Bank account statements. Travel logs. Diary entries. Everything…everything confirms that they were having an affair.
I take another swig out of the bottle, eyes still planted on the photos I have lined up on my desk.
Pregnant. She was pregnant. He fathered another child and kept it hidden for decades.
The dark-haired woman in all the photos squeezed in tight beside him haunts me the same way her daughter does. Or shall I say my sister does.
Disgust crawls onto my taste buds, and I promptly wash it down with the last of the whiskey in the bottle. As soon as it’s empty I toss it into the pile with the others.
Why is it no matter what I do, no matter how I try to rearrange the facts in front of me I can’t get another answer? Why can’t I even get the one I really wanna fucking know? The one I really need to fucking know. Why! Why the fuck would he cheat on my mother?! On me?! Why the fuck would he throw this fucking family away for her? What the fuck was so special about her? What did she have that was worth ruining our family? Was the sex that fucking fantastic? Was my mother some sort of prude or on a sex strike? Was he that…desperate he had to fly to fucking Texas to get his nuts touched by some backwoods bimbo?
I grumble, reach for a fresh bottle from the case at my feet, and begin to open it.
Not really sure how many bottles I’ve gone through in the past few weeks. Not really sure it fucking matters. No matter how much I drink I can’t seem to get the images of them together out of my head. Can’t get his face, his face which is my face minus the deformity, out of my mind. All I see when I shut my eyes are images I’ve read of them together on the ranch that I didn’t even fucking know he had. The two of them taking walks with the horses. Cooking dinner together. Kissing….
Another shot of whiskey lands in my mouth.
He gave himself another name. Used it to hide behind. Will Cox. So far from fucking clever yet not obvious enough to catch on he was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. I had barely turned four when my parents apparently separated. There’s no reason why in all the files, in the all the “allowed” statements, in all the minor pieces of evidence the P.I. managed to find. There’s also very little information about the entire span of time from my family’s perspective. He bought a ranch in a small town in Texas through a shell corporation. All employees on it signed a NDA and a mountain of other paperwork keeping me tangled in red tape from asking them anything worth a damn. Their vague fucking answers just infuriate me more. My father’s flights from here to there were never direct. He always flew to other states or countries before visiting his slut away from home. Always made sure to keep his tracks covered. The right people paid off or gagged. Always managed to keep his secrets buried. Well almost. Bet he wasn’t banking on the child to just blow past every one of his road blocks since nothing prevented her from saying anything.
I put the bottle to my lips at the same time my cell phone rings.
Other than when M.D., the PI, calls with some new spec of information, I don’t typically answer.
What’s the point? What the fuck does anyone have to say that could possibly fucking matter? What could any of them know that he has yet to find to make this situation I am stuck studying drastically any better?
The name on the caller ID nudges me slightly harder to answer.
Hitting the speaker button I answer, “What?”
“You’re alive,” J.T. nervously jokes.
“Mmhm,” I hum while grabbing Mary Catherine’s diary with my free hand.
Mary fucking Catherine….That was her name.
“Are you aware you missed an interview today?”
“Are you aware that he was at the hospital with her when she gave birth? Right there. Holding her fucking hand. Wonder what I was doing.” I steal another swallow. “Wonder if I was pawned off to the nanny. Or at my grandparents’ home in the mountains. Or trying not to fall off my fucking bike….Wonder if I needed him while he was busy playing house with her.”
“Wes-”
“I answered as a courtesy,” I sigh thumbing the pages like if I turn them just the right amount of times everything inside will change. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Everyone is worried about you,” he rushes to say. “Everyone. The company is wondering if you’ll be fit to run it again. Matt-”
“I don’t care.”
“Wes-”
“I don’t fucking care, J.T.. I really don’t. The only thing that matters right now is finding the lie in all of this shit. Finding that little smidgen of inconsistency that will make this whole fucking house of cards fall down! That’ll prove my father was a good man! That he loved my mother! That he would never knock up some random fucking woman he met in the middle of dirt poor, watermelon farm, Texas and betray everything the Wilcox name stood for!”
There’s a long pause, and I put the bottle down on the desk to give my face a good scrub.
Haven’t slept. Not even sure when or what I’ve eaten. Or if I’ve showered. Damn sure haven’t left this room for much longer than it takes to piss or dig through the cellar for something more rare to drink. The only reason I even know time has actually passed is thanks to the cycle of phone calls that gets ignored.
“Guess that’s true since you missed your pregnant fiancée’s doctor’s appointment over a week ago.”
The unexpected words shut my eyes.
“I’m actually starting to believe the reports claiming you don’t want your unborn child.”
My chest grows tighter.
“How could you do that, Wes?” J.T. voice meekly asks. “How could you-”
I end the call without a second thought.
More guilt. The absolute last fucking thing I need right now. I don’t have enough? If I don’t find some sort of break in Monica’s iron clad story the weight of that guilt will collapse me too. The guilt of being just another asshole in an apparent lineage of assholes who pretends to care where the public can see but won’t even accept all the members of his own family. The guilt of buying into years of perfectly cultivated bullshit. The guilt of wearing our family’s name like a badge of honor instead of the cloak of shame as I truly should. Is that guilt not enough? Is now really a time to tack on the fact I have been blatantly ignoring the only woman I’ve ever met willing to love me for a lifetime? What happens when I find out that’s nothing more than another well executed behind the scenes façade? What happens when Clark comes clean to admit my future wife never truly cared? That everything between us is just another secret that I’ll have to bury from my son or daughter until they find it rubbed in their face by a bitchy reporter?
Wedging the bottle back between my lips I begin to suck down the amber appeasement. Maybe it won’t kill the guilt rapidly building, but it’ll at least numb it. Or kill me. Both acceptable endings as far as I’m concerned right now.
I grab the bank statement outlining the automatic monthly transfers that were filtered into an account for her and Monica. Like clockwork he sent a small lump sum on the same day each month for years. Hush money. Compensation in cash. Did he have any idea how much she loved him? Did he fucking care?
My phone rings again and the sight of Monica’s face pushes me to take another gulp before answering.
After wiping away the missed droplets with the back of my hand, I hit the green button. “What?”
“You sound delightful,” she mocks with mirth embedded in her tone. “Is this because your future wife is having doubts about your pending marriage? Because she’s secretly in love with her best friend? Or because she’s debating on leaving you for missing her doctor’s appointment about a week ago?”
Despite the fact she can’t see my gritted teeth I bare them in irritation.
How does she know that? Why does she know that? How is it she’s been one fucking step ahead of me every time we talk? I’ve had security triple and quadruple check the entire estate, the penthouse, and even our fucking cars for eavesdropping devices. Nothing. Does she just have impeccable hearing? What is she a fucking dolphin?
The ocean knowledge from the woman I can’t remember the last time I saw drives misery into the marrow of my bones.
“Just called to tell you our little family reunion will be airing on the Yea! channel.”
I sneer at the mention of the network devoted to detailing the lives of anyone with fame stock to their name.
“It’s next Saturday morning, so mark it on your personal calendar. I’ve already sent out memos to your team.”
In a cold voice, I demand, “I need more time.”
“You’ve had enough,” she counters. “You’ve had weeks to comb through everything you can about me, my mother, and the smidgen of information our father was willing to leave open for speculation. Face it, Weston. No matter which way you shake the family tree, I’m still in it.”
Nausea rolls across my tongue colliding with another fit of anger. “Why now, Monica? You’ve had this information for how long? Why are you just now coming forward? Why are you just now trying to destroy my life? What the fuck is this really about?”
“My mother died last year and you know what she confessed on her death bed? You know what her biggest regret in life was? Never telling me about the most important man who had a role in my life.”
The knot I’ve been battling with for weeks expands.
“So, for decades of silence, I am not only going to sing the truth, I am going to make sure there isn’t a single person who doesn’t know what kind of scum William Willard Wilcox was where the cameras weren’t watching….”
All of a sudden there’s a sharp pounding on my office door. “Weston fucking Wilcox you open this goddamn door right now!”
Ending the call, I reach for the bottle once more and lean back in my leather chair, eyes plastered on where I know Brynley is standing on the other side of the door.
I won’t….
I can’t….
Fuck, I’m even more like him than I was already loathing.
“You don’t fucking think I will keep shouting in the hallway like a lunatic?!” There’s a short pause. “Have you completely fucking forgot who the hell it is you wanna marry?”
The corner of my lip threatens to lift for the first time in what feels like forever.
I could never forget her.
I wish she could forget me.
Another minor lull goes by before she returns to shouting, “You know yelling is not good for a pregnant woman?! Neither is bawling her fucking eyes out! Or planning a wedding for half the fucking continent all by myself! Maybe you would know that shit had you gone to the fucking doctor with me!” Her fist or foot hits the door. “How could you do that? How could make me go through that alone?”
Instinctually, I move the bottle towards my lips.
“How the fuck can you make me go through any of this alone?!” This thud against the door has me picturing her jabbing it like it’s my chest. “Who the hell do you think you are? What kinda weak ass fucking person do you think I am?!”
She’s not.
She’s stronger than me that’s for damn sure.
Why can’t I let her be my strength for me now?
Why am I so fucking afraid that everything between us is a sham? Just because my parents’ marriage was doesn’t mean mine will be….Does it?
“Let me make something really fucking clear to you, Weston.” The chomped sound of my name ceases my movements. “As you sit behind this locked door throwing the world’s longest fucking pity party or world’s longest after party for said pity party, over some shit that happened decades ago in a marriage that wasn’t fucking yours, you are running the high risk of ruining your own.”
Her threat spreads the pain in my heart.
“You’re also running the high risk of ever being a father, something less than a month ago you swore you wanted to be.”
The profuse trembling of my jaw matches the one in my hand.
“This is your final warning that you better figure out a way to walk out of this fucking room before I walk out of your fucking life. For. Good.”
I’m surprised the raw fire of her words doesn’t burn down the door.
She gives it one last pound, and my eyes shut tight.
Thoughtlessly, I slide my hand over the ache in my chest.
I can’t fucking breathe. There’s not enough goddamn air in this room….I need….I need to get out. Brynley’s right. If I’m ever going to get out of this shit hole I’ve stuffed myself into, I have to start by rushing away from this avalanche of allegation before it kills me. Before I leave my fiancée widowed and my unborn child fatherless, just like Monica grew up.
Her name and the mixed emotions in my mind lead me to pressing the HH button on my desk phone.
With it on speaker, I listen to it ring twice before Clark answers, “Yes, sir. How may I serve you today?”
“Need a car.”
His denial is immediate. “Absolutely not, sir. You are in no condition to drive.”
“A driver. In front. Three minutes,” I grumble and hang up.
I release a heavy sigh, stand onto my unstable feet, and stumble from the chair to the door. Getting from where I am to where I need to be is done with the grace of a toddler just learning to walk. My body sways like the ground underneath me is anything but steady, proving just how intoxicated I am. Pathetic thing is I’m not even sure it’s after 9 A.M.
Somehow I manage to get into a pair of shoes and out the front door to where Nathaniel is waiting for me. His hard face does its best to remain that way even when I miss my footing and land flat on my face.
He quietly offers, “Would you like a hand, sir?”
“No.” Once I’m back on my feet, I toss my hood up to protect myself from the blazing sun, and finish my trek to the SUV.
After the two of us are securely in it, he informs, “Miss Brynley just left for the penthouse. Would you like us to follow?”
“No.” I work to swallow the lump of sorrow blocking my vocal chords. “To the cemetery.”
He acknowledges my instructions with a firm nod.
Leaning against the window, I close my eyes in an attempt to stop my head from spinning.
This is the longest I’ve spent without a bottle near my hands since the news broke. This is the farthest I’ve gone since my reality was altered. Since my perception was destroyed. Annihilated.
My thoughts tumble back to the last time I was placed into the deep depths of darkness.
I had lost both of my parents in a plane crash that was my fault. In a plane crash we never should’ve been in. That spiral was on me. This one is on him.
A low hum hops out of me.
Wonder if I would’ve dealt with the pain so poorly had I known his famed life was a giant fabrication. Wonder if the tears would’ve tasted so bitter or if I would’ve felt relief that I no longer had to be an accomplice to a well-rehearsed act.
The car slows down to a stop, and I grab a glance at their well-maintained graves.
Even in death I’ve kept up his prestigious reputation.
Not anymore.
I climb out of the SUV without waiting for Nathaniel to offer to escort me. Each stomp across the green grass grows my exasperation. My newfound hatred.
As soon as I’m in front of my father’s grave I shout, “You lying son of a bitch!”
Even though I know there won’t be a response, I wait anyway, praying in the back of my mind he’ll zombie himself up just to have this argument with me. Just to defend his unforgivable decisions.
“How could you do this to us? To Mom!” I kick the vase full of flowers at his headstone. “How the fuck could you betray your entire fucking family like we didn’t mean shit? Like we weren’t worth shit! How the hell could you walk around and pretend you were the world’s best father when you wouldn’t even accept all of your children!?” My shaky voice increases in volume. “And now your shitty decisions are ruining my life! You hear that you sack of shit! MY FUCKING LIFE! It’s not yours!” Rage ripples throughout me. “Because you weren’t man enough to be a father I am dealing with the aftermath! I am dealing with your bobble headed daughter who has a vendetta! I am possibly losing the only woman who could ever love a side show freak like me because you couldn’t stay fucking faithful to my fucking mother!” I desperately try to ease my heaving chest yet can’t grip onto any composure. “How could you do this!? Why! Why would you do this? You’re a fucking disgrace, and I hate every minute of every day I have devoted to trying to live up to the perfect fucking persona you pretended to have!”
“Now, that’s enough.”
The unexpected male voice slowly turns me around.
Clark’s eyes narrow at the same time he shakes his head. “Your father never claimed to be perfect. You put that label on him and in doing so there was no way he wouldn’t fail. No man or woman is perfect, Weston. No man or woman is infallible. You made the mistake that is tearing Brynley away from you, not him.”
“How fucking dare you….” I growl.
His shoulders square back at the same time he reprimands, “You will not speak to me that way, Weston.”
“You work for me! I can speak to you however the hell I want!”
“Then I will resign, and you will once more lose someone else you love.”
Clark’s unexpected threat blows me backwards.
“You are behaving like a petulant child. Like an out of control rebellious teenager who found out the man he admired was flawed. It was understandable at first. Now it is ridiculous.” He takes a step towards me. “Your father was a remarkable man in spite of his short comings. He did what any real man does for his family. He protected you at all costs. And while you may not agree with his decisions, he sacrificed more than you will understand to not only maintain the legacy that was handed down to him, but to expand it so you would have even more given to you. He did everything he thought was right and responsible to keep the Wilcox reputation as prestigious as possible. He wanted the Wilcox name to stand for giving, not greed. He wanted the brand to represent prosperity and embrace the responsibility of investing in other’s beginnings, which he believed came with his level of wealth. While your father may have made mistakes, he is no less of a man to be admired. Perhaps you should view his lapse in judgment as something to avoid rather than to throw in his face.”
Knocked off balance again, I feel my body begin to wobble.
“I may not be your father, Wes, but you are my son.”
My eyebrows furrow.
“I have spent more time raising you than I ever did Penny. I have spent more time bandaging your wounds, physical and emotional, than I did the child who shares my blood. Is that right? Does that make me a terrible human being as well? I made a mistake similar to your father’s by choosing to raise you instead of her. Should I be condemned and all the good deeds I’ve done forgotten?”
When I realize the question isn’t rhetorical, I quietly reply, “No.”
“It is time to let the past rest, Weston.” His words are followed by a solemn smile. “Move forward and be a better version of your father. Of me. Be there for your future wife and child in ways we weren’t. Accept…all parts of your family and build a future. Prove you are worthy of Brynley, your company, and your name.”
The lump in my throat expands to the point tears are torn from my eyes.
There’s no denying that Clark’s right. That I need to pick my shit up and move on. To put an end to the lamenting of his personal choices. Even if I don’t owe it to myself, I owe it to all the people who have been by my side for the past ten years. To all the people I call family. To the people I will call family. I am going to become a man that they can be proud of. I am going to become the man they can love and trust. And maybe…maybe I’ll become a man I don’t mind staring back at when I look in the mirror.