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Simone had finally returned Kwame’s call before she’d left Donette’s for the airport. They compared notes and discoveries as if they were two reporters on a case. Kwame divulged what Sylvester had told him off the record, that he saw Wade leaving campus with Roger and Larry, and he’d also overheard Roger throwing around the N-word. She, in turn, recounted to him how she made the connection with Marjorie, went to see the woman, and that’s how she learned Wade’s body was buried right beneath where she’d stood on that very farm. “Hold up. You found the body?” There was shock in Kwame’s reaction, and under it, traces of being impressed. She’d enjoyed that a little too much, given the circumstances. The moment of floating on her gross, giddy pride was short-lived when Kwame yanked her right back to reality.
“You know, this is bigger than us now, bigger than my story. Meaning… We… I… have to call the authorities. No way I could live with sitting on this. And if I know you at all, you can’t either?”
She didn’t feel the need to respond, because Kwame did her the honor of posing the question as rhetorical. Of course she couldn’t live with herself keeping a secret like this.
But Kwame had one more thing to add. “I’m sorry, Simone.”
“For what, you didn’t do anything?”
“I did, though. I feel like I brought this on. I never wanted to fuck up your life, though. But also… I’m sorry for a lot of things. Not just this. And I hope we can—”
Simone interrupted him. “I can’t right now…”
And here is Simone once again preoccupied thinking about Kwame, while Alex, who was already pale and shaky enough these last few hours, becomes even more dejected. She might have preferred anger, but he doesn’t seem to have it in him. Only hurt.
“Oh, right, of course. Fucking Kwame. Because he cares so much about justice. What a joke. The only reason he started all of this is because he has some sort of chip on his shoulder about me. You could stop him, you know? I’m sure he would do anything for you, including killing the story.”
“Maybe. But whatever story Kwame does or doesn’t pursue isn’t really the point. We still have to do what’s right. This isn’t personal, Alex, meaning it’s not about you. It’s not even about me.”
“So what is it about?”
“Doing the right thing.”
“And what’s ‘right’ is that we lose everything? Become pariahs in our hometown. Potentially lose the sale of the company and have to file for bankruptcy?”
“Maybe it’s possible to hold off on all this getting out for a little while, at least to give the sale some time to go through? But even still, we have to ask ourselves what’s important. What are we really losing? The cars? The house? Private schools? Jewelry? Because I don’t need all of that.”
Simone doesn’t expect laughter, but Alex lets loose a bitter guffaw, grabbing at his stomach like this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard.
“I don’t know if you’re trying to kid yourself, or me, but come on. You love your Range Rover and the jewelry and all those handbags you collect like Lang collects those ridiculous Pokémon cards. You love not having to think about money or commuting or stressing about deadlines. You didn’t seem to mind when I was blowing through my trust fund to support us… to support you. You know, I was going to surprise you with the house of your dreams? The one we toured over on Landover? And the whole time I was writing that check to the Realtor, I was thinking, maybe this will keep my wife happy. It’s like I’m always putting kindling in the fire to keep it burning… a ring, a trip, a dress… a house. And to do that I had to give up on my dreams. You think I actually wanted to be CEO at Hartwell?” The guffaw is back, more unhinged than bitter.
Simone has to sit down; she has to run her sweaty palms up and down her thighs and throw her head back to try to take in any air that her lungs seem to refuse. Only then will she be able to respond. All of this takes minutes. Minutes when Alex sits and smirks at her, defensive and self-righteous. That her voice, when it finally comes, is so calm, eerily calm, is an accomplishment.
“You know what, Alex? I would actually kill for a commute and deadlines and work stress. And the fact that you think I care so much about cars, handbags, or diamonds makes me feel like you actually don’t know me at all. And the fact that you apparently made moves to buy a house—a whole-ass multimillion-dollar house—without so much as mentioning it to me tells me I don’t know you at all. You’re the one who’s afraid of losing this. The company, the reputation, the status. I never pressured you for any of it. And I most certainly never asked you to give up your dreams.”
“I couldn’t exactly go be a high school history teacher with a wife and infant son to take care of, could I?”
“Of course you could have! Do you know how many teachers have wives and infant sons? Jesus! Do you even hear yourself? You went back to work at Hartwell out of some need to prove yourself to your grandfather. Don’t blame me for that. It’s time you started owning your choices.”
And it’s time for Simone to start owning hers as well. It may be too late for some things, but not that.
They sit in silence for so long, the moonlight grows stronger through the windows, reflecting against the snow outside and casting shadows that expand in the room along with the tension. It feels like whatever is said next is going to shift the scales irrevocably and neither of them wants to do that, so they just stare at the stuffed stag head opposite them as if the long-dead, glassy-eyed creature holds the answers to what’s to become of them, their future.
“Can I ask you a question, Simone?”
“Sure.”
“Do you even still love me? Or are you in love with him?”
Technically that’s two questions, but they might as well be one, in Alex’s mind, as inextricably linked as the answers are. And the answer is singular too: yes.
“I love you, Alex. I do.” She stops herself before offering a “but” or any other disclaimers or caveats. Out of respect for their history, their connection, their beautiful son, she leaves it at that for now.
“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to lose our life. Is that so wrong?” The desperation in Alex’s eyes would have once made her feel needed and adored, but now it only generates a different feeling that she can’t quite name but that makes the inside of her skin itch.
“It’s not wrong. But trying to pretend we don’t know what we know would be wrong too. We have an example to set for our son. What happened to Wade will eventually come to light, and we will have to weather that. We have to reckon with what your grandfather did. It’s not right or even possible to just close your eyes and ignore everything that’s happened. Pretend there are no consequences, no repercussions. That’s not how life works.”
“Or marriage, I guess?”
