The Dirty Truth, page 11
“I chose it myself. Six carats because six was her favorite number. Flawless. Brilliant cut because I wanted to ensure the glimmering facets could be seen from the International Space Station.” Younger and insecure, I wanted the entire world to know she was taken the instant she walked into the room. It’s comedic in retrospect—how terrified I was to lose one of the worst things to ever happen to me.
Elle’s jaw falls, and she reminds me of that ridiculous GIF of Andy from Parks and Rec—the one Miranda sends me anytime she wants to rouse some semblance of a smile from me.
“This is big.” She slaps a hand on my polished dining table. “Like, that’s normal-people stuff. You picking an engagement ring.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her reaction, though I wipe the ridiculous amused expression from my face as soon as it appears. I’ve spent a lifetime building a fortress around myself—I won’t let some cute brunette tear it down with a playful line of questioning.
Flattening my mouth, I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders.
“I feel like I’m making you uncomfortable,” she says. “So I’m going to stop. But you should know I’m going to spend the rest of my night trying to picture what she looked like and what kind of fiancé you were, and by tomorrow I’m going to have this whole narrative in my head, and if it’s wrong, I’m going to be incredibly disappointed.”
“Or you could use that time to not think about me.”
Her eyes flash, and her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink. “I’m sorry. I . . . I got carried away. I shouldn’t have asked all those questions.”
Folding her napkin, she lays it aside before pushing her chair out and rising to leave.
“I really like Scarlett,” she says. “For the record, I think she’s a great girl in a tough spot, and I’m going to do everything I can to help her grow confident with her place in this world.”
“Appreciate that.”
“If you wouldn’t mind sometime, maybe you could fill me in a little more on what she’s been through?” She lifts a shoulder to her ear. “I think maybe it’d help me to understand her better?”
“Sometime, yes.”
“And I’m so sorry about your brother,” she adds. “I know you said he passed when she was a baby, but that had to have been so devastating. And then to look at her every day and see a part of him . . . that’s got to be tough for you.”
I know where this is going.
“It was. And it is.” I rise from the table and head to the doorway, tension burning into my shoulders. She can question me about my failed engagement until she’s blue in the face, but I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions about my dead brother. “Thank you for joining me for dinner, Elle. If you don’t mind, I’m heading upstairs for the evening. Please show yourself out.”
I leave before she has a chance to protest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ELLE
“Sweetheart, you never did send me your flight itinerary,” my mother drawls into the phone Saturday morning as I’m en route to West’s to pick up Scarlett.
“Shoot. I’m so sorry. It’s been a crazy couple of days . . .”
Quit my job . . .
Gave one of the most influential men in the world what for . . .
Volunteered to mentor his teenage niece despite not having a clue what I’m doing . . .
Had cocktails and dinner in his private residence on a Friday night and then proceeded to grill him on his personal life . . .
“That’s fine, Elle. I know you have a lot going on, but I’d appreciate it if you could prioritize that one little action item for me.” She speaks like a true planner. “Would really mean the world to me.” And in true Mona Napier fashion, she sprinkles a little sugar on top too. “Will only take a second.”
“I’ll do it as soon as we hang up,” I promise, fighting a yawn. As soon as I got home last night, I spent way too much time browsing Nebraska obituaries in search of West’s brother’s, only to find a three-sentence tribute and a name—William Michael Maxwell. Given how private West is, I’m not surprised he had it scrubbed from the internet just like everything else.
“You know,” Mom says, her voice inching up a mischievous octave, “I was at the Winn-Dixie yesterday, and you’ll never believe who I ran into.”
“Oh yeah?” I weave between a dog walker and a slow walker. “Who’d you see?”
“Elijah. You remember Elijah, right? Your high school boyfriend.”
Wish I didn’t . . .
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s he up to?”
“Oh, he was in town visiting his family. You know he’s a dentist now. Has a practice up in Saint Louis.”
“I think someone was telling me that not too long ago.” That “someone” being Facebook. I totally internet stalked him after a bottle of wine on a snowed-in Wednesday night last year. “Good for him.”
“Yeah,” she continues. “And Elle, I’m telling you, the man looks cuter than ever. He’s got all these muscles. And this pearly-white smile. Well, he always had that perfect smile. But he just . . . well, you know some people don’t age well. Not Elijah.”
“Good for him,” I repeat because there’s nothing else to say.
“Oh, and guess what?”
“What?”
“He’s single. Never been married. Can you believe that?” she asks.
Yes. Yes, I can believe that, because his lying, cheating ways would be an impediment to that sort of lifestyle . . .
“He asked about you.” My mother chuckles, speaking with breathless words as if the excitement of this admission is getting the best of her. “Says he can’t wait to catch up with you at the wedding. Oh, and he asked if you’re bringing a date. I told him no . . . and you should’ve seen the look on his face, Elle. It’s like his eyes just lit from within. Like fireworks. Then he said he’s coming solo too.”
“I hate to disappoint either of you, but there’s not going to be any kind of running-toward-each-other-in-slow-motion reunion happening. I’ll say hi and I’ll be cordial, but the Elijah-and-Elle ship has sailed.”
“Oh, Elle. Don’t be so negative. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe you’ll feel differently when you see him again. It’s been, what, twelve years?”
“Not long enough.”
My mother chuckles, and I picture her waving me off as she paces her giant yellow kitchen while a china cup of hibiscus tea cools on the windowsill above the sink.
I round the corner to West’s apartment, instantly spotting Scarlett perched on the bottom steps, head in her hand. As soon as she notices me, I give her an overenthusiastic wave and ear-to-ear grin—an attempt to start the day off on a positive note to offset the depressing ending to our Friday night together.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry to cut this short, but I’m meeting up with someone,” I say when she begins to ramble on about Elijah’s muscles for the second time. If she likes him so much, maybe she should marry him? Not that my father would be cool with that, but the way she’s fawning over Elijah, it seems Dad might have a little competition. “I’ll call you later, okay? And I’ll text you that itinerary right now.”
“Okay, but don’t forget, sweetheart.”
“Doing it right now.” I end the call and flick through my email in warp speed until I find the flight confirmation and forward it off. “Hey, Scarlett.” Tucking my phone away, I slide my hands into my back jeans pockets. “You all rested up?”
Her pale-blue eyes are a little brighter in the morning sun, and her hair is shower damp and pulled back. Without giving myself too much credit, I think it’s safe to say she’s somewhat excited to hang out with me today, which means I didn’t completely bomb it with the Tenement Museum fiasco.
Scarlett gives me a thumbs-up before tucking her phone into her bra.
Gazing past my shoulder, she says, “Hey, Uncle West.”
From the corner of my eye, I see a glistening, shirtless Greek god of a man trot in our direction before settling to my right.
Only slightly winded, he pulls a white earbud from his left ear before stretching a muscled arm overhead—a move that only serves to accentuate his chiseled torso and picture-perfect Adonis belt (no Photoshop necessary).
“Hey,” I say, keeping as cool as I can despite the air around us suddenly growing ten degrees hotter. “I didn’t take you for a Central Park–jogger type. Figured you were one of those private-home-gym guys.”
“He is,” Scarlett says under her breath. “He’s totally a private-home-gym guy. What’s with this?”
“A man can’t get some fresh air without coming home to the Spanish Inquisition?” He adjusts the black sweatband currently pushing his thick, dark hair off his forehead. “Where are you two headed?”
I nudge Scarlett. “Thought we’d hit up this designer flea market in SoHo. I promised my roommate I’d find her a vintage Hermès scarf.”
“Whatever that is,” Scarlett says.
“Oh, honey. If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you have to know your designers.” I snake my arm around her and manage to wrangle a smile out of her. “You want to join, West?”
“As enthralling as an Hermès hunt sounds, I’ll pass,” he says. “But thank you.”
“He has people who shop for him,” Scarlett says, head tilted. “Unlike us peasants.”
West gives her a playful punch on the shoulder before retrieving a key fob from a zippered pocket in his shorts and heading inside. It takes all the strength I have not to picture him in the shower.
“Did you have breakfast yet?” I ask Scarlett as we head off.
“I don’t really eat breakfast.”
“What? Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “My mom never really made it, and we never had a lot of food in the house, so I got used to skipping it. I don’t get hungry until about noon.”
West’s words from last week play in my ear—without giving away too much, he implied that her mom was less than amazing. I imagine things had to have been pretty horrid for him to end up with sole custody.
“So what was life like back in Nebraska?” I ask. “Tell me about the good stuff, the stuff you miss.”
“It was amazing.”
“Really? How so?”
“My mom was never home, so I kind of got to do whatever I wanted.” She speaks of it with a braggadocio lilt in her voice, as if it’s the kind of thing that might impress someone. “My mom’s not strict at all—unlike Uncle West. She trusts me.”
That or she doesn’t care . . .
“I could hang out with my friends all the time,” she continues. “Seven days a week. Anytime I wanted.”
“Where was your mom?”
Her lips twist at one side. “Sometimes working. Sometimes hanging out with her friends.”
“What did you do if you needed to get ahold of her?”
Scarlett doesn’t answer me right away, taking a moment before exhaling a short breath.
“You literally sound like the people who took me away from her. You’re asking the exact same questions,” she says.
Shoot.
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” I bite my lip and search for the right words. “I’m just trying to understand where you came from so I can help you figure out where you’re going.”
“And now you sound like the therapist Uncle West sent me to when I first got here.” Her dirty Converse sneakers scuff along the sidewalk.
If I can’t catch a break with this child, I can only assume West has it a hundred times worse.
“Scarlett.” I stop and place my hand on her shoulder. “I’m not a therapist or a DHS worker. I’m just a thirty-year-old staff writer that your uncle—for some insane reason—thinks will be a good influence for you this summer. Please know that I’m on your side. I’m here for you and because of you. I can’t make you trust me, but I can show you that I’m worth your trust. Just give me a little grace, and I’ll do the same with you, okay?”
Arms crossed, she still refuses to look at me, but as promised, I give her a little grace and let it go.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world to have someone who cares about you,” I say, soft and gentle. “Everyone needs at least one of those.”
Her attention fixes on a crack in the pavement.
“You have your uncle West,” I add, “and I have Mona Napier. Two sides of the exact same coin. Believe me, I’m no stranger to having every second of your day micromanaged.”
Scarlett sniffs.
“We’re going to have fun this summer.” I lighten my tone. “I promise.”
“Fine.” She relents a little, her posture less rigid as we trudge ahead. “So who are the good designers?”
With pep in my step, I tell her all about the classics—Halston, Pucci, Chanel, and Dior—as well as how to spot fakes from a mile away. By the time we’re looking around at the flea market, our morning rough patch has been honed to a polished-marble finish, and my sullen teenage charge is wearing a proud smile as she showcases a colorful Pucci pocket square.
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure Uncle West will never wear this,” she says before cracking a devilish grin. “I’m totally going to make him wear this to work next week.”
“Just make sure you take a picture since I won’t be there to see him.”
“For sure.”
We head to the checkout, where an iPad-wielding woman in a seventies-era sundress swipes my card for the thirty-dollar pocket square, and we’re on our way.
“What next?” she asks, waving the vibrant fabric like a makeshift flag.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t have a whole day planned . . . thought we’d head back to your place, but we can stop for lunch at this new café I keep hearing about. I’ve been dying to try it. Supposedly they have this—”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I get it. I wouldn’t want to spend an entire weekend with me either.”
“Scarlett.” I nudge her arm. “Stop. You can’t guilt-trip the inventor of guilt trips. I was practically the queen of guilt trips when I was your age. As a result, they no longer work on me because I see through each and every one. Anyway, we’ve got an entire summer to fill. No need to rush it.”
“Fine.” We cross an intersection, and she strides ahead a few steps, forcing distance between us. And I think I get it now—she pushes people away because she’s testing them.
She runs away because she wants West to find her to prove he cares.
And now she’s doing the same thing to me, albeit on a lesser scale.
“Scarlett, wait up.” I jog ahead to catch up, and once there, I give her a little bit of grace yet again and let it go. “So I was thinking, maybe this week we could check out that new Sabrina Carpenter movie? Maybe a matinee after school on Monday?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“When you get home, why don’t you make a list of all the things you want to do this summer? Like an NYC bucket list. And I’ll do everything I can to help you clear it.”
“I want to go home,” she says without hesitation. “To Whitebridge. For a week. That’s all I really want to do. And every time I ask Uncle West, he says, ‘Never.’ He doesn’t even say no—it’s always never. But maybe if you go with me?”
Scarlett turns to me with hope-laced baby blues.
“School’s out in two weeks,” she says. “We could go right after that.”
“My sister’s getting married end of June, and I’m going out there the week before,” I say. “I could squeeze in a trip to Nebraska before that . . . but one thing at a time. We’re still in the trust-building phase. Your uncle has to trust me with you, and he has to trust that you’re not going to do anything crazy again—like run off to Penn Station at three a.m.”
I give her a wink, but I mean business.
“You do your part; I’ll do mine. Deal?” I extend my hand, and she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Deal?”
After a quick bout of hesitation, she finally slides her hand into mine. “Deal.”
Nebraska, here we come.
Maybe . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WEST
“Back already?” I ask Scarlett as she appears in the doorway of my study shortly after noon on Saturday long enough to give a quick wave and dash away. Rising, I follow. “Where’s Elle?”
Turning back, she offers a shrug. “She had other stuff to do; I don’t know. I’m not her keeper.”
“Did you get anything at the farmers’ market?”
“Flea market,” she corrects me before digging into her left pocket and displaying a crumpled square embossed with some psychedelic pattern. “This is for you. It’s Gucci or Pucci or something. I don’t know. Elle says it’s cool, and we both think you should wear it to work next week.”
“The two of you discussed this, did you?” I swipe it from her hand and give it a careful exam as the scents of mothballs and time fill my lungs.
The day I saunter into corporate with a smelly and comically vibrant pocket square is the day I officially lose all credibility with my team.
“And what else did the two of you discuss today?” I ask.
“Maybe you should’ve joined us; then you’d know.”
“There’s a thin red line between spirited conversation, Scarlett . . . and blatant disrespect.”
Throwing her hands in the air, she groans in true Scarlett fashion. “Ugh. I can’t win with you!”
A second later, she disappears behind a slammed door. Steeling my nerves, I retreat to my study, close the door like a civilized gentleman, and text Elle.
ME: How was she?
ELLE: We had a good time!
ME: That’s not what I asked . . .
ELLE: I know. I was answering your question based on what you should have asked.
Smart-ass.
ELLE: Friendly reminder—I’m not her babysitter and I don’t work for you.
ME: Friendly reminder—I’m her uncle and sole caretaker and prefer to know if she’s being respectful to the adults in her life.
Three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. A full minute passes before she replies.
ELLE: She was great . . . all things considered.
