prove she’d been railroaded in the divorce, and that she did, in fact, have the wherewithal to care for Reed.
But when the judge in the malpractice lawsuit ruled against Eleanor, the same way the divorce judge had, it was game over for Eleanor’s mental health. She snapped for the last time. Once again, she tried to end it all. And wound up in that same, shitty Los Angeles institution. This time, for good, until her hard-working, loyal, and generous son moved her to a posh facility in Scarsdale.
Was Eleanor capable of caring for Reed at the time of the divorce, as she insisted vehemently at trial? I have no idea. All I know is it strikes me as awfully unfair that Terrence had Amalia’s full-time help with Reed, and yet the judge expressly commented in his ruling against Eleanor, “A woman shouldn’t need a paid nanny to help her care for her own children.”
Also, I can’t help feeling irate that the judge believed everything Terrence said, without question, given that, a mere two and a half years later, the FBI raided Terrence Rivers’ sprawling mansion at dawn and arrested him in his underwear for staggering, truly evil financial crimes, thereby rendering his thirteen-year-old son, Reed, whom he’d fought so hard to claim for himself in the divorce, an effective orphan. Was Terrence Rivers any less of an “unfit parent” for mercilessly stealing from countless innocent families who’d trusted him, as Eleanor was for taking a nap, along with her two sons, when she had the stomach flu? I mean, assuming Eleanor’s version of the story was true. Which, granted, I don’t know.
I scrub my face with my palms, overwhelmed and aching for Eleanor. And Amalia. And Oliver. And, of course, for my beautiful liar, Reed. I’ve always found his hard outer shell immensely attractive, because it’s what makes the rare glimpses of softness and vulnerability all the more breathtaking. But now, I’m realizing Reed’s patented poker face, the steely mask he wears so well and often, must have been forged early on in his life as a coping mechanism. A way to survive the chaos. The abandonments. The lack of control he must have felt, at all times.
Even though I lost my mother at a young age, I nonetheless had the good fortune to observe her passionate, happy marriage with my father before she died. But what has Reed observed of marriage that would make him believe it’s possible for one to be happy? If I’d experienced everything Reed has, I’d probably have ten layers of cement around my heart, too. Frankly, after reading all this, I’m in awe of how kind and generous Reed is... exactly as Amalia said to me, that time we were cooking together in the kitchen.
I love him so much.
The thought pops into my head and streaks through my heart.
I love Reed. Even though I fervently wish I didn’t.
But so what if I do? I simply have to get over it. Because loving Reed isn’t enough. For our relationship to work, I need to love and trust him. And I don’t see how I could ever get there. Not really. If I were to give Reed another chance, I know, deep down, I’d slowly become jealous, paranoid, and possessive. I’d grow to despise the woman I’d become with him. And he’d despise her, too. Which means it really is time for me to move on.
Ciao, stronzo.
It’s what my brain keeps telling me to do. The thing I know is for the best. Move on, Georgie. There are other fish in the sea. You’re too young to have met the great love of your life, anyway, no matter what your foolish heart is telling you. Yes, Mom met her Prince Charming at nineteen. But Mom and Dad’s fairytale was the exception, not the rule.
I tell myself all of these things, as I stare at the conference room wall in a daze. I tell myself these things and stuff down the urge to call Reed and tell him I miss him. I love him. I forgive him. But no. I can’t wave a magic wand and make everything the way it was before. Even as my heart wants to hug the tragic, neglected, abandoned little boy who grew up to be a wildly successful, sexy, breathtaking man, my brain knows it’s time for me to move on.
Chapter 6
Reed
Tuesday 10:12 pm
I’m grunting. Sweating. Shaking as I finish a savage set of clapping pull-ups in my home gym. Henn