The Fall of Cinderella Page 6

  She opens the door, wearing a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. Her medium-length honey-blonde hair is in a low ponytail. Her skin has a youthful glow, but the worry in her irises flashes like lightning during a Southern summer storm.

  She walks into the room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. As she affectionately looks at me, her slim fingers brush the hair from my face, feathering back the tresses that are nearly the exact shade as her own. “Breakfast will be ready in a little bit.”

  “I’m not really hungry.” My heart breaks a little when I see disappointment flit over her features.

  “You need to eat, Tessa Rae. You’ve withered away to nothin’.” She takes my hand in hers. “I can’t imagine what you’re goin’ through, baby girl.” She gently shakes her head and then says, “What Trevor did was awful. And finding out the way you did…well, it’s incomprehensible.” She inhales a breath and pats the top of my hand while she gazes at my face. “Trevor is gone, baby. You’re still here. You’re. Here. You’ve got to take care of yourself, Tessa.” Her face softens with a knowing smile. “Besides, I’ve made your favorite.”

  She seems to be pulling out all the stops. It’s the one thing I’ve never been able to say no to.

  I breathe deeply, picking up the scent of cinnamon and sugar. I push myself into a sitting position, and my head throbs, the sudden motion making me wince. Blinking away the pain, I turn to her. “You made cinnamon rolls.”

  “Of course.” She winks at me. “Now, get yourself outta bed and come downstairs. They’ll be done in about ten minutes or so.”

  For the first time, I notice the faint dusting of flour on her sleeve. I lean forward to wrap my arms around her neck and tightly hug her. “Thanks, Mama.”

  With my chin tucked into her shoulder, I can’t help but smile. Homemade cinnamon rolls have always been my mother’s answer to life’s transgressions for as long as I can remember.

  “You’re welcome.” She rubs my back in circles and then whispers against my ear, “Everything is going to be all right, Tessa.”

  Her words are a lifeline, and I want to cling to them. Clutch them, double-fisted, until they’re absorbed into the depths of my shattered soul. But I can’t. It feels like nothing will ever be okay again.

  I hope like hell my mother has enough faith for both of us.

  After I brush my teeth and wash my face, I grab my clothes from my suitcase that Daddy must have carried up last night. I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then, I take my phone from the dresser where it was connected to the charger. I’m a little deflated to find no texts or missed calls from Dante. The only missed call is from my father the night I drove from Chicago. I shove my cell into my pocket and head downstairs. The delicious aroma of cinnamon rolls and bacon lure me to the kitchen.

  My father is sitting at the head of the table, a cup of coffee in his hand, and his eyes are zeroed in on my mother’s ass as he watches her take a cookie sheet layered with bacon from the oven.

  “Good morning.” I stop at Daddy’s chair, bend down, and drop a kiss on his cheek.

  “Good morning, baby bear.” His scruff prickles my skin as he returns the gesture.

  I walk to the counter where the Keurig sits and snag a mug from the cabinet above it. I set the cup in place, pop a pod into the chamber, and press the button to brew. “Do you need any help?” I ask my mother.

  “I think we’re all set, but you can get some forks.” She smiles at me in a way that makes her whole face light up.

  Regardless of the circumstances that brought me home, she’s happy I’m here. Both my parents are.

  Mama sets the platter of fresh cinnamon rolls on the table before going back for the bacon and a large bowl of scrambled eggs. I grab my coffee, a few forks and move to the table.

  We both sit, and I turn to her. “It’s just us for breakfast, right?” I point at the mass quantity of food.

  “Your mother always makes enough food to feed an army,” Dad says, chuckling.

  Mama picks up her fork and points it at the both of us. “Don’t you two start.” She tries to look stern but cracks a smile. “Now, grace,” she orders, setting her fork down. She reaches across the table, palms up, waiting for each of us to place a hand in hers.

  Praying over meals and before bed is something I grew up doing. I went to church with my mother most Sundays until I was a junior in high school. My father never went with us, but she never gave him a tough time about it. And he never said grace, but he always bowed his head, held our hands, and said, “Amen.”

  I hadn’t prayed in years. Not until the night Trevor died. I prayed and cried out to God. Begged for the officer’s words to be a lie, some misunderstanding, a mistake. That it was someone else’s husband. Not mine. My words fell on deaf ears.

  The last thing I want to do is give thanks to a god who abandoned me. But I was raised in the South, and I respect my parents and their home. For that reason, I place my hand in my mother’s outstretched palm and reach for my father’s.

  We all take turns, passing the food, and eat in silence until my mom speaks, “I’m sorry we weren’t there…” My mother’s voice trails off.

  I know she means the funeral. She’s apologized a hundred times over.

  “Mama, it’s okay. It couldn’t be helped, so please stop feeling guilty over something you had no control over.”

  I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not like they could have predicted the future or waved a wand for better cell reception.

  “You know you can stay here for as long as you want. You don’t ever have to go back.”

  My living so far away is hard on her, and I know she misses me.

  “I know, Mama. Thank you.” I sip my coffee and finish off my cinnamon roll.

  Dad passes me a napkin and points to my chin where I’m sure the sticky remnants of icing remain. I take it from him, wipe my chin, and set it aside.

  “If that boy were on this side of six feet under, I’d shove my foot so far up his ass—”

  “Bill!” my mother scolds him.

  I knew it was just a matter of time before he couldn’t keep quiet. My father is not a man of many words, but when he does speak, he makes it count. I have no doubts, if Trevor were standing here, there would be hell to pay.

  The eggs turn in my stomach. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go lie down.”

  “Tessa…” His voice trails off.

  I stand up, and my chair scoots against the tiles, the sound reverberating through the room. I walk over to the trash bin, my steps weighted. I don’t have to turn around to feel the glare I know my mother is giving my dad. The metal tines of my fork screech against ceramic as I rake the remaining food into the garbage.

  After loading dishes into the dishwasher, I step over to my mom. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell her, giving her hand a squeeze.

  Then, I walk the few feet to my father, leaning down to hug him. I whisper against his ear, “If Trev—” I stop and start again. “If he were here, I’d totally let you kick his ass.”

  I climb the stairs to my bedroom and shut the door behind me. I slide beneath the covers, willing sleep to swallow me, to take me to where darkness offers a reprieve, so I can just sink into nothingness.

  fifteen

  Tessa

  It’s been a week since I’ve been back in Charleston. My parents tiptoe around me like they’re afraid I’m going to break. Luckily for them, you can’t break what’s already broken. I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job, and I’m not sure if or when I’ll go back to Chicago. Dante hasn’t called or sent a text. I told him to leave me alone, but I miss him, and I’m still pissed.

  I need to get out of my head, so I reach for my car keys and proceed out the door. Driving through town does nothing to clear my head. One thought bleeds into the next, and before long, my mind careens out of control, like a derailed bullet train.

  How many times?

  How many women?

  How’d they meet?


  Did he know her?

  Was she a whore?

  Whore.

  The word sinks gnashing teeth into my flesh.

  Whore.

  It burrows beneath my skin like a parasite.

  It runs on an endless loop until my thoughts tunnel, settling on three letters.

  STD.

  I fixate on them. An all-consuming, bone-deep paranoia squeezes my airway, a vise suddenly making it hard to breathe. Overcome with a sense of urgency, I make a U-turn at the next stoplight and drive toward the county health department.

  In less than twenty minutes, I pull into the lot, park, and shut the engine off. Fear drives me forward, and I make quick work of the seat belt before grabbing my purse and then exiting the car.

  Once inside the building, I approach the counter in front of a large sliding window. My hand shakes as I scrawl my name on the sign-in sheet, and then I take a seat in the waiting room.

  Several minutes later, a loud feminine voice calls out, “Tessa Salinger.”

  I rise and walk forward.

  “Here you go,” the receptionist says, passing me a clipboard with several sheets of paper affixed to it. “Just fill these out and bring them back up here when you’re done.”

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting the paperwork and returning to my seat. It takes effort to write legibly as I fill in the blanks and check off boxes. When I’m finally done, I return to the counter.

  “You can return to your seat. We’ll call you back as soon as we can.” She takes the clipboard, and I do as I was told.

  My stomach clenches. All the what-ifs run rampant and send my nerves skyrocketing. I keep my gaze cast downward, not wanting to make eye contact with the other patients and needing to avoid the posters displayed on the walls.

  Fifteen minutes pass when I hear my name again. This time, a nurse stands with a folder in hand, holding the door open. She’s petite with mousy-brown hair and friendly eyes.

  I move through the open doorway, and she falls in step behind me.

  “My name’s Danielle. Please step on that scale for me, so I can get your weight.”

  I stop short and step onto the platform while Danielle moves the mechanism.

  Then, she writes down the number and says, “We’re going to the third door on your left.”

  I walk into the exam room, unsure if I should hoist myself onto the table or sit in the chair.

  “Go ahead and sit down.” She points to the armchair and unfastens the blood pressure cuff. “I’m just going to check your vitals, and collect a urine sample, then we’ll do a blood draw before your physical exam.”

  “Okay.” I turn my hand, palm side up, laying my arm against my leg.

  Danielle’s cold hand meets my skin, and I can’t help but flinch. She fits the blood pressure cuff over my arm, and I will my racing heart to calm. Danielle compresses the bulb, and the fabric tightens, pinching my skin.

  When Danielle finishes, she frees my arm and smiles reassuringly at me. “Let’s get your urine sample.”

  She leads me to the restroom. “Just a second. I need to get a collection cup,” Danielle says, moving around the corner. She is back in a matter of seconds, a small sterile container in her hand. “When you’re finished, open the metal door, and place it inside. Then, go back into the room we were in before, and I’ll be right in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the cup from her. I turn the knob and walk inside the restroom, locking the door. As I set the cup on the counter, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hands grip the edge of the sink, and my knuckles go white.

  All those years of marriage, and this is where I’ve ended up. Widowed. Standing in a clinic and trying not to freak the fuck out. Because my husband…my dead husband might have given me a sexually transmitted disease.

  How did I get here? How is this my reality?

  The nights we lay awake in each other’s arms. All the countless hours Trevor spent buried inside me. To know he shared that with someone else makes me sick. Every memory we ever made is tarnished. Covered in sludge beneath a wasteland of lies and broken vows.

  I unfasten my jeans and shove them down along with my panties. They’ll run a routine pregnancy test, and I already know it will be negative. Still, it makes me feel utterly alone. An eternity passes before I finally manage to piss into the cup. I wash my hands and go back to the exam room where I find Danielle standing beside the counter.

  “Tessa, you can have a seat.” She motions toward the exam table.

  I place my foot on the small stool in front of the table, turn slightly, and sit down. The hygienic paper crumples beneath me as I shift to Danielle.

  With latex-gloved hands, she lightly grips my wrist, adjusting my arm so that my hand is facing up, and then presses her fingers at the bend of my elbow. She grabs a rubber strap and ties it around my upper arm. “Make a fist for me.”

  I feel the cool press of the alcohol pad, and when she reaches for the needle, I turn away, not wanting to see it puncture my flesh.

  “You’re going to feel a slight pinch,” she says.

  My nerves jump in anticipation, and I suck in a breath, wincing when the sharp, thin metal pierces my skin. I glance down at my arm, watching blood flow through the tube, filling the vial. I see everything as though I’m viewing it from a distance. Like I’m wide-awake in somebody else’s nightmare. I bite my lip to keep from crying. I’m more alone in this moment than I’ve felt in months.

  “You did great, Tessa.”

  Danielle’s voice startles me, and I flinch.

  She smiles apologetically before continuing, “I’m going to step out. Undress from the waist down.” She opens a cabinet and removes a paper drape. “After you’ve undressed, lie down, and cover your lower half with this.” She gives me the folded material. “I’ll return in a few minutes with Dr. Nash.” Danielle steps out, closing the door.

  With a deep exhale, I climb down from my perch and strip out of my jeans and underwear. Goose bumps prickle my exposed skin, making my soul feel as naked and exposed as the lower half of my body.

  I conceal my panties in the folds of my jeans before placing them on the chair. I clamber back onto the padded bed and cover myself with the drape. The material is rough against my flesh, offering no warmth or comfort.

  I lie back and stare up at the ceiling, observing the tiny white plastic birds hanging from a mobile above my head. They sway ever so slightly in the breeze of the air-conditioned room. I shift against the paper, and every crinkle of the sanitary sheet rips through the layers of my heart, charring the jagged edges.

  I’ve moved beyond sadness. Transcended anger.

  A burning sensation travels through me, and I savor it.

  The only force on earth more powerful than love slashes its claws into my core.

  In this too-cold sterile room on a fucking tissue-paper-covered exam table, whatever love for Trevor left in my desecrated heart goes up in smoke.

  “I hate you, Trevor,” I say with quiet vehemence.

  There are no tears. The bastard doesn’t deserve them.

  “I fucking hate you.” I hope like hell, wherever he is, he can hear me. “And I will never forgive you.”

  sixteen

  Dante

  It’s after midnight when I toss the last duffel into the trunk and close it. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I unlock the screen and pull up the address to the house where I’ll be staying for however fucking long it takes. With a last look around the city, I get in my car, start the engine, and plug the address into the GPS. I ease into traffic and settle in for the long drive ahead of me.

  My thoughts are centered not only on Tessa, but also on Trevor.

  My fucking brother.

  Given the chance, I wish I could knock him on his ass for the hell he’s putting Tessa through and for being a dick. But, at the end of the day, we’re still brothers, and the loss of him stings. Regardless of our shit-for-brains father, somehow, Trevor and I managed to have a relationship.


  Grant Salinger had to be the most useless son of a bitch who ever lived. He spread his sperm around with the same gusto he spent his money. Dear old dad had a slew of women. Not to mention, so many bastard children, I stopped keeping track.

  That is why I still can’t understand how Trevor has a fucking kid. We both lived by one rule when it came to women. Unless your ring is on the hand of the woman whose pussy you’re sinking into, wrap your shit up.

  Why would he have been so careless, and why did he risk his marriage on top of it?

  The unanswered question gnaws at my gut because it doesn’t make sense.

  I’ve got to take a piss, so I get off at the next exit and pull into a gas station. I go to the restroom, buy a large coffee, and get back on the road. Damn, it’s a long-ass drive, and I’m even more pissed that Tessa refused to let me book her a flight.

  She’s so fucking stubborn. Pot, meet kettle.

  Tessa wanted space, and I’ve been giving it to her. There hasn’t been a phone call or text message. Not so much as a damn email between us since she left two weeks ago. If it wasn’t for the few conversations I had with her dad, I would’ve made this trip days ago.

  Tessa and I have become so ingrained in each other’s lives. Holding her together kept me from focusing on my own grief. It’s not like I was using her for a distraction. I miss her.

  If there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this: Trevor’s gone. There isn’t a thing I can do to bring him back. I can’t change what he did. But I’m here. And I don’t care how long it takes or what lengths I have to go to. One way or another, Tessa will be mine. I’m going to show her it should have been me all along.

  When I got into town earlier, I called Tessa’s dad. He told me to come by after I got things squared away. Tessa and her mom were out shopping and would be gone for a while. I stopped at the rental office long enough to pick up the keys and check out the house before walking the short distance to the Carmichaels’ place.

  Tessa’s going to be pissed when she finds out just how close I am. The location isn’t a coincidence. A man doesn’t go into battle without a plan, and this is a war I intend to win.