New Year, New Us
WEEKEND BRUNCHES BECAME A regular thing when Holliday and Ronan moved to East Harbour. Saturday mornings were spent at SoulCycle or East Harbour Pilates, followed by bottomless mimosas at Hutton House. During Holliday’s pregnancy with Michael, we frequented Nancy’s Diner for the French toast. Thank you, carbo cravings.
This morning I’d skipped Pilates, but met up with them at a café Harlow had been talking about for weeks.
“So, apparently, she gets extra horny after a wax,” Ella said, as I approached the table.
“Wow, okay, sounds like I’ve arrived just in time,” I said, settling beside Holliday. “Which client of Ella’s are we talking about this week?”
“Not a client, the gal from the pie shop,” Harlow answered, handing me a mimosa.
I rolled my eyes. “Celestia, the oversharing baker.”
“Two weeks ago she told me that she yelled out ‘I hate you’ during sex,” Holliday interjected. “She had no idea where it had come from. Celestia then proceeded to tell me that he called her his pie-making whore and slapped her pussy. I didn’t have the strength to tell her that I only needed the pumpkin pies, not a story about her pie.”
“That wouldn’t have shut her up,” Harlow said, with a laugh. “She should blog about her sexcapades—it is entertaining.”
“You think everyone should blog,” I pointed out.
Harlow lifted a shoulder. “Fair point, maybe she should just submit to Sex Diaries.”
“Oh, I have contemplated entering a submission,” Holliday snickered. “I always thought the week I met Ronan would make for a good post: ‘The twenty-six year-old who spent a week banging an A-list Actor.’”
Ella shook her head. “I’m going to pretend that you’re talking about Chris Evans, not my brother.”
“Okay, we’re veering off topic,” Harlow said, pointing her glass at Ella. “Back to the story.”
“Right, so she shows up for the Tinder date with an apple pie in hand and”—Ella leaned closer to the middle of our table to whisper the rest—“this bloke, handcuffs her to the bed and makes her watch him fuck the pie instead of her.”
“Holy fuck,” I murmured.
“No way,” Holliday said, her hands waving in front of her.
“I have so many questions,” Harlow said, pulling her grey sweatshirt up over her shoulder. “Was this some kind of fetish thing? Did he request the pie? Does it always have to be an apple pie?”
“He did request the pie,” Ella answered, before taking a sip of her drink. “I didn’t get the rest of the story.”
“I would think he’d request cherry,” I said, tapping my finger to the table.
Our server came over to take our order, placing an assortment of pastries in the middle of the table. Since this was a new place, Ella had to ask a thousand questions because of her food allergy. Which was totally okay, I was in no hurry to rush this meal with my friends. We rarely saw one another these days. It was hard for us to all get our schedules synced.
Ella’s son, William, was turning five this year . . . in a few days. And soon, her daughter, Everly would be four. Holliday had her hands full with a nine-month-old, and they balanced their time between here and Manhattan.
“Okay, no more talk about pie,” Holliday said. “Harlow, are you finally going to let me plan the wedding of your dreams this year?”
Three years later, Harlow and Grady were perfectly happy being engaged. Honestly, I thought they’d be married by now.
“I don’t know.” Harlow fidgeted with the sparkling ring on her left hand. “Why would a corporate event planner want to plan a wedding? Don’t you have more important matters to attend to?”
“My job isn’t more important than helping my friends. I am working on a really cool project right now—I’m developing a press strategy for a non-profit that brings live and recorded music to healthcare facilities and their patients. I’m so close to getting Rebel Desire to sign a contract,” Holliday replied. “But I can totally plan a wedding.”
“Cash Knight is so handsome,” Ella cooed. “Don’t tell my husband.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Harlow said, before taking a sip of coffee. “And that is totally cool, Holliday.”
“Elope,” I offered, tearing off a piece of my croissant.
“Oh come on,” Ella groaned. “Don’t listen to her, Harlow.”
“Well, we’ve made no plans, and since there is nothing more to talk about on the wedding subject,” Harlow paused, leveling her gaze towards Holliday. “I believe you have something to share.”
Holliday’s head snapped up, her bright eyes wide. “Well,” she began. “Guess who was nominated for People’s Sexiest Man Alive this past year?”
“No way,” I said, laughing.
I watched as Ella’s gaze turned in Holliday’s direction. “Wait, what?”
“Well, he obviously turned it down,” Holliday said.
I raised my glass. “Good for him. I told Matthew if they ever approach him, his answer should be thank you, but no.”
Ella shook her head. “What am I missing?”
“It is widely known that that entire thing is a public relations maneuver,” Harlow said, swirling the contents of her champagne glass. “No one is sitting in a room voting on the Sexiest Man Alive.”
I raised my hand. “Although, I would love that job.”
“Cheers to that,” Harlow said, giving me a high-five.
“Okay, wait. The whole thing is orchestrated?” Ella asked, sitting back in her chair.
Holliday nodded, taking a bite of pastry. “Yeah, Donna was really pushing for it, but Ronan was adamant about not being chosen. He told them he’d love to be included in the feature for next year. Like a subcategory.”
“Oh yeah, that’s perfectly fine,” I remarked. “Remember the year Blake Shelton was crowned and people lost their damn minds?”
Holliday slapped her palm to the table. “That was a fun time on the internet.”
“What year was that?” Harlow asked, laughing.
“I’m on it,” Ella announced, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone. “It was—uh oh,” Ella’s fingers tapped over her lips.
I dipped my head to meet Ella’s eyes. “Well, what is it?”
Harlow shrugged and confusion passed between the three of us. Ella handed her phone to Holliday. Her lips twisted in and the look of disbelief on her face was apparent.
“Tin, there is a story on Hollywood Razzle,” she began. “Now, keep in mind it’s Hollywood Razzle dot com.” Holliday’s voice was smooth and even. Harlow grasped my hand, giving me a tight-lipped smile.
“Read it to me,” I said, straightening my shoulders. I was afraid that and the tightly woven veil I’d shrouded myself in suddenly turned into cellophane.
“Why Tinley Atkinson isn’t having a baby. Her lack of desire to have kids is driving her husband, Matthew Barber, away and into the arms of another woman, a woman who has the one thing Matthew and Tinley do not—a child. We all remember when Georgina adopted her daughter from Mexico, a county that is near and dear to Matthew’s heart with his endless charity work. Mexico was also the home of his beloved late grandmother, Morena. Sources close to the actor, say that it was her wish that he should have a family.”
“Oh, that’s a low blow,” Ella scoffed, her voice cracking with anger.
My heart fractured and crumbled with every word. Morena, I’d never had the honor of meeting her, but Matthew told me that she and I would have been as thick as thieves. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I brushed them away, before my friends could see them.
“Other reports say,” Holliday continued, “Atkinson’s years of partying and drugs are playing a role in her inability to conceive. Could this be the end for Mattley and the beginning for Mattina?”
It’s true I had smoked pot and tried a few things here and there when I was out in the clubs with Karina. Nothing major, but the pictures of me with cigarettes in my hand when I was a teenager, those would never be erased from the internet.
What sources? Who the fuck is talking? And are they even allowed to couple them, when I’m legally married to him? Mattina is a stupid fucking name. To make matters worse, my husband was over nine thousand miles away in Australia and with her.
Ella looked up, her face twisted in pain. “It’s all over the internet, every headline containing an aspect of cheating and drug abuse.”
“These magazines lack integrity,” Harlow scoffed.
“God, they’re even revisiting the topic of Bette DeJong. How Matthew allegedly cheated on you with her,” Holliday added.
“Bette DeJong, the Dutch model?” Ella asked, before taking a drink of water.
I nodded in confirmation.
“Jesus, you take one Instagram photo and attend a few events together and the media has conjured up some torrid affair,” Harlow said. “Trust me, I would know.”
Our server arrived with our meals and I was grateful because I needed silence to fill the space. I couldn’t think about Matthew being alone with her. I had to think of this in the abstract, that it was a slow news week and these publications needed to sell copies. Gossip magazines were never going to go away. I chose to trust in my husband, but that didn’t mean this stung any less.
Tinley: We need to spend more than thirty-six hours together.
Matthew: I know. You want me to come to Toronto?
Tinley: I’m filming all weekend. We might only get a few hours together.
Matthew: Okay, well, I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.
Matthew: You there?
Tinley: Yep.
Matthew: That Alumni event that I originally turned down, I decided to go.
Tinley: Well shit, I wished that I would have received this message sooner. I’m standing in our kitchen.
Matthew: Where?
Tinley: East Harbour.
Matthew: But, how? I thought you had to work all weekend?
Tinley: I told Martin if he didn’t let me shoot my scenes and go home, I would make his set life very difficult.
Matthew: Ha! I’d like to have seen you try and pull off the diva move.
Tinley: I attended a charity event with Heather Young once. I picked up some good tips.
Matthew: Ah yes, Lululamoan. She’s good at the diva role.
Matthew: I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have called.
Matthew: I’m checking my schedule.
Matthew: I thought I could come back to East Harbour on Monday, but I have rehearsals for the charity thing in London.
Matthew: Come to London. I’m staying at the Corinthia.
Tinley: I’m not going to London so that I can stay in a hotel while you’re working. You know we won’t have any time together.
Matthew: I’m sorry.
Tinley: Me too.
Now I had a week off, and my husband was halfway across the country, and then he’d be halfway across the world. Then I’d be back in Toronto. For a moment, the two of us had it all. Now, it seemed that all I had was loss. Our marriage was on the side of losing time.
New Year, same difficulties.
Matthew: The Rough Riders are in the Super Bowl. Beaux Hale gave me tickets. Do you want to go?
Tinley: When is Super Bowl weekend?
Matthew: Next weekend.
Tinley: I can’t, Sweeps Week kicks off that day.
Matthew: Do you really have to be present for Sweeps Week?
Matthew: Tinley?
Matthew: I am assuming that you are ignoring me because you are too busy?
Matthew: Please pick up your phone.
Matthew: Tinley, ignoring me isn’t an option
Tinley: I’m not ignoring you. Busy filming schedule.
Matthew: Is this about Super Bowl weekend?
Matthew: It’s been long enough. Pick up your phone.
Matthew: Tinley, it’s been weeks.
Matthew: Talk to me.
Tinley: I can’t do this with you. I’m sorry I need some time.
I was adrift. Drowning.
I dragged my body from the bathroom, still clutching the plastic stick in my hand. I’d missed my period and a tiny glimmer of hope had me rushing to the drugstore and purchasing five pregnancy tests. I also purchased the clerk’s silence for five-hundred dollars. It was all worth it, until it wasn’t.
I’d known exactly what day could have given us our miracle. On that morning, Matthew awoke me the way he used to with his tongue circling my clit and his fingers massaging my most sensitive spots. My body hummed under his touch. It was warm and wonderful, and there we were in our bed and he was pushing into me. Our bodies came together, winding around each other and the pain evaporated and there was only the two of us and our love for one another. We didn’t talk about conceiving again, this was about the two of us.
“I love you, my wife,” he whispered against my skin. “Forever, I will love you, forever.”
His arms banded around my body, his lips laced with apologies, remorse, and relief. Our broken hearts trying to mend as his hips rolled pumping into me. He filled me, stretching me and we were as close as we’d been in a long time. And that moment was all we had before my husband had to leave our bed. Leave our home. Leave the country.
Now, here I was all alone, the heartbreak all rushing back to me. I stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom, what was going to be the nursery, staring at the pink and white blankets. My hands curled into fists at my side and my feet carried me to the closet. Gripping the handles, I flung back the doors. Hidden away in the back of the closet lurked my dark secret—baby clothes, blankets, and toys. Without another thought, I started tearing the clothes from the hangers. A sea of whites, greys, and yellows swirled around the room raining down onto the carpet. My hands shook as I gripped the dresser drawers. My eyes burned with the sting of tears and everything crashed around me.
A roar of anger expelled from my body as I slammed my fists to the top of the white dresser. All the wooden picture frames, I gathered them up smashing the white wood against the wall. Over and over my hands stung with heat and pain radiated in my chest. My hands tore at the threads of the blanket, pulling and pulling until there was nothing left but a ball of shredded fabric. I slumped onto the carpet, curling into a ball. My body was broken and the one thing I wanted, the one thing I wanted to give my husband was a dying dream.
I didn’t know how long I lay there, but when my eyes opened the faint glow of yellow and orange light had spread across the floor. My eyes took in the carnage, and sickness swirled in my stomach.
“Matthew,” I called out his name, sobs rattling my throat. Pushing myself up from the floor, I expelled a deep breath. My head throbbed with ache, and I rubbed at the pain in my chest.
I trekked down the hall to the laundry room. Numbness settled around me as I pulled garbage bags from the cabinets and as my fingers wrapped around the vacuum cleaner.
Crossing the threshold, my eyes took in the mess. I was cold, alone, and totally broken.