Erik, Elliot, and Randy had swung by the kitchen at some point and asked if there was anything they could help with, particularly when they saw the frazzled deer eyes on Cierra after Amy Henry spilled her IPA all over a tray of freshly made charcuterie.
“Could you get people outside or into the living room?”
“No problem, I can do that,” Randy said. Then, to the delight of most of the women in the room, Randy peeled off his shirt and announced that everyone should join him outside for a moonlit beach stroll and cocktail, which oddly worked.
With the guests amply distracted, Cierra could finish the final touches for dinner. Mia dispersed the floral arrangements and ensured there were enough water stations on the main level, albeit with minimal communication. Cierra sliced and mixed fresh herbs as a last flourish to the Tuscan pasta salad and watermelon-cucumber bites she’d prepared. She’d also made grilled chicken, shrimp, and fresh vegetable skewers.
There were so many people strewn about she decided that, instead of serving by the plate, she’d just set out food buffet-style, and they could help themselves when needed — it wasdinner the following evening where the formality mattered; this was just the welcome evening, and most everyone was tired from the travel — especially her.
In the main dining room, she set up trays of food along the glass tabletop, accompanied by white porcelain plates and cutlery. She did the same in the living room and had one last stop for the extended balcony.
The beachfront property overlooked a magnificent Atlantic view; the tides were splashing playfully along the coastline, and the stars were on full display. The volleyball game Randy had begun as an initial diversion had long since ended, but many in attendance were still outside in little groups, chatting and enjoying the peace of the warm Carolina evening.
Just before crossing the threshold of the balcony, she saw Mia running toward her, her face distressed, and with wild eyes. Actually, maybe running wasn’t the right word. It was more like an agitated speed-walk, trying not to catch the attention of others but unmistakably the look of one trying to escape or alert. When Mia made eye contact with Cierra, instead of looking away, she increased her speed and started mouthing something Cierra couldn’t quite make out. Considering her friend had been giving her the silent treatment up until that point, Cierra knew that something had gone horribly wrong.
Cierra placed her colorful trays of food on the table, momentarily diverting her attention away from Mia and onto the pool area where her friend had just come from. String lights held soft yellow orbs floating above the pool and illuminated colorfully dressed guests.
And then she saw it.
A woman in her mid-to-late thirties with thick, sleek hair clipped up in an up-do was in mid-conversation. Her thin frame was displayed in a periwinkle, form-fitting long dress. The dress was sleeveless, exposing her toned, long arms, extendingdown to her hands, which were perfectly manicured. One of the investors or a significant other, Cierra had assumed, although she must have arrived later than the New York crew.
But it was the man she was talking to that had drawn Cierra’s attention. He was presumably her husband, by the way she slowly rubbed her hand on his chest. Her wedding ring was so big it glistened under the string of lights from fifty feet away. The two shared a kiss that looked so intimate Cierra felt uncomfortable watching, but she didn’t have the option of looking away. She had to be sure she was seeing what she thought she was. Because she knew that kiss. And she knew that man.
She dropped the glass she was holding, and the sound of the crash caused some people to look in her direction. The woman turned around to see where the commotion had come from, as did her husband, whose face dropped in mortification upon seeing Cierra.
When Julian told her he’d be away on a family trip, he hadn’t mentioned hiswife.
“Cierra, I need to tell you—” Mia started, panting, only to see Cierra frozen in place on the balcony as if she’d seen a ghost.
Without a word, eyes welling up with tears, Cierra bolted to the front door. Desperate for air, and for answers.
Darkness surrounded the view from the front porch, with black outlines of oaks and maples against a deep midnight background. Unlike the back of the home, which opened out to a picturesque beachy oasis filled with laughter and people, the mansion’s veranda was the only sign of light for the vast grounds surrounding the home. From a distance, maybe two hundred feet, she thought she could make out a family walking their dog, and Cierra couldn’t help but wonder what secrets the parentsmight be hiding from the child, and each other, to keep the peace.
Cierra smacked the back of her thigh, then brought her hand up to see the bloody black smudge of the mosquito that had attached itself to her. She was seeing red.
Piecing together the past three months felt like calculus. What had she missed? What couldn’t she see?He met my fucking family,she thought.
She could make more sense of the beginning of their relationship. He had always chosen where they went. Was it because he was thoughtful or because he wanted control? Careful to avoid neighborhoods or places he could get caught — like a well-attended art fair, for instance. The trips to Vermont, keeping his “city” life and “country” life separate, his insistence on privacy and not having social media. It was never about that; it was about keeping the respective women in his life as far apart as physically possible.
On their first date, she’d told him she worked for a founder of Sincha, and he couldn’t recall how he knew the name. But now it made sense: His wife was an investor. Someone like her probably had a portfolio of companies; it made sense if Julian didn’t keep track of each one. And when she’d told him about this weekend, she hadn’t used the wordsSincha Summitspecifically, had she? Even if she had, she remembered how distant he’d seemed the past week. Like he wasn’t really listening to her, which had happened more often than she had previously thought, she now realized. Like how he didn’t even remember network name of the show she was applying for.
Cierra let out a cynical, dark laugh.
How stupid could she get? Of course he wasn’t real. Did she actually think Julian Torres, with his fancy houses and charm, could truly fall for someone like her? She crossed her arms, threw her head back, and sighed in disappointment.
Rejected. Again. But this wasn’t anything like Harry. No, this was something completely different, because at least Harry had taken her seriously; he had wanted a future with her, at least in the beginning. That relationship was real, and he ended it for legitimate reasons. With Julian, she felt used, betrayed, and completely unvalued. Just some side character in his game of life to be played with and discarded. It felt sick that, in her gross misjudgment of Erik, she ended up in the exact position she thought she was avoiding.
Erik.The same man who had built her up when she had expressed doubts about creating content, had celebrated her wins no matter how big or small, and who had taken care of her when she was having a panic attack on the side of a country road.
She shook her head, and wiped away hot, salty tears with her wrist. The worst part of all this was that she had no clue how to handle it. Firstly, she was at work, and she couldn’t risk doing anything that would put her job in jeopardy (like walking over to Julian, throwing a drink in his face, and calling him a raging-piece-of-shit in front of all the investors, for instance). Then there was the business of what she should do with regard to the wife. She and Julian were over; there was no doubt about that. But in these situations, telling the wife seemed like a dangerous game of Russian roulette. On one hand, she felt a duty to let her know her husband was not just unfaithful, but had carried on a full-fledged relationship under her nose. God, the more she thought about the depth of deceit, the more it made her stomach roll over.
On the other hand, Cierra couldn’t help but think of the horror stories of when truth-telling went south. What if the wife didn’t believe her? What if she thought this was a plot to get attention, or even worse, what if the wifebelievedthat an affair had happened — but blamed Cierra instead? What if the wife went straight to Zelda, telling her that her private chef was ahome wrecker? The social circle of the rich in New York, hell, the country, was small. No one wanted someone in their home with that kind of reputation.
Overwhelmed by the slew of possibilities and the fuckery of her life, she swiped another angry tear from her eye. And as she did so, she could hear quick, muffled talking on the other side of the door. The family walking their dog was nowhere in sight.
Hearing the latch of the front door open, Cierra took a deep breath and stood up from the porch steps, brushing off any debris from her pants and making a concerted effort to look normal. But when she turned around, she saw Julian standing on the porch and Mia looking indignant in the doorway.
“I told him he could fuck off, but he insisted on coming out,” Mia said with fire in her eyes and her hand braced on the door’s edge.
