The Dirty Truth

Peeling out of my clothes, I run a blazing-hot bath and pour in two capfuls of Indie’s Tahitian Vanilla bubble bath. With each passing minute tonight, guilt has stacked on top of guilt. By the time I got home, I convinced myself this was all my fault, that if I’d have put my foot down, none of this would’ve happened. And when I wasn’t coming up with a million worst-case scenarios involving Scarlett, I was busy replaying my sidewalk exchange with West.

While there’s no denying the man was a grade A asshole, I can’t help but wonder if it was nothing more than a mask to cover up the sheer helplessness he was feeling inside. For a confident, intelligent, and wildly successful man to be brought to his knees by a fourteen-year-old rebel can’t be an easy pill to swallow. And it doesn’t excuse his behavior. But maybe at the end of the day, he’s just like anyone else, doing the best he can.

Sinking into the water, I slide lower and lower still. Until the hot liquid seeps up my collarbone, trails up my neck, and fills my ears—almost drowning out the shrill, faint ring emanating from my phone by the sink ledge.

Exploding out of the depths of my aquatic despair, I all but slip out of the tub on my way to answer, and I swear my soul exits my body the instant I find Scarlett’s name flashing across my screen.

“Oh my God,” I answer, bathwater dripping from me in rivulets and forming a pool at my feet. “Where are you?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WEST

I’m pacing the foyer when Elle and Scarlett arrive. An hour ago, Elle phoned me to let me know she’d finally heard from my niece and that she’d be delivering her personally. Apparently she was with her “friend” Piper, who had decided to meet up with some boys. Scarlett knew I’d say no, so she turned off her phone.

But evidently, after dragging her to some park on the Lower East Side, Piper ditched her when her old group of friends showed up.

Scarlett, not knowing where she was, went to turn her phone back on—but the battery had died. After that, she found a Duane Reade, where a kindly cashier let her charge her phone on his personal charger in the break room.

Afraid of facing my wrath, the second she was powered up again, she called Elle.

The entire thing sounds terribly . . . convenient.

I haven’t had a chance to sort fact from fiction.

“Uncle West, I—” Scarlett begins to protest a verbal lashing I haven’t even begun to deliver.

“Go to your room.” My jaw clenches so tight it sends a shock of pain down my neck.

“But I—” she attempts again.

I lift a hand. “Honestly, Scarlett. I’m too upset to speak to you right now. And I’m afraid of what I’d say if I even tried. Go to your room. We’ll talk in the morning, when I’ve calmed down.”

Scarlett shoots Elle a look, who simply nods with a pained wince—as if she’s in agreement that it’s the best course of action for all involved.

Skulking to the elevator, Scarlett slams a palm on the call button before disappearing between the double doors.

Dragging in a long breath, I wait for my vision to change from red to clear again before turning to Elle.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m not good at this . . . feeling-like-my-heart-is-walking-around-outside-my-body thing. I shouldn’t have been so demanding before; I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Her blue eyes slide to the tile floor, and she wrings her hands. “West, I’m sorry, but I think I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Scarlett has some complexities that I wasn’t really prepared for. Every time I think I’m making progress with her, she does something like this. I think it’s time to consult a professional.”

“Don’t you think I’ve already done that?”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “Maybe try someone more specialized?”

“When she first came here, she met three times a week with a three-thousand-dollar-an-hour so-called specialist who couldn’t break through and ended treatment after two months of making zero progress,” I say. “It’s the Maxwell in her. We’re obstinate. The stubbornness is simply bred into us.” I step toward her, closing the space between us. “But if you turn your back on her now, Elle, you’ll just be another name on a list.”

Clasping her hands over her heart, she frowns. “That would’ve been nice to know before . . .”

“You’d have walked away. Any sane person would,” I say, then pause. “Through your columns over the years, I’ve come to appreciate your unique perspectives and insights—particularly when it comes to interpersonal relationships, motivations, causes, and effects. You don’t see things the way everyone else does. I’d hoped you’d be the one to get through to her.”

She’s quiet for a beat, soaking in my words perhaps.