?” she asked. “Or slept?”
I shrugged. “I’m fine, mama.”
She let out a shoulder-heaving sort of sigh that made it clear she knew the real answer – no. But I didn’t have the heart to say I hadn’t eaten because the intense betrayal I felt made my stomach queasy, or that because I hadn’t been able to help myself, and had found the sex tapes online, now I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Darius screwing another woman.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” she told me. “And pack a bag. I’m taking you home, and you can stay with me and dad until you find a new place, okay?”
Again, I just nodded.
It hurt like hell to think about it, but the truth was, I didn’t really want to be here. Yes, this had been home for me and Darius, the house we bought together, the house I thought we’d eventually raise kids in.
Now, being here made my skin crawl.
Every inch of this house was permeated with him.
So he can have it.
Keep your head held high.
That was a lesson my mother had drilled into me from a very early age. Through middle-school track meets and beyond, win or lose, no matter what, I was never supposed to “let my crown slip”, not in public.
It was a lesson I took to heart.
So much so that that it was something I became lauded for – professionalism and grace, being a good sport. Even when I was privately seething, I could put on a warm smile and tell a joke, shake hands with a conniving opponent, keep my cool in tough interviews. This was no different – or at least, I was trying my very best to convince myself of that as I walked onto the set of “From the Sidelines”, the sports talk show that held one of WAWG’s prized timeslots.
The greetings were warm from everyone I passed – cameramen, producers, crew. They acknowledged me just like usual, and I greeted them back in the same way, as if nothing had happened. But I could see the sympathy in their eyes, feel the “I’m so sorry” and “I can’t believe he did that to you” and “well, it’s his loss” just dying to spring from their mouths. There were other sentiments though, ones no one would express out loud to me.
She must not be good in bed.
Maybe she can’t cook.
I wonder what she did to make him cheat on her.
And hell… honestly, I wondered too. But I still managed to keep a smile on my face and kind words on my tongue. I was at work. This was my job. Even though the only thing I really felt like doing was taking the last of Darius’ golf clubs to the windows of his matte black on black Tahoe, my usually sunny disposition was where my “America’s Sweetheart” reputation had come from.
I’d already lost my pride to him – I wasn’t losing anything else.
“Wil, what on earth are you doing here?”
I stopped on my way into the green room for a cup of coffee to see Connie, one of WAWG’s execs, hurrying my way. She was followed in close succession by Sarita – the bad cop of their duo. Together, they were the HBIC around here, even though they weren’t “supposed” work directly on From the Sidelines. I wasn’t surprised to find them prowling around though – instead of delegating and sitting back like other execs, they were always putting their noses in something, and honestly becoming harder and harder to work with.
“I’m here to work,” I said brightly, in a tone that gave the impression I had no idea why that was in question. All present parties knew I did.
Sarita cleared her throat. “You don’t think you might need… a little time? You had a rather eventful weekend, and you were initially supposed to have this week off. For your honeymoon.”
“That’s very true,” I responded, squaring my shoulders. “But, since I am obviously not in Bali right now, I felt it would be wise of me to continue my life as normal, instead of wallowing. Any other Monday, I would be here. Besides, it’s draft week. I shouldn’t leave my cohost to handle it by himself anyway.”
She snorted. “After you compared the combine to the slave trade, I’m sure he was probably relieved by the idea of covering the draft alone.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth, taking a second to choose more careful words than I wanted to. “Ah,” I smirked. “But isn’t that why our ratings are what they are? Hard-hitting analysis, delivered with a smile?”
“Is that what you think it is?” Sarita asked with a sneer, but before I could respond, Connie cut in.
“Of course it is,” she said, with a dismissive wave. “If you’re sure you’re up to it, we’re glad to have you, but please don’t feel like you have to. Your emotional health is important to us, but if you need more time…”
I smiled. What she was really saying was, “Men don’t watch our show to see you crying on air, so if we put you on, you better be ready to talk sports like a man, and smile and show a little cleavage while you do it.”
“I’m up to it, I promise,” I told her, adding a reassuring nod for good measure. “Aren’t I always?”
Neither of the women seemed that convinced, but it wasn’t as if they could really tell one of the stars of the show “no” about going on, not without it turning into a thing.
Connie and Sarita hated things.
“Fine,” Sarita said finally. “But we’ll be watching.”
With that “warning”, they left me alone, and I shook my head as I continued about my business. Coffee, and then to my dressing room for wardrobe, makeup, and hair, where my stylist fussed over the fact that instead of my usual press, my hair was in its natural state.
That had been a screw you to Darius, who preferred it to be sleek, and straight. Not that I’d ever given his opinion on my hair too much weight, but for the audience that our show pulled, the network preferred the straight hair as well.
So maybe my natural coils were a screw you to them as well. I wasn’t really in the mood for complaints.
As soon as he pulled out a flat iron, I nixed the idea, insisting that I wouldn’t wear it straight. He mumbled under his breath about it the whole time, but I wasn’t concerned about that. When he finished with it, my goddess braid updo was on point, and that was all that mattered.
The wardrobe stylist put me in a chic, slim-fitting pantsuit that made me feel like a badass, and by the time the makeup artist was done with me, I actually felt halfway human – a stark difference to the preceding days.
A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later one of the production assistants, Ellie, stuck her head in the door. “We’re ready for you on set Wil,” she told me, her normally perky voice holding a distinct note of pity. “Live in twenty.”
I nodded. “I’m on my way.”
Two minutes later, I was taking a seat in my chair, and makeup and hair were all over me again, making last minute adjustments to what the camera, and America, would see. A few minutes later, my costar ambled onto the set, and my first real smile in days blossomed on my face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, dropping his heavy hands onto my shoulders for a squeeze before he moved to his own chair, which barely accommodated his solid frame.
“Why do people keep asking me that as if I’m not the cohost of this show? And a little birdie implied you may be disappointed that I’m here today. What’s up with that?”
One of Ramsey’s eyebrows shifted up, and then he frowned as a makeup artist went after him. He’d always hated their insistence on it, and always fought them off.
“Not a damn thing. Who told you that lie?”
“You know who.”
He grunted. “Yeah. Anyway – I like the hair. That’s fly.”
“Thank you. So is your suit.”
But that was no surprise. Ramsey was habitually fly, and today was no exception. The rich, dark navy of his suit popped against his caramel skin, and teal and lime accents added modern flair without making it “flashy”. Unlike me, Ramsey dressed himself for the show, and still managed to be better dressed than I ever felt.
“Thank you,” he said, running a hand over the thick, well-nourished hairs of his beard. “But seriously…” He leaned in, looking me in the eyes as production assistants and the like cleared the set. “What are you doing here? I expected you to need some time or something.” Under the desk, out of the view of the cameras, he put his hand on my knee, and squeezed.
I covered his hand with mine and squeezed back. “No. What I need is to work.”
“Alright everybody,” Tyrell, our technical director called out. “In your places. We’re going live in ten, nine, eight—”
I released my hold on Ramsey’s hand and scooted away from him to line my chair up on my mark, and put a bright smile on my face.
“four, three, two—”
“Hello everyone,” I started our standard show greeting. “As always, thank you for tuning in. I’m Wil Cunningham, and over there is my handsome cohost, the ever-stylish Ramsey Bishop, and we’re here to give you what you didn’t know you missed From the Sidelines.”
Beside me, Ramsey chuckled. “What they didn’t know they missed, really?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I have to put a little ad-lib on it, you know? Shake things up a bit, make it more swaggy.”
“I’m always on board with added swag, so I’m not complaining, but you forgot something in my greeting.”
A smirk spread over my lips. “I already reminded the people you were fashionable, and I was sure to give them your name.”
“Ah, but it’s been a minute since we reminded them that I rushed for twenty-six hundred yards my last season in the NFL, breaking a record that had been held since 1984, and hasn’t been topped since,” he said, popping his collar as he grinned at the camera.
“Okay, okay,” I nodded. “But if we’re talking about record breaking, we’ll have to get into the ones I smashed in the 100 and 200 meters for Olympic Gold, and I don’t think y’all are ready for that, sorry. I just don’t. You’re not.”
Ramsey grinned. “Are you stunting right now?”
“Just a little,” I said, raising a hand to show the camera my pinched fingers, and he laughed.
“You’re right, we’re not ready. But you know what we are ready for?”
“I’m going to guess it’s the highlights from last night’s game four between the Celtics and Bulls,” I mused, and playing along, Ramsey nodded.
“You would be right.”
“So let’s get into it.”
For the next forty minutes, we went through various highlights and analytics, sprinkled as always with plenty of laughs as we played off of each other. Peace was a feeling that had been hard to come by since the day of that gossip report, but here on this soundstage, bantering back and forth with Ramsey about sports… this was blissful.
“It’s one of my favorite times of the show,” Ramsey said, relaxing back into his chair. Somehow, he didn’t look slouchy, just comfortable.
“That’s because you’re a sucker for any type of feel-good story. You can’t help it,” I teased, and he grinned in response.
“I’m not even going to try to deny that, I’m just going to take us right into “Off the Clock”, where we talk to you about the good things happening in the sports world – after the final whistle.”
“Okay, so what’s up first? Tell me something good.”
“Well, as you know, the second installment of Trent Bailey’s football camp wrapped up last week in New Jersey. Trent is the head quarterback for the Connecticut Kings, who, due to a shake up in the team roster, made his comeback last season after having been away from the game because of trouble with the law. He and wide-receiver Jordan Johnson brought the Kings back from a season that started out looking like an impending disaster, taking them all the way to the Super Bowl. Now, Trent has been giving back to high-schoolers in both Connecticut and New Jersey, helping them focus their energy into something productive – football.”
“I’m really, really glad to see that, especially from someone like Trent, who could have allowed an irresponsible, costly mistake to turn him into a “what not to do” story for these kids with dreams of being in the NFL. Instead, he’s not allowing what could have destroyed him to take up residence in his legacy. Yes, the jail time will be there, as part of his biography, but I have a feeling it’s going to be outweighed by what he did after. It really is a helluva comeback story.”
“Yes, it is,” Ramsey answered, in a distinctly wistful tone that I made a note to ask him about later, once we were off the air. “And I was honored to have our request for access approved, so that I could see it with my own eyes. Trent – and Jordan, too – you can tell that they absolutely believed in those kids. This wasn’t just some “good PR tour” thing, they genuinely cared about giving those kids an outlet other than running the streets.”
“Which is exactly the type of heart that actually does good in the world. When can we see it?”
Ramsey grinned. “After draft week.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” I laughed. “In any case, it sounds amazing, and we’re excited to see what you’ve put together.” My eyes found the teleprompter, searching out the next item. This segment was constantly evolving, down to the minute sometimes if news broke while we were on the air.
“Our next item is pushing the boundaries of “sports” news a little bit,” I read from the on-screen script, grateful that I didn’t have to make anything up. Beside me, I felt a change in energy from Ramsey, but couldn’t look up to see what the problem was. “But the producers, crew, and entire staff here at WAWG and From the Sidelines want to offer a warm congratulations to our very own—”
Ramsey nudged my foot under the table at the same time I realized what I was reading. Behind the teleprompter, people were scrambling, trying to figure out what was happening. My eyes skipped ahead, silently absorbing the rest of the message.
…want to offer a warm congratulations to our very own Wil Cunningham on her recent nuptials to network television’s hottest young CEO, Darius Hayward, star of “The Boardroom” which makes him part of the WAWG family as well. We wish you all the best.
The screen blinked, and something else came up. Ramsey – Thank God – had enough presence of mind to take over, while I plastered a smile on my face and pretended to pay attention.
What the hell was that?!
I mean… I knew what it was, but still. I knew the prep work for each episode sometimes happened days and days in advance, with items being put in as placeholders, so… I was answering my own question.
Someone had forgotten to take it out.
I wasn’t even supposed to be here today – that script was something they’d put in for Ramsey, even though he probably would have ad-libbed. It was sweet, that they’d wanted to be sure to acknowledge me, but… damn.
In the middle of my first moment of peace, where I wasn’t thinking about the troubles of personal life was really, really bad timing for an inadvertent reminder.
Somehow, I made it through the rest of the show. I managed to brush it off enough to – hopefully – not be painfully awkward, but as soon as we were clear, I practically snatched off my mic, and rushed back to my dressing room.
The staff was to intuitive enough not to mention it.
They had to know I was bothered, because of my lack of my usual demeanor. The talking, laughing, joking I usually did as they helped rid me of the makeup and clothes and hairpins was nowhere to be found. Thirty minutes later, I was back in my yoga pants and jacket, with my hair wild and face scrubbed clean.
I should be on my honeymoon right now.
That thought kept playing in my head, even after the door had closed behind the last person, leaving me in the room alone. Wondering what I would be doing right now if Darius hadn’t cheated was a given – I would be happily married to him. But… what if I’d simply never found out? What if she’d waited a month, a year, before she decided to spill the beans?
Would he ever have told me on his own? If I’d gotten pregnant with our first child, would the guilt have eaten him up so much that he couldn’t hold on to it any longer?
Would I have been less unsuspecting? Once I was his wife, not his girlfriend, his fiancé, would the ring and the title have given me better insight? Would I suddenly know better than to believe him when he looked in my eyes and said, “Babe, come on. I know you don’t believe that shit. They lie about everybody fucking everybody. It’s just part of this life.”
Had he always given such roundabout answers? Did he ever blatantly, specifically say, No, I’m not screwing Jessica” or was it always, “man, these tabloids are always lying”? I shook my head, not wanting to allow my thoughts to travel down that path, but they were already barreling away from me, at high speed.
How stupid could I be?
There were always signs. Always signs that something was up, that something had changed. Maybe I ignored them, maybe I missed them, or maybe… maybe it had just been naïve of me.
Like he said… it was part of this life.
A knock at the door startled me so badly I clutched my chest. After a deep breath, I stood to go answer it, ignoring the continued buzzing of my phone – concerned friends and family who’d probably seen the live broadcast of the show.
I opened the door to find Ramsey draped in my doorframe. He’d changed too, and was in a dark gray Henley and jeans instead of his suit, but somehow looking just as well-dressed. He didn’t wait for an invitation before he ambled inside, and I closed the door behind him. I turned to face him as he pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“That was… fucked up.” I nodded. I didn’t have to ask to know he was referring to me almost reading the wedding announcement. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t write it. You didn’t forget to remove it. It’s not your fault.”
“Still. If it makes it any better, there was supposed to be a picture of you and him on the big screen behind us. That wasn’t there, and the announcement wasn’t on the ticker either. It just… somehow didn’t make it out of the script,” he shrugged.
“That does make me feel slightly better, actually. Thank you for that.”
One of his hands came out of his pocket to stroke his beard. “Not a problem. How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing.”
“You never responded to my text.”
For about half a second, I frowned, but then I remember the text in question, and smiled.
“Do you want me to kick his ass? – R. Bishop”
I’d gotten it the same night the news broke, but had been in no position to answer then. In the chaos of everything that had happened since, it slipped my mind. This was our first time talking since then.
Now that we weren’t on air, where I was paid to look happy, my smile felt foreign enough to make the corners of my mouth itch. I was heartbroken, angry, embarrassed – I wasn’t supposed to be grinning.
“So… is ol’ boy keeping his teeth, or not?” Ramsey pushed, and I forgot my musings about not smiling long enough to laugh.
“Um… let’s put a pin it for now.”
Ramsey shrugged. “Okay. Will do.” Neither of us said anything for several moments, but then he came closer, enough to grab my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I…” he met my eyes, and I could tell he was struggling with what to say. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m sorry he hurt you like this, Champ.”
“So am I,” I replied, because… I didn’t know what else to say. His grip on my hand tightened for a second, a gesture of comfort, or reassurance, or something… but I shook my head. “I… I just want to understand. Was it something I did, or didn’t—”
My words died on my lips, muffled by his body as Ramsey pulled me into an embrace. “Don’t do that shit,” his voice rumbled in my ear as his solid arms closed around me. I buried my face in the space between his neck and shoulder, hoping the pressure would help me fight off what I’d been trying to avoid.
It didn’t.
Hot tears started pouring from my eyes, and Ramsey didn’t even flinch. I tried to grab onto the anger that had been sustaining me for the last several days, but I couldn’t. The sorrow I’d been holding off consumed me abruptly, like an eclipse. Ramsey’s hold around my waist simply grew more firm, supporting me as I released deep, energy-draining sobs onto his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling as I pulled back, after several long minutes had passed. “I’m soaking your shirt, and getting you all snotty.”
He laughed, and shook his head before he wrapped me in another quick hug before he released his hold, taking a half-step back. “You’re good, Champ. Seemed like you needed to let it out.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Probably so.”
“You gonna take that break now? Or you’re going to be hard-headed, and come in tomorrow?”
I sucked my teeth as I wiped my face with the backs of my hands. “You already know the answer to that. Actually… I need my morning session.”
His eyebrow shot up. “You sure about that?”
“Another question you already…”
“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure will.”
Shaking his head, Ramsey laughed at me again, then reached out, grabbing my shoulders. “Hey… seriously though. If you need anything…”
“I know.”
He nodded, and dropped his hands. “Okay. Well… I’m headed out. Gonna drive up to Bridgeport and kick it with the fam, but I’ll be back in time to pick you up in the morning. You’re at your parents place?”
“Yeah, until I find something.”
“Cool. See you at six.”
“Okay. And… “ I pushed out a deep breath. “Thank you for…”
“I’ve got you.”
He gave a salute type of gesture as he headed out, closing the door behind himself. I sat down for a moment, then immediately got back up, gathering my phone and purse.
Now that I’d let those tears out, more were sure to follow.
I needed my mother.