Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (15 page)

November 2006

 “I don’t give a flying fuck who approved this,” the venom
in Diego’s voice startles me from my sleep. I must’ve dozed off again. “
This
,”
he hisses, “is not the article I agreed to do.” Something slams to the tabletop
with his ire. I’m only hearing one side of this conversation. I can only assume
he’s on the phone. “FIX. THIS,” he spits out. Following those final words is a
crash of glass and the crack of splintering wood.

“Diego,” I hear Lito scold. “
Mijo, calmate
.” He’s
urging Diego to calm down.

“¡
Lito, no me digas que me calme! Izzy no va a comprender
cuando vea este des madre. No va a mantenese calmada.”

I hate the way he’s talking to his grandfather. But what am
I not going to understand? What is going to make me lose my calm? Although, I
can’t imagine that would be something I’d say I have much of these days.

“D,” it’s Sebastian pleading this time through the rustling
of glass and whatever crashed with it. “Come on, bro.”

“Mazzy?” he says her name through gritted teeth. “Care to
weigh in?” There’s more venom.

“Ha,” she scoffs, “and let you tear me to shreds like you
have your grandfather? I don’t think so Tweedle D. But from the looks of it,
Tweedle Dumb here might be up for being your punching bag.”

“Seriously, Mazzy,” his voice is more somber, where there
was venom there’s now desperation.

“Just be honest, D. She was there. She knows what you said.
Izzy isn’t new to the world of publicity and media. When shit like this
happens, you just gotta treat it like a Band-Aid that needs to be pulled off.
Grip it and rip it, then deal with the pain that follows. You can’t hide it
from her.”

“FUCK,” he roars.

No longer able to listen in the shadows, I pull myself from
my spot on the couch and take to the stairs. The third stair from the top gives
me away when it creaks. Their murmured conversation and scurrying stops. If I
didn’t know better, I’d swear the room of my loved ones just held their
breaths.

“Diego,” I plead, breaking the silence my appearance has
caused. Their eyes go wide hearing my voice. “Why are you yelling at—” I don’t
finish my question as the room comes into view. My beautiful kitchen is filled
with glass and wood. The spot where our hutch once stood is bare, its contents
mixed into the mess on the floor.

“Izzy,” Diego shouts as I reach the last step. “Don’t come
down here!” Before I can react to his harsh words and angry tone, he bounds to
meet me. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “There’s glass all over and
you’re barefoot.”

“What’s going on, D?”

The sag of his shoulders says he was hoping I wouldn’t ask
just yet. When he looks to the rest of the room for an answer, I catch
collective nods and sympathetic faces. I see Lito place something in a large
manila envelope and hand it to Diego. “We’ll take care of this,
mijo
.”

He grabs the envelope as if it burns to touch it. “Come on,”
he turns me around with his hand on the small of my back. Diego flips a couple
of switches on our way to the living room from the stairs. He walks us past the
big couch and leads me to the chaise near the fireplace.

“Diego,” I interrupt his silence. We’ve been sitting here
for an excruciatingly long time. I know whatever it is he has to tell me is
difficult and that he needs the time to find the words, but the silence freaks
me out more. “Diego,” I urge when he doesn’t answer. He just continues to stare
at the envelope in his hands.

I open my mouth to say his name again, but I’m stopped when
he hands me the envelope. The reluctance is obvious in his inability to let it
go. “I didn’t know,” was all he said.

Nervous about what I’ll find on the inside, I inspect the
outside. The logo in the top corner says On the Pitch. Excitement flutters in
my belly when I realize this must be the issue that Diego is going to be on the
cover of and we did the photo shoot for, but as quickly as the excitement
comes, it’s dashed away by what I overheard.
Izzy’s not going to understand
this.

Those words haunt my actions. I can’t open this fast enough
or slow enough. I remember Mazzy’s Band-Aid analogy and I tear it open.

“
Gah
,” the gasp for air that came with the sound
feels like I swallowed glass. The magazine falls to the floor in front of us.

There on the cover of the most circulated sports magazine in
the United Kingdom is my husband and Sasha Strafford. The article teaser reads:
The Man, the Myth, the Saint, and the Woman Behind Him.

My jaw falls slack at the audacity of that title. The
implications alone…

“What the fuck, Diego?” I pick it up and tear through the
pages to his feature article. By now, my jaw has to look like it’s come
unhinged. These aren’t Diego’s words. These are some of Diego’s words twisted
into lies with sensationalism.

“I know this shit isn’t about me.
I know this
. But
where are the photos of us? Or just one photo?” Skimming through the article
there’s not one mention about me. “Diego, this doesn’t even mention your wife.
Or the fact that
I
managed you!

“THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT! This isn’t even your story. This
is someone else’s version of your story.” Unable to contain my spite for him
not handling this shit better or for ignoring my warnings, I toss the magazine
in his lap. “This is
her
version of your story. So fucking convenient
for
her
that you don’t have a wife in
her
version.”

I’m two steps from where I sat with Diego when a gripping
pain in my abdomen pulls me to the floor. Apparently, losing my baby isn’t
enough. I still get to experience the after effects of having a child with a
sudden, painful, and cruel reminder of what I lost.

Diego is at my side before I make contact with the ground.
He scoops me up and places me down on the chaise. He’s attempting to soothe me
by rubbing circles on my back. “Diego, I am
very
much aware that
that
article is not your doing, but right now, I’m just pissed. I’m pissed because I
knew she was after you and you thought I was just being overprotective. Pissing
on what’s mine, as you said.”

“How’s the investigation into the message and your phone
going, Diego?” He flinches at the spiteful tone.

“Sasha’s security—”

“HA! You’re joking, right? Are you really going to start
that sentence with her name and expect me to listen?” I quirk up my eyebrows in
a challenge. He stays quiet. “After that fucking mess,
yooouuu
really
want to mention her name? As if she couldn’t possibly be the one behind that as
well?”

I’m so tired of seeing shock on his face, I’m relieved when
I see his shoulders slump and his head lower with a shake. Clearly, his desire
to trust those claiming to be trustworthy clouds his vision. I see his desire
to reject the notion, but his body tells me that he knows that what I say has a
distinct possibility of being the truth.

“Izzy?” It’s just my name but I can hear the plea, the
question.

“Diego, right now I’m mad. I’m mad because that shit is
beeeeyond fucking ridiculous. I’m mad because I can’t storm off right now. And
I’m mad because I was right when I wanted nothing more than to be wrong.”

The creak on the third step from the top of the stairs from
the kitchen announces the approaching interruption.

“None of this,” gesturing to the magazine on the floor, “is
going to get resolved tonight. So,” I pause when Mazzy walks into the room,
“tonight, I’m going to stay mad. You don’t get to ease your own guilt in this
by comforting me.”

This time when I get up to leave, I don’t do it so quickly
that I cramp up. With each step up the stairs to the bedrooms, I imagine
walking off in a huff, stomping my way past our room to the floor above where
Mazzy and Lito are staying.

While I don’t push myself to stomp, I do continue past our
room and make my way to Mazzy’s. The pseudo distance from Diego, if only
separated by a floor, allows me to hold on to the anger.

Sleep comes quick once I’m lying in the bed, my subconscious
all too eager to find my happy place. But tonight, my happy place doesn’t
exist. Instead, my mind flashes the images and text from the magazine cover and
article.

The last image I see before falling into a deep sleep is
that of Sasha with my Diego. She’s pawing at him, fixing his collar, tousling
his hair. She’s looking at him like the sun rises and sets with him. She’s
looking at him as if he’s hers. Then, she turns and smiles as if looking right
at me.

December 2006

We spent the first week of December dealing with the
magazine and the article inside it. However, daunting and arduous the task was,
we won, but not without a whole lot of threats and twice as many, favors owed.
They’ll be using the original cover and article they had set before other
parties got involved. Unfortunately, there were some copies that could not be
recovered and the tabloids got a hold of it, but On the Pitch printed an
apology with the approved cover and article claiming they were looking into the
matter and identifying those responsible for the erroneous article.

Christmas passed with little fanfare. Diego wanted
decorations and a tree to help bring some cheer back. Sucker punched by life, I
didn’t have it in me to celebrate, but Baz and Lito made a wonderful dinner and
I got to spend the holiday with my loves. Lito left right after Christmas to visit
friends in Italy for the New Year. He promised to be back in a couple of weeks.

It’s New Year’s Eve and Diego and I have the place to
ourselves. Mazzy is partying it up with Jay in France; Baz is doing his thing
with some friends locally. This is the first time Diego and I made plans to be
alone since the incident. I wouldn’t say that we’ve avoided it specifically,
but I think we both have appreciated the roadblock that our family has been.

There’s a bit of awkwardness hanging between us. I’m sure I’m
harboring some blame for him not being there when our world was ripped apart.
At least, that’s what the grief counselor says. And I know I’m still pissed
about the magazine situation. I don’t feel that justice was served and I have
daydreams about serving it to the wretched bitch myself.

Diego is overly gentle. I’m sure he feels like he has to
tiptoe around me as if he’s walking on eggshells. He continues to be over
cautious as well as over explanatory. The guilt is etched into his brow. He
refuses to see a grief counselor outside of our joint sessions. I know him well
enough to know he’s thinking he doesn’t deserve to grieve or be rid of the
guilt.

Consciously, I don’t blame him for what happened with the
magazine, but I do think he’s given his trust to the wrong person or persons.
I’m not sure who was involved, but I know Diego has some idea. I can see it in
his guarded expressions when I bring up finding those responsible. Maybe he’s
afraid of what I might do to Little Miss Owner’s Daughter.

“Hey, Iz,” Diego calls from the other room. “Where did
Alfred put the champagne glasses?”

“Flutes,” I correct him. He chuckles. We had to replace them
since they came down when Diego destroyed the hutch. “Check the cabinet below
the breakfast bar.”

The ding on the computer alerts me to a new email. It’s New
Year’s Eve, so it can’t be that important. I continue to play solitaire as I
wait for Diego to set up his surprise. There’s another ding and another.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I switch out to open my email.

There are three emails all with the same sender and subject.

From:
Concerned Acquaintance

Subject: How well do you know him?

Certain that this is spam, I go to close the email program.
The noise from my phone alerts me to a new text.

You really should check your email.

The message is from an unknown number. I don’t reply.
Someone is trying to goad me. I’m not one to take the bait, but my annoyance is
starting to crack my resolve with the next message.

Your choice. Figured you’d want to see it before it shows
up on newsstands on Tues.

“What the fuck?” The words are past my lips before I can
censor myself. They were barely audible, but in the silence of this office,
they were practically deafening.

With the follow up text messages, I’m fairly certain that
it’s not a virus of the computer variety. I’m sure whatever the email contains
will be just as toxic.

With a sigh, I reluctantly open the most recent email.

What I see knocks the wind out of me and I’m gasping for
air.

On the cover of what appears to be Glamour Magazine is my
husband in the middle of making out with a faceless blonde. The small picture
overlapping it in the corner is the ridiculous cover of the On the Pitch of
Diego and…
Sasha!

My eyes flash back up to the main picture on the cover of
the tabloid magazine.

I collect moments like these, moments that rip my soul out.
At least, it feels that way.

I am compelled to witness the earth shattering whether good
or bad.

This is bad.

I've read about pain like this in books, heard it in
countless songs. My heart clenches, wrapped in the clutches of this moment,
reducing anything and everything to what he says next. The idea that this
moment could be my ending stills my breath. 

This can't be my reality.

When we committed to death do us part, I certainly didn't
expect for things to go like this. The walls are closing in. We are the Beauty
and the Saint…People would tell us, “They write stories about love like yours.”
Really? This doesn't seem very love story worthy. It’s hell. Yup, that's what
this is. Hell.

What the fuck happened?

I can't help it; our time together runs as a montage through
my mind.

Oh my god, it hurts.

The looping reel of memories is a gut punch, an excruciating
reminder that after all we've been through those moments may have to last me a
lifetime. Gaining control of myself mid-gag, I fight the urge to expel what I
haven't eaten.

Help me.
It’s a silent plea.

I thought we could survive anything.

Fuuuck. We had.

But then again, nothing could have prepared us for this. A
piece of us lost forever. We’re both so broken. Lost in the reality that single
twist of fate stuck us in. The music diminuendo, our song descending into the
darkness where absence of light and sound is commonplace, the norm. The walls
continuing to close in as song and sound fade.

He sucks in a breath, a momentary break in the impending
silence and then nothing.

In an instant, my world was void. In the next, the silence
deafening. His loss for words speaking volumes, screeching the noiseless
answers to my painful inquiries.

“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” the pain and regret hanging from his
words.

Those four words the confession I was desperately hoping
didn’t exist. The bottom of my world dropped out and the air filled with an
ear-splitting cry. The resonating pain in surround sound.

Left with the echo of the pain-filled howl, the soreness in
my throat shakes me back to the present, the here and now. Those were my cries.
That’s my pain playing a dreadful chord on repeat.

My face in the crook between my knees, hands over my ears
failing miserably to quiet the silent screams waging war on my sanity.

Time silences the cries in my head replacing the raging pain
with the inexplicable and irrational feeling of falling. I plaster myself cheek
to floor in an effort to ground my unstable mind and body. The cool hardwood of
our office has a temporary calming effect.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but my rapid sobs slow to
painful hiccups.

Of course, every part of this is gonna hurt. Why should
breathing be mutually exclusive?

Through the crack between the door and the floor, I can see
that night has taken over the light. Numb to the pain, I peel myself from the
floor. The sight that greets me in the mirror could be the public service
poster for heartache and heartbreak, hair a tangled mess of short waves, face
swollen from harsh tear-clearing swipes, and eyes battered from the incessant
crying. Splashing cool water does nothing for me. Even the temporary sense of
feeling refreshed this act normally brings is absent.

Resolved to my state of muss and disarray, I reluctantly
drag myself one heavy foot in front of the other to our bedroom.

Our. That hurts. Is it my?

I shake and shiver attempting to exorcise the thoughts from
my head.

I can’t go there again…so soon.

There’s a glow coming from Diego’s side of the bed. The
small light draws my attention to his bedside table; it casts an eerie hue over
the folded piece of paper with my name scratched on it. The sight falters all
movement.

When is a letter in a dimly lit, empty, room ever a
bearer of good news?

My curiosity gets the better of me. My legs are moving
towards the truths the note contains before my heart is on board with the
decision. There’s a disconnect between head and heart. With deliberate steps, I
make it to the note; my heart keeping my hands from picking it up.

Unable to resist any longer, there’s a frantic hesitation to
the way I unfold the paper; both hurried and purposely slow at the same time.