What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Ms. Hartwell.”

“And I don’t appreciate my husband being treated like a criminal based on his past behavior, most of which was due to his undiagnosed, untreated mental illness.”

“In this country, we don’t give a free pass to commit crime, whatever the excuse might be.”

“My husband isn’t from ‘this country,’ but I am, and I am well aware of the piss-poor treatment and criminalization of the mentally ill here. Not unlike his homeland, I might add. Let me also remind you that he hasn’t been charged with a crime.” Stephanie rose from the hard chair. “I’m done speaking to you, and I will have nothing else to say unless you call with an apology.”

“Ms. Hartwell, you don’t make the rules here.”

“I’m a character witness at best, if this farce somehow ever goes to trial. I happen to be married to a man you have it out for. That’s your problem, not mine. Have a nice day, Detective.” Stephanie yanked the door open and strode through the station.

***

Stephanie rolled her neck and shoulders, shook out her arms and legs. She’d rather be body-checked on open ice than endure this episode, but her media-savvy boss did have a point: discussing the allegation removed much of its power. She took her customary seat at one end of the table, alongside her three co-hosts, as former running back Desean Hart welcomed viewers to the show and introduced the hosts.

Sarah Boucher, football beat writer, spoke next. “On today’s show, we’re doing something a little different. As you all know, our co-host Stephanie Hartwell is married to former hockey star Aleksandr Volynsky, who was recently accused of an ugly crime. We wanted to give Stephanie the opportunity to speak her mind about the allegations, and she agreed. Stephanie, obviously the accuser is given anonymity in rape cases. You know Aleksandr better than anyone; do you think his celebrity helps or hurts him?”

“I know people think—and rightfully so—that celebrities get off easy. Accusers are often vilified, especially on social media. And despite what many people believe, only a tiny fraction of rape allegations are false.” She cleared her throat and breathed deeply. An imminent cough was scorching her lungs, but she ignored it and gazed into the camera. “This is the first time I’ve ever admitted this publicly. My father was a cop, and he molested me for years. I never reported him, because I knew no one would believe me. I want to say to Aleksandr’s accuser that someone may have hurt you—I do believe that—but it wasn’t my husband.”

“Stephanie,” Bob Laswell, who co-hosted two other shows on TWSN, chimed in, “your husband is recognizable for a number of reasons. Are you honestly saying there’s a case of mistaken identity here?”

His patronizing tone grated on her already frayed nerves. “When we recall a memory, it isn’t played back like a film. It’s reconstructed. Details are added and removed, and it becomes altered over time. When you add trauma to the mix, there’s even more distortion. Someone may have attacked her, she might have been with Aleksandr shortly before or after, and in her mind he became the perpetrator.”

“Let me ask you this,” he continued. “If you believe in your husband’s innocence, why are you no longer living with him?”

The world screeched to a halt and with it her train of thought. She saw Jessica in the wings, making a slashing motion over her throat, but heard nothing over her heartbeat. Desean stared at their colleague, mouth agape.

“I—What?”

Sarah shuffled her notes around. “Bob, I don’t think that’s—”

“No, let’s hear it. You think he’s innocent, you stand by him, right? You don’t take your kid and start staying at a friend’s house.”

Stephanie shoved away from the table, tipping several cups of coffee in the process, and stalked off the set. Someone was shouting to cut to commercial. Ambushed by body-shaking sobs, she struggled for air and hacked into a tissue.

A crimson splotch darkened the Kleenex. She rammed it into her pocket.

“Stephanie”—Jessica set her hands on her shoulders, but Stephanie twisted away—“I’m so sorry.”

“Was this a set-up?”

“Of course not! We had no idea Bob was going to go off the rails. Everyone had their prepared list of questions. They were specifically told not to deviate from them. I would never set anyone up to attack you—”

“I quit.” She ripped away her wireless mic and hurled it to the floor.

“Stephanie, wait! Don’t do this! The audience loves you, the network loves you—” Jessica’s heels clacked as she trotted beside her to keep up.

“I’ve been humiliated on TV, on my own show, and you want me to stay? This was your idea, Jessica. And you can deal with the consequences. I am
sick
of cleaning up other people’s messes.”

She held herself together long enough to pick up Anya from daycare. But in the parking lot, with Anya secured in the car seat, the levee broke. The more she cried, the more she coughed, and the more she coughed, the more blood she tasted in her mouth.

Chapter Eleven

Matt had somehow managed to sell his nuptials as a “destination wedding” to his guests. LA had never entered the discussions, for Stephanie’s benefit, and she adored him even more for that. He was keeping it small and casual, only about thirty people, at a bed and breakfast on the lake where he and Allen were spending the night before leaving for their honeymoon. If nothing else, it saved her from having to talk about the separation, and he’d never know she was staying elsewhere. A perfect day under normal circumstances, a celebration of love.

Except the guests were still attending the pool party reception at her and Alex’s house. She and Alex had to pretend they were even on speaking terms, let alone the picture of wedded bliss. After what she’d discovered online, a sleazy tabloid site with photos showing his slinking out of a downtown hotel early one morning, she could barely tolerate looking at him. Some speculated a drug deal. Most latched onto the likely answer, that he had fucked his “friend” Natasha Pisare to get back at her. The media had pounced all over it, but they were flinging far less shit at
her
now that the entire Buffalo area knew she’d moved out.

Stephanie draped her sea-blue, off-the-shoulder shift dress over her head, then pulled the smocked neckline down to the point where her cleavage began. The hem hit above her knee, shorter than she preferred, but the hot June afternoon demanded summery attire. She slipped into a pair of glittery sandals and dressed Anya in a confetti-print onesie. Her stomach threatened to reject breakfast.

The nausea worsened as she loaded Anya and her tote into the car. A mile down the road, she pulled into the driveway and laid on the horn. She had gone out of her way to avoid him since Father’s Day; now there was no escape.

Five minutes elapsed before Alex emerged, predictably gorgeous despite the grim set of his jaw. He lurched into the passenger seat, then peeked behind him at the rear-facing car seat and found what always made him smile. “Hi, baby girl.”

The smile was gone when he faced forward, the circles under his bloodshot eyes as dark as hers were. He pushed up the sleeves of his brown sport coat and rolled his shirt cuffs over them. Her gaze drifted to his bare ankles between brown leather oxfords and pewter-colored trousers. Her barriers destabilized. She wanted him, more than anything, even now. Especially now, though the words shriveled and died in her throat.

Too broken to be together.
She gritted her teeth. “You know, if we’re going to spend the day pretending to be happy, we should try to act convincing.”

“I’m still pissed at you. I think I’m justified.”

“You’re pissed at
me
. Have you been on the internet lately? What the hell were you doing at that hotel?”

He grunted and slid the seat back, then buckled his seatbelt as she started the car. “Not what you think I was.”

“So it
was
over drugs.”

“No. It’s a long story, and I’m not going to explain it right now. But listen. I’m your husband. You’re obligated to tell me what’s wrong so we can try to work through it. Not walk out on me.”

“I tried to make it as easy as possible. I told you I was coming back. What else can I say?”

“I don’t know.”

She coughed into her fist. No blood, fortunately.

Alex arched an eyebrow. “I thought they gave you medicine for that. What about the biopsy results?”

“I’m fine.”

“So this is how we’re doing it. You’re going to lie to my face.” He sighed and stared out the window. “Fine.”

She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth to keep from crying. “Please, let’s not ruin my brother’s wedding day.”

“You’re really okay with this?”

“With what?”

“You know…Matt getting married.”

Her knuckles turned so white, she could have popped the steering wheel off. “You knew he was gay. Now you suddenly have a problem with it? I thought you liked him.”

“I do! I just…I’m sorry I’m uncomfortable, all right? You know how things are in Russia.”

“And how long have you lived in the US? Are you trying to tell me you have no gay friends? There are gay men in the NHL, you know.”

“I know that.” He slumped against the door. “I’m sorry I said anything. Can we not do this in front of Anya?”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since I picked you up.”

He twisted in his seat, fists clenched in his lap. “Why are you being such a bitch?”

The BMW swerved a little. She pulled over, folded onto the steering wheel, and began to sob, makeup be damned. Now was not the time to tell him, though every fiber of her being urged her to do just that. To let him be the shelter he longed to be.

“Stephanie.” A firm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry—”

She shrugged him off. She was screaming for him across a chasm carved by her pride, so vast that even her echo didn’t reach him. “Don’t touch me.” She turned the key in the ignition. “Everything happened so fast, Alex. Maybe we weren’t ready for this.”

“That’s not true,” he said softly. He tried to blink away the tears in his eyes.

They said nothing else for the duration of the ride.

***

“I’m so nervous. I’m gonna throw up.” Matt scratched at his neck, leaving four red streaks. Stephanie slapped his hand away.

“No, you’re not.” She handed her quivering brother a bottle of water. “Take a few sips. And deep breaths.”

Instead, he gulped the water and inhaled several short, sharp gasps. He shook out his hands. “Okay. I’m ready. I think.”

“Better be. People are taking their seats.”

He wrinkled his brow. The gaze that had been flitting around the room settled on her. “We should’ve postponed this. You don’t look well, Steph.”

“I’m fine.” She fussed with the buttons on Matt’s shirt. “Don’t you dare worry about me today. I want you and Allen to have the most amazing wedding ever.”

“I heard yours was pretty amazing.”

“Yeah.” Stephanie, her jaw tight, adjusted his shirt collar. “It was.”

“We can put off the honeymoon, at least. Your surgery is in a few days, and I know you have Alex, but—”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Matt tilted up her chin, his blue eyes probing hers. “I’ve known you your whole life, so I know when you’re lying. You’re not fine.”

“Fine enough to watch my big brother get married. Ready?”

He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Of course you can.”

They strolled through the gardens and out to the lakeside beach, the water sparkling as though handfuls of stars had been cast into the waves. Allen’s best man promenaded down an aisle scattered with rose petals, and Stephanie curled her arm with Matt’s. “Let’s get you married.” As they walked, Matt trembling, she stared straight ahead to block out the guests standing before white Chiavari chairs. Nevertheless, her towering husband bouncing their baby in his arms dominated her peripheral vision. Her fingers and toes tingled. Her head began to thud. She clung to her brother as much for her reassurance as his.

Matt took his place beneath a four-poster arbor draped with white fabric. Stephanie sank onto her chair beside Alex in the front row but did not look at him. She had gone stiff, her mind blank, the only way she maintained her composure with her brain determined to relive
their
wedding. He bumped his knee against hers; intentional or otherwise, it didn’t matter. The most inconsequential of touches revived her craving, reminded her how pig-headed she was. How deeply she resembled the person least worthy of imitation, using selfishness to mask a hole she refused to acknowledge.

Anya flapped her arms as Alex rubbed their noses together. Her whole face lit up when he smiled at her, and she offered her sweet, toothless grin in return. At two months old, Anya had transformed into a chubby, adorable beauty that resembled her doting father all too much. Daddy’s girl for life. She had changed him in a way Stephanie couldn’t, touched something in him only fatherhood awakened. A sickening twinge of jealousy knifed through her—that she and Anya hadn’t connected the same way, certainly not to her expectations; that someone had in fact replaced her as the light of Alex’s life. All of which buttressed her suspicions that she was as unfit a mother, definitely a wife, as they came, and she’d be doing them both a favor if she never woke from anesthesia.

Matt and Allen kissed, but they were little more than blurs through a veil of tears. Alex must have assumed she was crying from joy, until everyone had risen to join the informal receiving line before the photo shoot and she was hunched over in her chair, sobbing into a soggy tissue. He moved a chair out of the way and crouched before her with Anya nestled in the crook of one arm. Alex brushed her hair away from her forehead, skimmed the backs of his fingers over her damp cheek. She nearly turned her mouth toward them to kiss each one of those fingers. Instead, she sat firm, attempting to convey with her eyes the message she could not speak. He smiled the same irresistible smile destined to grace Anya’s face one day, and helped her up.

With a sunny grin, Matt was waving them over to the gardens. “Steph! Alex! Family photo!”

Alex handed Anya over to her. He stood behind and between Stephanie and Matt, with Allen to Matt’s left. Their mother had concocted one of her bullshit excuses for why she wasn’t making the trip.

Alex crooked an arm around her waist, and she tensed. He loosened his grip. “Can’t even pretend for the photos?” he whispered in her ear.

She refused to be responsible for spoiling Matt’s wedding photos. She relaxed into Alex’s embrace, but the perception of the future roaring toward her, an inescapable tsunami, besieged her again. Everything she hadn’t accomplished, the places she had intended to visit, the life goals she’d achieve one day, delusions pitched like ballast from a sinking ship. Time might be the one resource she did not have.

A dreadful stench rose from Anya’s diaper, and she began to wail.

“Uh-oh.” Matt laughed. “Someone’s stinky.”

“I’ll change her.” Alex gathered her from Stephanie’s arms and held out a hand for the tote. “We need to get back to the house and finish setting up anyway. Meet you at the car, Steph. Congratulations, Matt. See you in a bit.”

“Is he okay?” Matt asked as the photographer swapped lenses.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Smile!” Stephanie hooked an arm around Matt’s shoulders and smiled for their photos, hoping her happiness for him was what shone through and not the disaster that marked every other facet of her life.

Alex was leaning against the passenger door and singing to Anya when she reached the parking lot. Another moment she wished she could freeze, a point from which to start over, record over the past few weeks and erase them from existence. She pressed the Unlock button on her key fob.

Alex fastened Anya into the car seat, then straightened and met Stephanie’s gaze. “I want to know what the hell is going on with you.
Now.
”

“No, Alex. Not now. Not today.”

He slapped the heel of his hand against the door, then climbed in and slammed it shut.

She slouched into the driver’s seat, the air clotted with a repellent tension. Alex sagged against the door and gnawed on his thumbnail. The words burned in her mouth, and she knew she’d feel better if she vomited out the poison killing her inside, killing
them
.

Cancer.

She swallowed it instead.

Sullen silence reigned on the ride home. They dropped Anya off at the Whites’, then continued to their house, where the party planner had hung white globe string lights over the patio. The caterers were arranging food and drinks on white-draped folding tables along the perimeter, beneath crisp white canopies. Another table had been designated to hold the gifts.

“I’m going to change.” Alex trudged up the stairs, leaving Stephanie alone in the great room. She wandered into the kitchen and chugged a glass of wine to calm her nerves. She was second-guessing everything, especially being there at all. Matt would understand if she explained the situation.

But she’d never forgive herself, and the weight of the guilt she already shouldered was killing her with an effortlessness cancer might envy.

Alex returned in a pair of white drawstring swim shorts that skimmed his legs mid-thigh and hugged his ass. An unbuttoned white linen shirt floated away from his lean, glorious body. Guests dressed in swimwear and cover-ups began trickling through the house; he greeted them and escorted them to the patio without another word to Stephanie.

She was in the kitchen when Matt and Allen arrived, and pretended she had been waiting for them all along. “Hey! You’re finally here!” She embraced them both. “Head on out. There’s a ton of food, and Alex is probably already dancing, so get out there and have a great time.”

Matt urged Allen toward the patio. “I’ll catch up in a second.”