The Dirty Truth, page 3
The last thing I remember before blacking out is the door swinging open and a raven-haired woman with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen standing frozen in shock, mouth agape.
Turns out that Matt, my boyfriend of eighteen months, was actually a married father of three from Jersey living a double life.
His wife, acting on a handful of hunches she’d accumulated over the past year, had recently hired a private investigator to have him followed—which had led to the discovery of his secret Midtown apartment, one he’d been paying for with money from her trust fund.
The entire thing makes me physically ill every time I think about it, and I’ve not spoken to Matt since he attempted to show up in my hospital room the following day. But the most bittersweet part of it all is the fact that had that poor woman not shown up when she did . . . I wouldn’t be here right now.
“I’m so tired, Indie,” I sigh.
“Then go to bed . . .”
“No, I mean I’m tired of living this weird, filtered version of life where every decision, every move I make, is rooted in fear or every word out of my mouth is some kind of filtered version of the truth.” I angle toward her. “We’re all guilty of it. Every last one of us. When was the last time you saw a picture online that wasn’t filtered and retouched to perfection? When was the last time you gave someone an honest answer when they asked how you were doing? And up until two months ago, I’d never missed a spin class. Not because I love spin. But because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped going. I’d get soft, I’d have to spend a fortune on a new wardrobe, and what would people say? And that whole thing with Matt.” Saying his name out loud makes my teeth grit. “I never thought I’d be one of those people who were afraid to be alone, but even after things got stale with him, I was afraid of being that person who sat alone on a Friday night, missing out on all the fun. I was so scared, in fact, that every time a little sliver of doubt about him would creep into my head or the tiniest of red flags would surface, I’d silence them all with excuses.”
Indie presses her lips flat as she listens.
“We’re all so consumed with avoiding anything remotely uncomfortable that we lose all touch with reality,” I say. “We’ve been so coddled by articles and ads and relationships that make us feel good. We hunger for pictures that make us think maybe we have a chance at being beautiful with the right lighting, and we hold on to the belief that if we can find someone to occupy our weekends, it means we’re worthy . . . but none of it is real.”
She glances at the vintage alarm clock on my nightstand. “That was all . . . incredibly deep for three thirty in the morning, babe.”
Sinking back against my pillows, I fold my arm over my eyes and gather a long, hard breath.
“But you’re not wrong,” she adds. “About any of it.”
“I wish I were. It’d make all of this easier.” I imagine most of us are on autopilot—and two months ago, I was too. I’d climbed a mountain and rested on my laurels, content to sit back and appreciate a job that ticked all my boxes and a man who wasn’t perfect but was seemingly perfect for me. Parts of me were settling, of course. But I still had my entire life ahead of me—or so I thought. In my mind, I had plenty of time to continue crafting the life I’d always wanted to live.
Only now that I’ve seen the proverbial light (without seeing any literal light), there’s no going back.
“So what now?” Indie sits up, gathering her wild blonde mane into a high bun and securing it with a purple hair tie from her wrist.
Pitching forward, I crack my laptop open and double-click my empty Word doc. “I finish this article.”
“And then?”
“And then I have a decision to make.”
Indie slides off my bed, fixes the covers on that side, and makes her way to the door, then stops to read the message on the Dove she stole from me a few minutes ago.
“Huh.” Her mouth tugs up at the sides. “‘Don’t settle for a spark . . . light a fire’ again. What are the odds of getting that one twice in one night? Anyway . . . good luck, babe. You’ve got this.”
I wait until Indie shuts the door before scraping my motivation off the floor and running a quick Google image search on West to jump-start my faithless endeavor. With a hair over four hours to go and not one Dove-chocolate-size ounce of inspiration, I’m left with little choice but to be inventive in chasing my muse. Yawning, I flick through page after page of West Maxwell images, lamenting the fact that the man doesn’t take a single bad picture. Or maybe he does and the bad ones have been scrubbed from the internet. Either way, his beauty is distracting, which is why I force myself to replay our exchange again and again—until I’m reminded of his awfulness.
I’m fifty-seven pictures in when it hits me—a tiny spark of madness.
If I didn’t know what I was going to write about before, it’s crystal clear now.
Two hours later, my article is done.
And my fate? Has officially been set on fire.
CHAPTER THREE
WEST
“Please tell me they make nannies for teenagers.” I sink back in my desk chair and soak in the gray cityscape outside.
Miranda glances up from her tablet. “They make anything for anyone if the price is right. Scarlett giving you grief again?”
Dragging my palm along my tensed jaw, I say, “Something like that.”
In the past four months, not only have I gained sole custody of my fourteen-year-old niece—I’ve also amassed an entire set of forehead lines I didn’t have before I opened the doors of my Upper West Side bachelor paradise to the spawn of Satan.
Sitting up, I check the tracking app I installed on Scarlett’s phone and shoot her yet another text reminding her she’s to be at school on time today. When I left this morning, her door was closed and her lights were out. I knocked before attempting to barge in like a human alarm clock, but it was locked—as usual. A minute later, I heard her groan some kind of response before some tinny pop song began to play. I took solace in knowing it at least meant she was home and not gallivanting around the city sans permission for the twentieth time.
In a roundabout way, we both have my dead father to thank for our current situation.
He always used to say, “No good deed goes unpunished.” He’d also occasionally drop a classic “Once a Maxwell, always a Maxwell.” There was nothing original about that man. Every word that left his beer-slicked lips was a tired cliché. Everything about the way he lived his life was too. Bud “Big Boy” Maxwell was a Natty Ice–drinking, Harley-Davidson-riding, womanizing, wife-beating deadbeat with a narcissistic mud vein a mile wide.
While I owe none of my success to him, I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it weren’t for that sad sack illustrating how not to win at life. I sleep soundly each and every night knowing my current lifestyle is a giant middle finger to the bastard.
Taking my niece in—and getting her out of her appalling circumstances—was also a giant middle finger to the Maxwell name.
Neither of us asked to be born into this family, but it doesn’t mean we can’t do something about it. Scarlett’s too young to realize her fate was already written until I came along and changed it.
Someday she’ll thank me.
Until then, she can hate me all she wants.
In fact, she can join the fucking club. There’s a spot reserved for her at the end of the line. I’m a firm believer in the idea that you haven’t “made it” in life if you don’t have a whole slew of people hating your very existence.
“I’m finalizing the agenda for the City Gent staff meeting if you want to look it over.” Miranda taps her stylus against her screen. “There. Just sent it.”
My computer chimes, the screen coming to life, greeting me with an overstuffed inbox of emails I’ll never get around to reading. I find hers at the top—above one from Elle Napier, marked with high importance. The subject reads, New Article As Requested.
“I’ll give it a look in a sec.” I motion for her to leave, eyes glued to the screen as I double tap the attachment.
Without a word, Miranda gathers her things and shows herself out. She’s one of the good ones: patient, tolerant, and worth her weight in gold. There are instances I don’t doubt she knows what I’m thinking before I even think it—an impossible feat.
Sipping my coffee, I wait as Elle’s document loads on my screen—and I all but spit it back into my mug when I feast my eyes on the title.
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT WEST MAXWELL
by Elle Napier
What image comes to mind when you think of West Maxwell?
It’s okay if you need time. I’ll wait . . .
I know there are thousands of them in existence.
Maybe you thought of that Instagram picture from four years ago where he’s riding on the back of a camel, pyramids in the distance and an orangesicle sunset coloring the background? What about the one where he’s geared up and rappelling down some snowcapped mountain in Switzerland? Or better yet, maybe it’s the January 2019 cover of Made Man—the one in which West appeared shirtless, leaning against a gleaming Gotham-black McLaren Elva and looking like he’d just won the lottery, his dream woman, and a one-way ticket to paradise, all while pushing his “Ultimate Guide to Your Best Year Ever.”
But who’s the man behind the filtered image? Who’s the man writing the inspirational captions that make you want to set your alarm for 4:30 a.m. so you’re not late for tomorrow’s grueling CrossFit session? Who’s the man that inspires both professional and interpersonal greatness with a single square-shaped, likable, shareable photo?
I bet you think you know who he is.
Or maybe you have a general idea.
Ambitious? Yes.
Attractive? Undeniably.
Intelligent? I’d say so.
Wealthy? Does Saturn have rings?
But what lies beyond that? What drives him? What keeps him going day after day? But more importantly, does it matter?
Spoiler alert—no. It does not matter.
I’m about to drop a dirty little truth bomb—you are not West Maxwell and you never will be.
The West Maxwell you see is a marketing machine’s carefully crafted version of the ideal man.
Let me drop another bomb on you while I’m at it: the average woman is not looking for her own personal Made Man. Not even close. She simply wants a partner who listens, who shares her interests, values, and life goals—and bonus points if they’re not a jerk and happen to be in close geographic proximity.
I’m oversimplifying, but you get the point.
You want the secret to having it all? You’re not going to find it in the pages of this magazine.
Save your money.
Save your time.
And simply be yourself.
There may be a million men trying to knock off West Maxwell, but there is only one you—and that, my friend, is what makes you a genuine catch.
Yours in truth—
Elle Napier
The pen in my hand snaps in two, sending the spring, tip, and ink chamber flying.
I’m two seconds from formulating my response when I notice a second, unnamed attachment.
Dear Mr. Maxwell—
I quit.
Sincerely,
Elle Napier
Jerking my office phone from the corner of my desk, I punch in Tom’s extension—until my cell phone rings and Highland College Preparatory Academy flashes across my caller ID. Slamming the receiver on its cradle, I take the call on my cell.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Mr. Maxwell, this is Principal Veldhuis at Highland Prep.” An all-too-familiar voice fills my ear. He hesitates before beginning again. “It’s eight thirty-four, and Scarlett is a no-show again. This is the fifth time this month, number twelve for the semester. Unfortunately there are truancy laws, and—”
“I’m aware. I’ll . . . handle it. And I’ll personally deliver her to you within the hour.”
He exhales. “I appreciate that, sir. But I’m afraid if this happens again, we’re going to have to take this to the expulsion committee.”
“I can assure you it won’t come to that.” My jaw tightens. I can’t assure him of anything because the truth is, four months in I’ve yet to decode Scarlett’s language, unlock her trust, or earn her respect so she’ll listen to me once in a damn while. I can command an entire room of adults with a single look, but putting the fear of God into my brother’s daughter is an impossible skill to master. It’s a daily battle, and so far she’s winning—though I’d never tell her that. “I’ll make sure of it. Thank you for the call. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to locate my niece.”
I end the call and ring Scarlett—getting her voice mail immediately.
My vision blurs red until I get my shit together.
When I pull up the tracking app, it appears she’s currently in Hell’s Kitchen—somewhere along Tenth Avenue. And that’s assuming she didn’t leave her phone on a bus bench to throw me off; it wouldn’t be the first time. I once tracked her to a bodega in Little Italy, only to find it was some thirteen-year-old punk who had grabbed what he claimed was an abandoned phone off a newspaper rack. Pretty sure he pissed himself when he saw me walking toward him.
Heading downstairs, I pull up my email and forward Elle Napier’s message to her editor along with direct instructions to deal with it immediately, and then I hail the first Yellow Cab I see.
Scarlett might be in Hell’s Kitchen, but she’s yet to experience the hellish inferno coming her way.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELLE
“You trying to burn off breakfast or what?” Indie points her cereal spoon in my direction, her mouth half-full of soggy apple-cinnamon Cheerios. “You’ve been pacing for, like, an hour.”
It hasn’t been an hour—more like a solid fifteen, twenty minutes.
“I quit my job.” I stop patrolling the space by the kitchen island and cover my eyes, peering her way through my fingers. “Twenty minutes ago. I sent the email. It’s over. I quit.”
My finger shook as I pressed send on that email to West . . . and it hasn’t stopped shaking since.
“Excuse me, ma’am, you what?” Her spoon lands against the bowl with a loud clink. “You realize this apartment is six grand a month and we just renewed our lease a few months ago . . . right?”
“I have savings. I’ve done the math. It’s all good.”
At least, for the next eight or nine months it’ll all be good. If I don’t manage to find a similar-paying job by then, I’ll be packing my entire life into a couple of suitcases and hitching a ride back home to Louisiana to live with my parents. And while I love them dearly, my mother and I are complete opposites, and she’s a small-doses kind of person. No good can come from the two of us under the same roof at this point in my life.
But one thing at a time . . .
“I know you were in a weird place this morning with the deadline and everything, but that’s a little drastic, don’t you think?” she asks. “Just quitting like that?”
I shrug and begin to pace again. Standing still for too long makes my skin hum with anxiety, and moving is the only way to make it stop.
I’m starting to answer her when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I slide it out to find a call from Tom waiting for me.
“It’s my boss,” I say before correcting myself. “My former boss. My editor. It’s . . . Tom.”
It rings twice more, then again.
“You going to take it, or are you just going to stare at it a little longer?” Indie asks.
“Hey, Tom.” I manage a simple greeting despite my mouth turning to cotton. “What’s up?”
“What . . . did . . . you . . . do?” When his words are slow, unrushed, and unminced—never a good sign. “Please tell me this is an extremely belated April Fools’ joke and that you are not committing career suicide?”
“I’m sorry. I made the decision a few hours ago. I would’ve called you, but then you would’ve talked me out of it, and—”
“Of course I would’ve talked you out of it,” he all but shouts into the receiver. “I don’t understand, Elle. I really don’t. You have no idea what you just did. And”—he lowers his voice—“Maxwell sent me your email and told me to—and I quote—‘deal with it immediately.’ What the hell does that mean? Does he want me to have HR draft up the termination paperwork, or does he want me to talk you out of it? And what do we do with the article you sent? We go to print in three days, and we can’t use that.”
“Tom.” I strut toward the living room window, take in the gray cityscape below, and swallow a cleansing breath. “Working for that man has been nothing short of a nightmare. We both know it. He needed to read what I wrote, and I needed to write what I wrote. Maybe ending my career with a swan song isn’t the most professional thing in the world, but there’s no going back now. Just tell him you confirmed my decision and you’ll work with HR to find a replacement.”
In five years, I’ve never once had to tell my boss how to do his job.
“Oh Lord.” Tom moans into the phone. “Speak of the devil. He’s beeping in. I have to go.”
He ends the call before I have a chance to say goodbye, though I’m sure it won’t be the last time we speak.
“So?” Indie readies a spoonful of cereal. “What’s the good word?”
“He’s freaking out,” I say. “He just needs a full twenty-four hours to process this, and he’ll be fine.”
“You sure you made the right decision, babe?”
I hesitate, though I’m not sure why. “Like it matters now.”
“Am I picking up on a little doubt?” Rising from the table, she pours her milk down the sink and places her dishes in the dishwasher.
