“And we’ve had confirmation from the Jacksonville Zoo Animal Ambassador Program,” says Cheryl, ticking another thing off her list. “They’ll be there to set up at 6:30 p.m., and they’ll stay for one hour.”
“And they’re bringing a gopher tortoise?” I say, tapping out the last line of my email.
“Yes, and his name is Bandit,” she replies. “I mean, just look at that face.” She flashes me her phone screen over top of my laptop, showing me a video of a large gopher tortoise eating lettuce.
“Ugh, the strong silent type and he’s health-conscious? Have I just met my soulmate?” I tease.
She laughs, tucking her phone away as she rattles off three more things from her list. We’ve been like a hive of buzzing bees in the office all day. Joey is over at the venue now, overseeing the DJ delivery and set-up. And Nancy is out haunting all the local party supply shops, trying to get us some emergency cutlery after our order apparently fell off the back of a truck.
I can plan events like this in my sleep, but it’s been fun to work with the team. Cheryl and Nancy have great connections in the area, and they’re good at networking. We’ve got several reps from other local nature conservancy groups coming, including our new friends at the FWC, the North Florida Land Trust, and the Duval Audubon Society.
Every Ray on the roster RSVP’d yes, and practically all of them are bringing a plus one. We have a whole range of Jacksonville personalities coming too—city council reps, prominent business owners, even a few other sports celebrities. At last count, I think we had six Jacksonville Jaguars coming with their wives, even some of the Jumbo Shrimp players. It will be a night by Jacksonville, for Jacksonville, with all the proceeds going to support our local dunes, nesting ground for the sea turtles.
“What did we decide about the balloons?” says Cheryl, still focused on her list.
“We nixed balloons. Environmental scourge, remember?”
“Oh, right,” she says with a laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Oh—and that box arrived for you while you stepped out for coffee,” she adds, pointing to a small box on the corner of her desk.
Her phone rings and she answers it, her voice chipper as she deals with some catering question. In moments, she’s pushing her way out of the office, arguing the price of bacon-wrapped dates. She likes to pace when she talks on the phone, and this office is too cramped. At the end of the hall is a terrace meant for smokers. Now it’s Cheryl’s mobile office. She storms away, leaving the door open.
As soon as she’s gone, I pick up the box perched on the edge of her desk. There’s no return address label. Again. I bring the box over to my desk. Picking up my letter opener, I slice under the flaps, breaking the tape. Heart in my throat, I drop the little knife with a clatter and peel back the top flaps of the box, peering inside.
“Oh god.”
Tears spring to my eyes as I take in the contents: a mess of printed photos, all of Ryan and me. I knew I was being followed, but I typically got the tingling sense when I was walking alone from the coffee shop to my car. Or a few times on the beach, walking with Rachel and her guys. I saw the occasional dark SUV, too, parked down the street. I made notes each time, just like Charlie suggested. But this is…
My stomach churns as I pick up a stack of the photos, flipping through them. Ryan going into the house on his crutches. Me coming out, bag over my shoulder, tumbler of iced tea in hand. Ryan and I getting into his car when I’m wearing the cherry dress. Our date night.
I flip through the next few photos. Yep, Ryan and I on our date. The photos are grainy, like they were taken outside through the glass. We’re talking, laughing as I’m leaning in over the table. The photos display a casual intimacy, a comfort.
I want to be sick. It’s such a violation.
I glance up sharply, looking around the small office. The photographer brought these here. He dropped them off. He was in this space. He likely watched and waited until I left to go on our coffee run, then brought the box up to Cheryl, posing as a delivery guy. My resolve hardens as I make a mental note. Install cameras. I’ll pay for them myself if I have to, but first thing Monday morning, I am putting a camera up in this office pointed right at the door.
I keep flipping through the stack in my hands.
Photos of us walking down the boardwalk, arm in arm. It’s night, the photos are dark, difficult to see anything. More photos of us at the beach, these in daylight. Ryan stands next to me, looking down at me like I’m his reason, while Ranger John explains how to stake out a nest mound. Fuck, there are children in these photos.
“Oh my god,” I say again, hands shaking as I drop the photos to my desk and grab out the next stack.
Ryan and I in the kitchen, taken through the back glass. The creeper got everything. Us arguing, kissing, the shedding of our clothes, us fucking against the counter. Ryan on his knees beneath me, my head tipped back in ecstasy. They’re all grainy, the zoom fighting the glare of the glass and the dim lighting, but you can see everything.
I feel numb. This man with the camera watched everything. Every moment Ryan and I shared in that kitchen, our walls crumbling, hearts colliding. He witnessed it all. He photographed it all. And he gave all the photos to Troy in exchange for money.
I drop the photos to the desk, and they scatter. Some slide off the edge, tumbling to the floor. I look around for two seconds before I snatch up my wastepaper basket and retch into it. My heart is pounding, pulse racing. I gasp for air, retching again, hands still shaking.
When nothing comes up, I drop the basket to the floor, turning my attention back to the mess on my desk. “Come on.” I dive inside the box with both hands, looking for something. Anything. Some heinous note with more cutting words, a list of demands, an envelope with a drop point for where he wants me to leave his blood money.
Because these photos aren’t for nothing. They can’t be. Troy wants me to know he has them. Why? Proof of an affair? He already had that with the other photos. I don’t doubt he can use his power and position to twist HR into firing me. He didn’t need more proof. So why do this? Why have these photos taken? Why have me followed?
“Fuck,” I cry, tipping all the photos out onto the desk. There’s nothing else in the box. No note. No demands.
And that’s when it hits me. I know exactly what he wants. And he knows this was the only way to get it. I pick up my phone off my desk, hating myself for walking right into his trap. But this is bigger than me now. These photos are proof of that.
Dialing the number I know by heart, I lift the phone to my ear and wait. The phone rings once, twice. Then it connects.
“This is Troy Owens,” comes his voice, deep and smooth through the phone.
Hearing his voice renders me silent. I open my mouth, but no words escape me.
“Hello? Who is this?”
Taking a deep breath, I dive in. “You have to stop.”
He sighs into the phone. “Tess. I was wondering when you’d finally call.”
“You have to stop,” I repeat, my gaze scanning over the mess of photos littering my desk.
“I’m assuming you got my note.”
“If by ‘note’ you mean this heinous box of photos, then yes. You had no right, Troy. This is harassment. And there are children in some of these photos, families—”
“I had every right to document evidence of my wife having an affair,” he counters. “And those aren’t even the only photos I have as evidence.”
“Fine. So, you have what you need, then. Divorce me. Take everything, and let’s be done with it,” I say. “I won’t contest. You can name any terms. You want my 401k? Have it. The Reds season tickets? They’re yours. I don’t even like baseball. I faked it for ten fucking years, much like how I faked most of my orgasms—”
He laughs into the phone, the sound cold and biting. “You think I did all this to divorce you faster? How are you not getting this? I don’t want a divorce, Tess. That was never in the cards for me. You’ve been pushing the divorce, not me. For years, it’s been your answer to everything. Too afraid to fight, too afraid to find the solution together. God, you’re like a broken fucking record.”
“No, what’s broken is this marriage,” I cry. “Beyond repair!”
“Nothing is ever so broken that it can’t be mended,” he retorts, and I can practically hear his mother’s calm, calculated voice in the words.
“You’re delusional. Troy, I am never coming back to you. I’ve moved on. Don’t believe me? Just look at the photos your creepy friend took for you. Those smiles? They’re genuine, Troy. Those orgasms he gave me in the kitchen? All real. Every one. And he gets me there so easily. I’ve never come so hard or so fast in my fucking life—”
“If you really cared about this asshole, you would have been more careful,” he taunts. “You would have steered well clear of him. But you’ve always been a stupid—”
“What are you talking about?” I cry, cutting him off.
“I’m talking about the USS Tess, flagship in the fleet for disaster. Only this time, you’re dragging your handsome hockey hero down with you.”
My heart stops. “Troy, what did you do?”
“You really didn’t think this through.” He laughs again, and the sound makes my blood run cold. “In your rush to show me what a selfish slut you really are, you pulled him right into the deep end with you. Did you even spare him a thought? No, because you only think about yourself and what you want.”
“Troy, don’t—”
“If you think the PR looks bad for you at our little firm, what will it look like when these photos get blasted all over the tabloids?” he challenges. “How do you think his team will appreciate seeing his name linked with yours in a messy adultery scandal?”
I’m shaking my head in stunned disbelief. He can’t be serious. He wouldn’t do this. “Troy—”
“And I bet a guy like that has some nice endorsement deals, doesn’t he?”
My heart stops.
“Yeah, I looked him up, and he’s only on a year-long contract with the Rays. I bet they’re making him an offer, right? Some kind of extension option or a fancy new trade deal?” He’s fishing, waiting for me to confirm. I say nothing, and he laughs again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Ours isn’t the only family business out there, Tess. The NHL, the Rays, his brand deals—they’ll all go running faster than rats on a sinking ship. Where will your sexy boy toy be then? You think he’ll still be interested in your stretched out pussy when he’s fired for all the bad press you brought him? A lifetime of hard work down the drain over one regrettable lay.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, panic rising.
“Can you imagine?” he teases, twisting the knife. He knows he’s got me now. I have to let him make his threats. “And these photos are graphic, Tessy. I particularly like the ones where you’re riding his face. Further proof that you’re selfish, even in sex. Why don’t you get on your knees for once?”
“You wouldn’t,” I say, trying to call his bluff. “You’re not going to put Ryan on blast because that just paints you as the weak man who couldn’t keep his woman. You don’t want the bad press of this any more than he does—”
“I’m past caring,” he shouts. “You don’t get to make a fool of me and make demands and just expect me to roll over and take it. That’s not how this works.”
“Troy, please—”
“We made a vow,” he shouts over me. “And I’ll be damned if you’re gonna waltz away with a flick of your little finger and break it. Who’s the weak one here, Tess? The one ready to stand and try and make this work, or the one on the run?”
I shut my eyes, trying to block out his cutting words. The way he oscillates between cutting me down and claiming he wants the marriage to work has my head spinning. I’m dizzy, I’m distracted, which is his whole freaking point. He wants me confused. He wants me upended.
I take hold of the only thing that provides me any point of anchor.
Ryan.
“Troy, you leave him out of this,” I demand, knowing my traitor of a voice sounds more like a plea. “He has nothing to do with any of this—”
“That’s not the story I’ll tell in the press. And that’s not the image those pictures will paint,” he counters, his self-righteous dominance seeping through the phone. It covers me like a toxic ooze, and I actually feel myself lifting the phone away from my ear. “Keep trying to have your way with me, and I’ll ruin you both, I swear to fucking God.”
“Leave him alone!”
“Then do as you’re fucking told for once in your spoiled goddamn life!”
I close my eyes tight, not letting the tears fall. He’s won this round. We both know it. He found my weakness. Love is always a weakness. Caring for other people leaves you open for heartbreak. When am I ever going to learn that lesson? Ryan is my weakness now, and Troy has a knife to his throat. I can’t even pretend not to care. Troy will see right through it.
“What are you telling me to do, Troy? What do you want? How do you win?”
“Come home,” he replies. “You’re done playing turtle rescue. And you’re done playing house with that jock asshole. Get on the next plane for Cincinnati. Come home, and we’ll discuss the terms of an amicable divorce in person. Two parties, behaving as loving, reasonable adults. Not one reasonable adult and one wild runaway.”
“I can’t just leave,” I cry, glancing around the office. “The fundraiser is tomorrow. I’ve been working on it for weeks, Troy. I can’t abandon it now. I can’t do that to Ilmari, to my volunteers. I can’t—”
“Fine,” he calls over me. “Then first thing Monday morning. Say your goodbyes to Rachel and her pack of assholes, then get on that plane. And don’t even think about playing house with your boy toy for another night. That’s over. Now. Break it off, or I’ll end you both.”
It’s a lie. I know it’s all a lie. If I go back to Cincinnati, he’ll just find more reasons to stonewall me. He’s never going to give me this divorce. The hope of an uncontested settlement is dead, bleeding all over my desk and the floor in the shape of these grainy photographs.
And now he has a hand at Ryan’s throat too. I never thought he’d take this step. I wanted to believe he was a coward, too spineless and weak. He’s like a boy picking the wings off a dragonfly, only bullying creatures he sees as too weak to fight back.
That’s when my heart stops cold.
Troy Owens always does the math. Always. He’s weighed Ryan and found him wanting too. What else does he have on him? What am I missing? Troy has always had a flair for the dramatic. This isn’t his last move. This is merely the setting of the board. His rook is sliding down the squares, boxing me in. The checkmate is yet to come. The thought terrifies me.
“I need your word that you’ll leave Ryan out of this,” I say, knowing I can’t believe him either way. “He’s innocent, Troy.”
“Don’t ask me for clemency,” he replies. “You’re the one with all the power here, Tess. You’ve always been the one with the power. You’ll decide whether he keeps his job or if he becomes tabloid fodder, just another disgraced pro athlete who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek.
“Hate and love are two sides of the same coin, honeybun. I’ll see you Monday.” Always needing to have the last word, he hangs up, leaving me standing in this mess, alone with my anguish and all my unanswered questions.
