Page 39 of Provoked

At one point Dina nods towards a young boy sitting in the corner of the old-fashioned floral couch, deep in a book almost bigger than he is. “That’s Dylan, Milo’s boy. He’s eight, but he’s being home-schooled. Or at least he attends school from home because the local grade school can’t keep up with him. He’s going to start some high school classes next fall. I got a fresh perspective of what Justin’s childhood must have been like when Dylan came along.” She pauses to take a sip of coffee. “I couldn’t see it as a kid myself, of course. He was just myannoying older brother who never seemed to have time for the rest of us mortals. But I think he was lonely. I know Dylan is. I wish he could know his uncle, just so he knows he’s not the only weird kid in the family.”

I blink at that, almost ready to defend the boy and point out that he’s not weird. But Dina didn’t say it to be mean. As I watch Dylan carefully turn the pages of the book, I can’t help but wonder what Justin would make of him. Would he be impatient with this version of his younger self or take him under his wing, piling even more books on his lap until the poor kid couldn’t move?

Dylan must feel my eyes on him because he looks up with a shy smile. I grin back at him, then turn my attention to the adults. “So, we’re agreed? We’ll propose a family interview with myself, Alice (Justin’s mom), Dina, Troy, and Milo? Five is a nice number, not overwhelming, but not minor either.”

Everyone nods. “The only problem is how to get in touch with the network. Should we try the local tip line for the regional affiliate? That seems like a long shot.” Troy, Justin’s middle brother, muses. He’s a plumber and I suspect this level of strategy doesn’t come into play with water pipes. But at least he’s making an effort.

I shake my head firmly. “No, I’m going to simply call the main office in New York. Something tells me they’ll put me through.”

And that’s exactly what I do. We already decided that our first choice was the direct competitor of the network that featured Margot. Not only do we not want to line their pockets further, but their arch rival is likely to be the most open to moving quickly and efficiently.

Power can be a heady thing, I quickly realize. The background noises tell me that the senior producer I’m talking to had other plans for this evening. Expensive important plans if I’m hearing the faint Broadway chorus correctly. But the mandoesn’t even flinch, as he’s promising me that a crew will hit the road in a few hours. He even asked if I had a preference for the interviewer.

I laughed and told him, “I don’t watch much TV.”

Now we sit back and wait. Or rather eat dinner like it’s Thanksgiving and go to bed to wait. And Alice made no bones about the requirement for me to check out of the motel. “No daughter of mine is going to be seen staying at that place! I’ll make up the guestroom at the head of the stairs while you go check out.” And with that, she shooed me out of the house. But I couldn’t stop smiling. She called me her daughter. Not her daughter-in-law, like she was simply stuck with me.

I wish Justin could see how his family is rallying around him. I sort of gleaned from the conversation over dinner — which was spaghetti served on paper plates because of the size of the crowd — that everyone thinks they don’t have anything impressive enough to say to Justin, so they don’t call. And when he has visited in the past, they’re embarrassed by what they see as small town news. How could it possibly interest him?

I want to knock all their heads together. It’s obvious they’re related to Justin — they’re all just as stubborn and obtuse as he is. I finally got up the nerve to tell his older brother Milo that. He blinked at me for an entire minute, and then his lips curved up. “Dare you to tell him that,” he finally said. “And if you do, I will publicly acknowledge that you have bigger balls than I do.”

Later that night, as I listened to the sounds of the old house settling into sleep, I try to project only happy thoughts into the future. This will work out. It simply has to. I won’t entertain any other alternative.

The next morning dawns bright and clear. I hadn’t headed to Swan’s Forge expecting to make a TV appearance, so what to wear has me in a bit of a dilemma. Ultimately, the impendingheat of the day makes my decision for me and I don an ice blue sundress that makes my pale hair look almost white.

The crew arrive at the house promptly at nine. But it’s an entiretwo hoursof sound checks and makeup before anything is ready to start. The night before, we’d laid out what everyone was basically going to say — theme-wise, anyway. But I held back one little thing. The shocked and stunned expressions on everyone’s face — from the poised on air talent to the crew to Justin’s family — should convince the world that this wasn’t staged for ratings purposes. And I mean, why else would I confess to the entire world that I’m still a virgin? How could anyone believe that Justin had molested me or taken advantage of me in any way with that glaring oversight? Certainly not the monster Margot had painted him out to be.

I stare at the screen in shock. I’m hallucinating. I have to be. Ingrid did not just tell the entire world filled with salacious vultures that she’s still a virgin. And all because she’s been in love with me for years, but I’m an oblivious git and didn’t notice. I’m paraphrasing here, obviously. My brain can’t bring itself to retain Ingrid’s rather florid words of devotion. But the smile on the famous anchor’s face is reminiscent of an alligator after a very satisfying dinner. “That’s all for tonight, folks. We’ll be sure to bring you any updates on Ingrid and Justin Wilde’s turbulent romance, so check back soon. Right here!”

I groan with dismay. The phone next to me rings, but I’m so distracted I answer without checking the ID. A voice strikingly similar to mine starts in immediately.

“I’m calling to apologize for neglecting your education, little brother. We all thought you were so smart you didn’t need any of us telling you about the birds and the bees. Obviously, an oversight on my part.”

“Shut up, Milo.” It’s an automatic, ingrained response.

“Not this time,” he returns almost mildly. “You’ve got a family anda wifewaiting for you. Better get your ass home pronto.”

“And if I don’t?” I query almost absently.

“Then I’m bringing Mom and Ingrid to the city to find you.”

“Fuck it all, don’t do that, you idiot!” The media would eat them alive before they got past Yonkers.

“Then you know what you need to do.” Asshole has the nerve to hang up on me. And don’t think I didn’t miss the childish chuckle of glee as he lowered the phone.

I stare at my phone, then I stare at the TV, which has returned to running some boring shit about sports. All I can see is Ingrid’s luminescent face shining with good faith and hope while she tries to save my sorry ass. And damn it all if it doesn’t seem to have worked.

I flip through various news channels, all of whom seemed to have picked up the story. Ingrid is the new heroine of the hour, although I have to grind my teeth every time some nitwit ponders the odds of there being any virgins over the age of eighteen. And they all make it clear they’re only using that number as a marker because they have to.

At this rate, I’m going to have to get Ingrid out of the country before her virginity becomes a Vegas headline. I would rather not have an audience when I relieve her of it. I pause mid-stride to the kitchen. When did I decide I was going to do that? Maybe when she conquered her innate shyness to tell the world she loved me. And that act was in no way about her or getting what she wants — it was all for me. Only an idiot would turn that kind of commitment away.

I grab a sandwich, truly hungry for the first time in weeks, and head into the bedroom to pack. Both for Swan’s Forge andfor Europe, which essentially means two complete and different wardrobes. In the end, I pack two suitcases just so I can leave one in storage before we get on a plane. Ingrid will simply have to buy new clothes at our destination, presuming she has her passport on her. It’s not like I gave her a proper honeymoon, so that will be my excuse to get her out of the country.

A client of mine has a villa in the south of France. I send him a quick text, finally calling in the offer he’s made so many times. He replies with heart eyes. From a sixty-year-old man who runs a billion dollar construction company. Jesus.

Then I send another text to Fred. At least I can count on him not to use emojis. But he surprises me by calling back. “You treat my girl right or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Thought you already did, old man.”

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