Aerie flips through the stack and hands me two sheets of paper. “Well, here is what I found. This report is from Little Red’s records,” she says, pointing to the column on the right. “And this one I just got,” she says, pointing to the one on the left, like I have any idea what that means.
I look at both pieces of paper. My eyes scour the numbers. They’re different. I read the handwriting on the bottom and have no problem deciphering what this means now. “Where did you get these?”
“What are they?” River asks, standing and crossing his arms over his chest.
Aerie explains. “One set was in the basement of Sheep Industries, the other is from a box of old papers that I found in my uncle’s things when Jagger and I were going through everything a couple of months ago.”
I want to question her further, about how she got documents from the basement of Sheep Industries and why would sales reports of a record label be among her uncle’s things, but right now I don’t give a shit where the information came from. I stand there dumbfounded as River comes over to us and looks over my shoulder. “They’re for the same period of time, but there’s a huge discrepancy in reported earnings,” he manages to say, shock evident in his voice.
“Exactly!” Aerie says.
What kind of person does that to someone? I have to sit down, and once I do, I read the handwritten note again, but it begins to blur. River sits next to me, both of us staring at the series of numbers in front of us. Spots cloud my vision and my heart pounds for the man I always knew as my father—the one who wanted his whole life to be successful and thought he’d failed . . . when in actuality he was a superstar in his own right.
Utter silence falls in the room. River and I both sit there in shock, absorbing the information that might have changed both our lives . . . Maybe we both take the quiet to fast-forward that life in our minds, or maybe we’re barricading ourselves from the truth, maybe we’re just trying to stop the black fury that comes with the truth—or maybe those are just my feelings. I push aside the papers in my hands and lean over the others on the table, noticing that my hands are trembling. I look to my brother—his face is white, his expression blank.
I take a deep breath, adjust my focus, and pull myself together. I drop my hands to my sides and flex my fingers. When Aerie’s wide eyes meet mine I can finally say, “Thanks so much for this. I have to run, but call me for anything.”
River nods, still seemingly in a trance. Then he stands as well. “I’ll walk you out.”
She gives me a sad smile. “Call me for anything, Xander. I’ll leave you all this,” she says, pointing to the stack of papers. “It’s mostly collaborating documentation in case you file a complaint with the FCC.”
For a moment I stare at her. “I think I’ll handle this in my own way,” I tell her with no edge to my voice at all. Do I want to turn him in or do I want to use this to get him to leave Ivy alone? That’s a question I don’t even have to ask myself.
River leads Aerie to the door. I hear them whispering in the foyer. I cradle my head in my hands and know I have to see my mother before I do anything else. The biggest question being . . . selflessness or selfishness? The two conflicting feelings struggle within me and I’m not sure which will win out.
• • •
Thirty minutes later I’ve sent my brother packing and I’m climbing into my sister’s car, which is still parked in my driveway. She never came to pick it up. She must be driving my mother’s car. Fuck, I never called Ena and told her to get mine, but right now I don’t give a shit about my car. There’s no sign of the press and I’m f**king thankful. At first I lurch full speed down the road in my sister’s Cabriolet, but with no pickup in her chick car I change my mind and lay off the gas. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I quickly decide to turn around, trading Sunset Boulevard for the scenic route, the longer way. While I drive, I think about everything that has happened over the past days. I think about my life. I’m a guy who likes control. I follow a plan. I have a schedule. I’m all about structure—not chaos. And lately my life has been full of instability.
As I drive through the wooded streets, I stare at the beautiful manicured lawns and large homes that belong to families who I bet know who they are. I think about Nick—did he know any of this? If he knew the truth, why did he never treat me any different from River and Bell?
Pulling in the driveway, I park the car, whip off my sunglasses and toss them in the passenger seat. I look at the large two-story house tucked away behind a bounty of trees that my mother shares with Jack. I’m suddenly thankful that this isn’t my childhood home. I always thought it would have been cool to visit my mother with my kids at the place I grew up in—but now it’s a relief not to have to see that house again, since my childhood was a lie.
Turning off the ignition, I wipe those thoughts from my mind and get out of the car. I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the shadows of the sidewalk in front of the house. My stomach is in knots. I’m not sure I can do this. What can she say to take any of the pain away? Nothing can make me feel any better. I notice a strange car in the driveway and wonder if Brigitte got a new one or if someone is visiting. Fuck.
I stall as long as I can, pondering leaving in case someone is here, but I take a deep breath and go for it, hoping it’s just Bridgette’s new car. I walk slowly along the cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance, before slipping in through the door. The gleaming black-and-white marble floor of the rear entrance blinds me and I pause a moment to reconsider having this conversation with my mother. I’m still furious despite my heart pounding with fear, but I know I have to do this.
The kitchen smells of freshly brewed coffee and I look around for our housekeeper, Brigitte. Since she’s been with our family for years, I wonder if she knows. The room is empty, though; she doesn’t seem to be around, so I make my way through the house. The stab of irritation I’m already feeling quickly turns to trepidation when I hear Ivy’s voice—she’s here talking to my mother. The sadness in her tone makes me stop in my tracks. As if in slow motion, I come to a stop just outside the family room and listen.
My mother’s voice is raspy as she speaks. “You did what you had to—Xander will forgive you. I know he’ll understand.”
“I hope so. But he looked so hurt and betrayed. It killed me to see him like that.”
“Ivy, Xander is strong and perceptive. It’s easy to see through Damon’s manipulative ways and I’m sure he did.”
“God, I feel so dumb. How did I never see that side of him until recently? If I had I would have never been with him. Never.” Ivy starts to cry and her words only serve to strengthen not only my fury but also my fear.
It sounds like my mother’s comforting her. Then Ivy continues. “Damon told me after he received the call that his father passed that Josh’s will had a clause in it that Damon had to be married to collect his inheritance. That’s why he insisted we get married so quickly. I thought it was money from my performance he wanted. He said he only needed us to stay married for six months, enough time to produce an album. But really he knew his father didn’t have much time and he wanted to be sure he got what he thought he’d earned.”
“Oh, Ivy, no one could have known, darling,” my mother says amid sobs.
Ivy’s voice is low and I can’t make out what she says.
“You don’t know how it hurts me that you had to go through that,” my mother tells her.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry to come over like this. I just didn’t know what to do. Xander won’t answer my calls. I can’t believe Damon made his father’s will public. I heard him on the phone with his attorney, completely shocked that Xander was in the will and the marriage clause wasn’t. I guess Josh changed his will, or Damon was told incorrect information. I don’t know. But as soon as he was behind the microphone making that announcement about the will, I knew I had to be with Xander. But now that I’m here I’m afraid he won’t forgive me.”
With my mother’s sobs weighing me down and Ivy sounding so emotional, I can’t stand to stay hidden listening any longer. I swing around the corner, almost manic. My mother turns toward me and I meet her gaze. Her face is full of concern and love, whereas I know mine must be a picture of confusion. She rushes over to me as I stand in a daze.
“Xander!” She pulls me in for a tight embrace. Then she pulls away and clutches my face in her trembling hands. “Xander.” She begins weeping again.
I shift on my feet, not sure what to ask. Not sure I want to know anything. I take a step back and nearly collide with the doorframe. The moment is awkward, and for the first time in my life I don’t know what to say to my mother.
Ivy clears her throat. “I’m going to leave you two alone. Thanks for talking to me, Charlotte.” I meet her gaze and her sad eyes, but I can’t talk to her now. I wish I could think of a way to let her know I know what she did and why she did it—I hope she understands I’m telling her I get it.
“Ivy, don’t go yet,” my mother manages, but I see Ivy turn and leave the room, then hear the click of the door. My mother is in such a state that her tears won’t stop. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is out of control.
“Take it easy, Mom,” I whisper.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. That you’d never talk to me again. I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to explain everything to you.”
I take her hand and lead her to the sofa. “Sit down, Mom. I’m going to get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She tries to stop me, but she’s so hysterical I can’t even understand what she’s saying. I hate seeing her like this—because of me. I pour some water in a glass and gulp it down, then fill another and take it to her. She drinks it, and once she sets the glass down, she takes my hands.
She looks at me helplessly. “I want you to hear the truth from me. I should have been the one to tell you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them to look at her. “I’m ready.”
With a deep sigh, my mother starts to explain. “I never told any of you that your father and I spent some time apart before we were married. That was a dark time for me. I was lost and alone. I had dated your father all through high school, and then we broke up shortly after he left to go on tour. I missed him terribly. Dylan and Damon went to UCLA with me. We were friends, but I had allowed Damon to fill my head with stories of what it must be like on the road. I loved Nick so much, but jealousy tore us apart. After we broke up I spent a lot of time with Dylan and Damon. I started to date Dylan, but it didn’t last long. Once we broke up—well, Damon—he was there for me. He made me think he was taking care of me—that my well-being was what mattered to him. He made himself trustworthy, he was a friend, a confidant even. And then one day he turned on me. Even now his name is a painful reminder. I never say it. Never talk about him or his brother. I let it go—I had to. But I’ll never forget . . .”
“Mom, you don’t have to go on. It’s okay.” My voice fades, but I know she hears it. She seems to forget I’m there, even though her story continues.
“I woke up the morning of Dylan’s death with a feeling of terrible anticipation—something had startled me out of what I thought was a horrifying dream. I sat up and realized I wasn’t in my own bed. My stomach was in knots from one too many drinks the night before. I groggily scanned the area for clues, trying to remember why I was in Damon’s room.” Her voice goes hoarse and I hand her the glass of water again.
“Damon rushed into the room—opening the door and closing it behind him just as quickly. He spoke haltingly as he opened the blinds and let the light flood the room. His tone was unusually grim and his haste caught me off guard. He told me he took care of everything. I didn’t know what he meant. I was scared. Shivering, I pulled the covers up closer to me and asked him what he was talking about. But even as the words left my mouth, hazy memories of what had happened came rushing back to me. I looked out the huge window at the daylight and tried to piece together where the previous night had led.” She stops again and I’m feeling poisoned by my own thoughts. Sitting up straighter, I try to calm my breathing so I can speak, but she starts again before I can say anything.
