A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (41 page)

Chapter Fifteen

“You okay, miss? Where can I bring you?”

I can’t answer. I’m trying to catch my breath between sobs. I shake my head. “Just drive.” My phone starts ringing in my purse. I don’t answer it; I don’t even look at who’s calling.

I can’t go to my apartment. I’m not ready to talk to anyone—not even Camille and Bridget. I’d get on a plane if I could.
Shit, the plane! Fuck!

We drive and drive for a good, long while when I finally tell the cabbie the address of my practice room.

Once I arrive, the building is closed, of course, but my fancy birthday gift came with an exterior door key. Somehow I’ve held onto my clutch this whole time and dig out my keys. I can barely see the keyhole through my tears. My phone rings again. Actually, it’s not stopped ringing. I shut it down. Scrambling inside, I reach my practice room, flick on the overhead light, and sit in the gritty florescent brightness, trying to comprehend all that just happened, which seems impossible.

How can I be reliving my wedding day when I wasn’t even getting married?
But it’s all the same—the same incomprehension, the same stabbing pain, the same question:
why? Why would he do this? Why would he fly back and forth to see me, invite me on location, on his tour, ask me to meet his family if he was sleeping with someone else? Why can’t I ever be enough for someone?

My mind races in circles of unanswerable questions. Questions only he can answer . . . but how can I trust his answers? I can’t even imagine seeing him right now . . . maybe not ever. And that thought makes me sob even harder.

He’s probably tried calling Camille and Bridget. I should tell them I’m okay, at least. I turn on my phone and am greeted by a stream of pings. I check the recent calls folder.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Camille.

Dan.

Dan.

Dan.

Bridget.

On and on—nearly all of them are Dan. So many messages, but I ignore them and call Camille’s cell.

“Claire!” Camille answers quickly. “Are you all right? Where are you? We’re coming to get you.”

I hear Dan in the background nearly yelling. Camille shushes him.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m fine. I’m safe, and I don’t want to talk right now. I can’t.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know.” I end the call and shut the phone off again.

My eyes sting. I rest my head on the piano; my mind is numb yet racing. I lift the fall, strike a C, then a D, and continue to poke the keys haphazardly, while my worn-out brain wonders why I seem to be attracted to liars.
Maybe I’ll just never find happiness in love. Maybe I’m one of those people who’s successful in other ways, but not in love. I’ll just drift from moment to moment in life, never really feeling fulfilled.

Poke. Poke.

Maybe music is my love. Maybe I just need to accept it, and accept that—fuck!—my mother’s right. Dan’s a liar . . . and I’m a fool. A fucking naïve idiot who’s foolish enough to think I could actually be happy . . . with a fucking lying actor, of all people.

Out of habit, I begin stroking the keys as I normally would. Harmony. Melody. And although I may just throw up, I’m somehow soothed by the notes, finding a brief reprieve in them.

I play and play, losing the time but finding the melody, then the harmony and . . . I discover the missing piece to my composition. I’m momentarily elated, and then like a haul of bricks dumped on my head, I realize again why I’m here in the middle of the night, alone.

I mop up another round of tears, and turn on my cell again to check the time. Four thirty-five a.m. I’ve missed the plane, and there are twenty-seven messages from Dan, a combined eight from Camille and Bridget, and one from Colin.
Colin?
Interesting, but not enough to call him back. I’m exhausted and spent from head to toe. That last round of tears took all I had left. I have to head home; I call for an Uber.

In the cab, I note the sky is still deep in slumber, but there’s a sliver of light on its edge. We pull up outside my apartment and I scan around, just in case. No sign of Dan. I pay and finally get inside. I want out of this dress—my arms are freezing. Inserting the key in the apartment door, I click the lock as quietly as possible and open it.

Camille and Bridget are passed out on the couch and in the chair. I tiptoe over to cover them. They don’t look comfortable. I’m just about to cover Camille when, with her eyes still closed, she asks, “What happened?”

She blinks and sits up. Perhaps it’s her gentle voice, but I burst into tears again. Bridget wakes up. “You’re home!” Bridget sits up, too.

Camille pulls me next to her and hugs me. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says, quietly, rubbing my back. “He only left a little while ago to catch the plane.”

I sit up and take a few breaths. Camille reaches over to grab me some tissues. “What did he say?” I ask as I wipe my face.

Camille raises her eyebrows and sighs. “He’s upset, but he wouldn’t really tell us what happened. He said he really needed to talk to
you
.”

“That’s all he said?”

Camille nods. “He said this was something he had to talk to you about privately. He was really upset Claire—like near tears upset. What did he do?”

“He slept with Sophie.”

“What?”
they yell in unison.

I nod and recount the nauseating details of what Sophie said.

“Maybe she was lying,” Bridget says.

I shake my head. “When I turned to look at him, and he saw me talking to Sophie, it was so fucking obvious on his face that it was true. And then, just before I got into the cab, I asked him if it was true, and all he said was that he wanted us to talk. He did it.”

We’re silent for a long while, except for me sobbing, which seems extra loud this early in the morning.

Camille rubs my back again as my cries slowly subside and I regain control. “There has to be more to it. Sophie must have twisted things. I just can’t see Dan screwing someone behind your back, let alone her, without there being more to it.”

“Like what? How can this be a misunderstanding of some kind? They fucked, Camille. Dan fucked Sophie.” I burst into tears again. My eyes, my chest—all of me hurts.

We’re silent again, while this round of tears runs its course, but then Bridget says, “I’m with Camille. Something doesn’t add up. Plus, he looked like he was going to throw up.”

“Because he got caught!”

“No, because . . . well, I’m not sure why. If he was two-timing you, I don’t think he’d be so . . . what word am I looking for?” She looks at Camille.

“Desperate?”

“Yeah, desperate. He couldn’t sit down, Claire. He had a hard time even breathing. Camille had to make him sit and drink water. He literally looked like he was about to cry. That’s not how a guy reacts to being caught.”

“You think Sophie was lying? Why didn’t he say so when I asked if it was true, then?”

Camille shrugs, and Bridget shakes her head. “No idea. Maybe he was scared? But if I didn’t think his reaction here was genuine, I would have hurt him. You know that,” Camille says.

Bridget snickers. “It would have been ugly.”

“Maybe you should call him,” Camille says, handing me another tissue.

“He’s on a plane.”

Bridget gasps, covering her mouth. “Oh my God! You were supposed to go, too!”

“I can’t imagine calling him. How could I have this conversation over the phone?”

“Then you should get your ass to London,” Camille suggests.

I shake my head. “I can’t go to London. Oh my God, no. I’ll . . . I’ll just stay here.”

Camille huffs. “You are not staying here for Christmas, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why not?”

Camille cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes at me. “Why not? Because it’s Christmas, and you can’t be alone on Christmas. That would be horrible and infinitely depressing. No. Either you go to London and talk to him or you go home to Rita. And won’t that be a fun time.”

“Call my mother and tell her I’m coming home? No. No. No. She’ll be all over me with questions, and I honestly just
want
to be alone.”

Camille and Bridget exchange a look. “I’m not going to let you stay here. It’s Christmas Eve Day already—”

“Like tomorrow’s Christmas, Claire,” Bridget says.

“That’s what Christmas Eve Day means, Bridget,” Camille says as if Bridget is crazy.

“Right, right, right. Sorry. I’m loopy.”

Camille turns back to me. “Anyway, Claire, you’ll have to decide pretty quickly.”

“I’ll go back with one of you.”

Bridget stands and comes to me. Leaning over, she strokes my face. “Obviously, I’m tired and need to sleep. I’m glad you’re home, safe, but Camille’s right. You can’t stay here alone, and you’re not coming home with me. My mom is making her rice pudding, and I already have to share it with my Uncle Ray. I’m not splitting it a third way. Sorry.” She grins and kisses me on the head. “Night.”

Camille purses her lips in her playful, sassy way. “You’re not coming with me, either. My mother’s entire family is coming from Texas, so I’ll be lucky if
I
have a place to sleep.” She pauses then leans in to whisper, “Go to London. You can’t avoid this.” She hugs me tightly and then says, “I’m heading to bed, too. You need sleep. Your eyes are so red. You’re too pretty to be this sad.” She heads to her room.

In my room, I finally take off the dress and put on the sweatpants, not because I’m depressed, even though I am, but because it’s my favorite thing to wear to bed. I slide into my cold bed and lie there, thinking how differently tonight turned out. I flip onto my side. Dan was supposed to be here, next to me, sleeping or otherwise. More tears escape.

I must have fallen asleep because I wake to Bridget sitting on my bed, crunching mouthfuls of Lucky Charms and watching me.

I shift to see her better. “What are you doing, creeper?”

She smiles, her cheeks stuffed like a squirrel. “Watching you.”

“Yeah, I know. Why?”

“Because you were talking in your sleep and calling me.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. What was your dream about? Was I burning your hideous sweatpants?”

I rub my eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“Boo.” She fits another bite into her mouth. “How are you feeling?”

The reality of everything smacks me hard. “Really sad.”

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

I’m just about to answer when my phone rings. My heart sinks.
Is it Dan?
I check my phone. “It’s my mom.”

Bridget nods, whispers, “Good luck,” and leaves.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey. Are you in England already?”

“No, the plane . . . got delayed.”

“Oh, well, you can always cancel London and come home—there’ll be plenty of food, as always.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Are you nervous to meet his family? Make sure you dress well.”

I roll my eyes. She has no idea that I may never meet them, that it might be over already, and I may spend the holiday at home. Again.
Story of my fucking life!

“Are you all set for tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes. The meat’s marinating in the fridge, and all the presents are wrapped. The house is completely decorated. We went with a white pine this year, too. It’s really beautiful. I’m sorry you’ll miss it.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely. It’s always nice.”

“Are you okay, honey? You don’t sound like you. You sound, I don’t know, sad. Did Dan hurt you? Are you regretting saying yes to London?” She spits it out, fast and hopeful. It’s like she’s living inside my head!
Get out!
“I’ve set a place for you just in case. I had a feeling I should.”

I’ve only just stopped crying when I’m crying again, and it’s painful holding in the hard sobs building in my chest. She can’t know. She’ll rub it in that she was right. “I’m just tired.”

She sighs. “Well, please call me when you arrive in London.”

“Sure. Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“Merry Christmas, Claire.”

Bridget appears in my doorway a moment later. “You look horrible. What’d she say?”

I take a deep breath. “It’s like she knows. Were there news stories out already or something?”

“Yes, but the good news is that with Christmas being tomorrow, I don’t think it’s as big a story as it might be otherwise.”

“Which means my mom probably hasn’t had time to investigate it. Ugh. There’s just no way I can go home. She’ll rub it in that she was right. And she was right, by the way. She’s
always
fucking right! Why is that?”

“She is not! But at least she’s made up your mind for you.”

“So I’m just going to show up at his parents’ house? That’s ridiculous.”

“Looks like it’s your only option. Camille says she’s shoving you out the door and locking it after taking your keys. She knows you’ll try to avoid going anywhere, which is true.”

Camille pokes her head in the door. “How are we doing today?”

“You’re going to lock me out?”

“Yes. Now get showered. I’m calling a cab for you in a half hour.”

“What?”

“Up! Up, up!” Camille rips the covers off me.

“Oh my God! She’s got the sweatpants on!” Bridget says, pointing. “Give me those!” She dives forward and grabs at my ankles.

I try to kick her off. “No! What are you two doing? Leave me alone. Why aren’t you being supportive?”

“We are being supportive. We’re making you deal with your life,” Camille says.

Bridget’s wrestling me and pulling at the pants. “Stop being so difficult!”

Camille laughs as I continue to thrash.

“He cheated on me! It’s like you don’t care!”