Past Imperfect (21 page)

A cute giggle escapes her. My hands move down to the bottom of her dress. Hooking my fingers under the hem, I slide it up. Suddenly there is a loud knock on my door, jolting both of us out of the moment. Mabry spins around to face me. She runs her palms down her dress, and then up around her hair, tucking in any stray pieces. I try to calm my perfectly good, but wasted hard on. I’m combing my fingers through my hair while Mabry’s putting her glasses back on, just as the door opens and my brother Peyton sticks his head in.

“You’re supposed to wait until somebody says come in,” I growl at him in frustration.

“Now, what or who could you be
doing
that would be inappropriate for me to see? Oh, hi ya, Mabry.”

“Peyton, you’re such a dick…” I say.

Mabry places her hand on my chest, stopping me from laying further into my brother. She keeps eye contact with me as she stands and says, “I need to get going. I’m meeting Sylvie.”

“Again? You two had a girl’s night just a couple of days ago.”

“She’s having guy trouble. Since I found the most perfect Mr. Perfect in the world, she wants some pointers,” she says in a low voice, not wanting Peyton to hear.

“Well, lookie who’s full of cheese today.” I grin, then lean in, kissing her on the forehead, and whisper, “Can I come by tonight?”

“Yes, please. I’ll text you when I’m home.” Her face lights up with a gorgeous smile before she turns and walks toward the door.

“Mabry,” Peyton says, standing up straight as she approaches.

“Peyton,” Mabry says, walking out.

Peyton doesn’t hide his admiring glare of Mabry as she passes him. “Mmmm, that’s one fine piece of…”

“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, cutting him off.

“Dad wants us in his office now.”

“For what?”

“Don’t know, bro, but he looks pissed.”

“He always looks pissed,” I point out.

“Yeah, well, he looks exceptionally pissed today.”

The air is stifling in my father’s office or maybe it just feels that way to me. He’s sitting behind his massive desk, his face partially hidden in shadow with his chin resting on his laced fingers. He doesn’t make a move or a sound to greet Peyton and me as we enter. Both of us know instinctively to sit in front of his desk in silence until he’s ready to speak. As the seconds tick by, I occupy my mind with thoughts of being with Mabry and finding out if she is, in fact, wearing a garter.

“I’m glad you’re smiling now because you won’t be in a few minutes.”

“What?” I ask, jolted out of my Mabry haze by the deep baritone of my father’s voice. I glance over at a chuckling Peyton.

My father’s cold piercing eyes fixate on me. He’s already being condescending with just one look. “Do you know a Rebecca Hyams?” he asks in a stern accusatory tone.

The answer “no” is on the tip of my tongue because at first the name didn’t ring a bell. I always knew her as Becca. Once it sank in, so did my chest and stomach.

“I knew her at Duke.” My answer sounds slightly defensive.

“Did you fuck her?” He says it so bluntly it catches me off guard.

“Damn, way to get to the point, Dad,” Peyton remarks.

The best way to handle my father is to answer his questions as straightforward as possible using the minimal amount of words. “Yes.”

“Were you dating? Was it a relationship?”

“No. We were together just a handful of times. I didn’t even know her that well.” A pang of guilt shot through me. Every word that comes out of my mouth is true, but it feels as if I’m belittling Becca’s impact on my life somehow.

“So, no “I love you’s” ever passed between the two of you?” he asks, continuing the interrogation.

I hesitate, remembering the night Becca told me she loved me. “No. Why are you asking me about Becca?” Instead of just coming right out with the information, he’s goading me. I’m getting irritated with his little game of twenty questions.

“She committed suicide while at Duke, but I’m sure you knew that already.” He leans back in his leather chair.

“What’s that got to do with Brad?” Peyton chimes in.

“When was the last time you saw her, Bradley?”

“I guess during my second year in law school, so about two years ago.”

“Specifically, when was the last time you laid eyes on her?” He’s in full lawyer mode now.

I’m getting more and more uncomfortable with each question, but I suppress the urge to shift in my seat. Staying still and grounded shows strength and confidence. Moving about and fidgeting shows your opponent that your nerves are surfacing. This has been drilled into my head by my father since before I entered law school. My eyes are pointed directly at him, but I’m looking over his shoulder at the row of law books that line his bookshelves. I didn’t want to answer “specifically” when I saw her last.

“That night,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?”

My glare moves to meet his. Clearing my throat, I repeat my answer, “That night. I saw her the night she committed suicide.”

“Fuuuck.” I hear Peyton mutter.

“Now you answer my question. Why are you asking me about Becca?”

Leaning forward, he shuffles through some papers in front of him, picks up one, and tosses it across the desk toward me. I glance down at the document. “Because her parents are bringing a wrongful death lawsuit against you,
Son
.”

I immediately look up at him when I hear the venomous sound that comes from his mouth when he calls me “son”
.

“I don’t understand,” I say, slightly dazed.

“Well, it’s pretty simple. They claim you were directly responsible for the death of their daughter.”

All the air leaves my lungs. I had worked hard to get past the guilt I felt regarding my connection with Becca’s death, but it all came rushing back with that one sentence. My past is about to meet my present.

Mabry.

“How is that possible?” Peyton asks. “She committed suicide. She decided to take her own life. This is total bullshit.”

“They don’t even know me. How can they think I had anything to do with her death?”

“Apparently there’s a letter that implicates you as being the major cause of her distressed mental state which caused her to take her own life.” He spouts out the information as if I’m a client. A client he can’t stand to represent.

“Brad, listen, this shit isn’t going to make it to court,” Peyton says.

I stare straight ahead in silence. I have so many thoughts and feelings whirling around inside of me, but I block them all out. There’s only one thing I’m able to focus on.

Mabry.

“Peyton’s right. This won’t make it to court. The docket is so backed up it would take years. Besides, this is a frivolous suit. No judge in his right mind would even take the time to consider hearing it. My guess is they want money, plain and simple. They see a cash cow and are ready to pounce,” my father explains.

“How much?” I ask.

“One point two million.”

A whistle shoots from Peyton’s mouth.

“Fuck, I don’t have that kind of money.”

“No, but the firm and I do.” My father’s eyes burn into me. His words are full of sarcasm.

“It’s been two years. Why now?”

Mabry.

“They claim they’ve been too overwhelmed with grief to take action until now. I think it’s taken them this long to find a lawyer who would take the case.”

“Who’s their lawyer,” Peyton inquires.

“Tennyson McGuire.”

Fuck me.

“Shit, he’s good,” Peyton says.

“Not only that, he’s hungry. He knows this suit will garner him attention even if he’s able to squeeze just a dime out of us. Most likely, they’ll want to deal. They’ll come down some on the amount and drop the case if we go ahead and pay up. They know we don’t want this to get out and have the family name and reputation of the firm dragged through the mud. I’ll have Tina set up the meeting.” He turns toward his computer and clicks away at something.

Peyton and I look at each other, wondering if we are free to go. We both hesitate for a moment before standing.

“Peyton, let me speak to your brother alone, please,” my father says abruptly, never looking at us.

Peyton glances over at me before exiting.

“Sit down, Bradley,” he commands. He swivels his chair in my direction and leans back. His expression flat. “Did you have anything to do with this girl’s death?”

I’m not sure how to answer his question. Technically, no, I didn’t do anything besides break up with Becca. I had no knowledge then of her mental status or that she was going to kill herself. But I’ve always felt partially responsible, and apparently I am since Becca mentions me in her letter.

Mabry.

“I broke up with her that night.”

“Goddammit!” His eyes blaze as he clamps down on his jaw. He sits there for a moment, jaw clenched so tight causing muscle in his neck to twitch. He’s considering his next verbal assault.

I need to get out of here and be alone, so I can think straight. I decide to swallow my pride. “I’m sorry.”

“This is one expensive fuck, Bradley. I hope this teaches you to be more discriminating and to stop putting your dick into every hole that walks by.”

“You mean like you,
Dad
?” I sneer.

“Oh, here we go. The blame game. My personal life never interfered with raising you. I provided well for both you and your brother. You had everything you needed growing up.”

“Except a father.” I bolt out of the chair and head to my office, never looking back at him.

Back in my office I continuously pace the floor. I can’t stop thinking about Mabry. Running my hands up my face and through my hair, I feel my heart pounding hard against my chest. I loosen my tie, trying to stop the choking sensation in my throat. I walk to the window and brace my hands on either side of the frame. Looking out, I’m able to see the Charleston Harbor. Watching the waves, I try to calm my breathing and think clearly. I keep telling myself that I have no idea what her reaction will be when I tell her about Becca, but the gnawing sensation I feel deep in the pit of my stomach tells me everything is about to break.

Please God, don’t let me lose her over this.

My phone chirps with a text. I pull it from my pocket and look down at a picture of Mabry’s legs, her stilettos and her sheer black stockings hooked to a black garter.

Mabry: Hey sexy beast. I’m waiting 4 u.

I consider making up an excuse not to go over, but know I have to talk to her before she hears this from anyone else. I’m afraid that once the sun comes up tomorrow the office rumor mill will be in full swing. Letting out a deep sigh, I reluctantly type out a response and hit send.

Brad: B right there. I love u.

As I head over to Mabry’s, I try to mentally prepare for my past to collide with my present, and pray that my future with her doesn’t become a casualty.

I hated lying to Brad tonight about where I was going after work. I’m just not ready to tell him I’m seeing a counselor. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want him to view me as weak. I’ve always thought going to any type of counseling was a sign of weakness. It probably comes from the fact that my dad never took me after my mom’s death. I had convinced myself that I just had to suck it up and get over it by myself. Of course, at the time I was fine with that. I didn’t want to talk about it to anyone. Looking back now, I can see how irresponsible and thoughtless it was of him. I wonder how different our lives and relationship would have been if he had sought help for both of us back then.

A bell chimes as I enter the counseling office of Jennifer Clark. The waiting room is decorated in calming brown, green, and cream hues. An overstuffed sofa is against one wall, flanked by two small end tables, with matching chairs facing it. A stack of out dated magazines on meditation and self-help are spread across the coffee table between the sofa and chairs. The lighting is dim, with just a few lamps in use. The sound of synthesized angel harps floats out of a boom-box and mixes with the trickling of water from a small fountain in the corner of the room. The room reeks of jasmine and has several green plants sitting around. It’s like a New Age purgatory.

I take a seat and scan through one of the magazines, needing to keep my hands and mind occupied. I sit alone for several minutes struggling with whether or not to stay or leave. Being here makes me uncomfortable despite the clichéd calming elements. I’m afraid of what questions she’s going to ask me, my answers to them, and what they’ll reveal about me. I’m afraid I’ve inherited more from my mother than just my looks and the counselor will finally be the person to voice what I’m terrified of, a future of becoming just like Mom. When I hear the music of Yanni play, I decide this isn’t for me. Tossing the meditation mag on the table, I stand, but then I hear the sound of a door opening down the short hallway leading to the back of the office. My hand reaches for the doorknob, but before I’m able to make my escape, a woman takes a few steps in my direction.

“Mabry Darnell?” she asks.

I cringe just before turning to face her, knowing I now have to go through with the appointment. “Yes, I’m Mabry Darnell.”