"Fox?"
"Hmm?" he asks drowsily, his now rough jaw scratching her collarbone.
"Do you remember what you said to me . . ." Whitney loses her voice to a sigh. When her voice returns, it is cracked, almost harsh. "We were in the hospital and you asked me what I was going to do in five years when I realize that Chad is the wrong man?"
"Yes." Fox falls silent, listening. That is not what he said; it is less.
"I know what I'm going to do. I'm leaving. I'm taking Misha and leaving, for good."
Fox raises his doubtful gaze to her face, meeting her eyes. "Why?"
Her chin wobbles as she frowns, shrugs. "I'm not happy. I don't even know what happiness feels like anymore. I don't even know who I am in this marriage. Just his wife, I guess. Just . . ." Her wrist jerks, grasping for words. "Just an accessory like his watch and his phone. He's always on the damn phone, telling the same stupid stories to the same stupid people." Whitney draws a sharp breath, her latent anger piercing her lung like a spear. "I don't even like him. Not love - like him, as a person." Her head wags as her eyes drift out to sea.
Fox props his heavy head on his elbows, his brow furrowed. "You weren't happy before, but you stayed," he says flatly, coolly. "So why now?"
"Because I can't stand it anymore. I can't."
It is the right answer but only half right. Fox nods shortly, staring at her. "Well, you couldn't stand it before," he comments airily, rising from the floor with a small huff. "But I'm sure you'll get over it." He takes a step; abruptly, his hand reaches back to her, an afterthought.
Whitney grabs her gown and presses it to her chest before taking his hand, staring at him, her mouth stammering. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"I'm not sure, Whitney." His eyes drift to the dress drawn up between them like a curtain. "As your friend, for your sake, I want to believe you. As your lover," he adds with dark emphasis, "I could use a little reassurance right now."
His razor sharp tone cuts her; she winces. "Why are you getting angry?"
"Why did you come here tonight?" Fox counters. "Really. Why? A year and a half ago, you came rushing into my arms, my bed," he spits, "and then you left again. That hurt me. Badly." Napalm starbursts in his eyes. "You want to take a little trip back in time? Okay - let's reminisce. Do you remember what you said to me on your wedding night?" He glares at her, her hesitation further angering him. "We were dancing at your reception, and what did you say, Whitney? What did you ask me?"
"I asked you if I was doing the right thing," she replies hoarsely.
"Yes," he hisses. "I spent months trying to talk you out of it, but no . . . you were so in love with Chad. Then after you marry him, you turn me into your confidant? I was dying inside!" he snaps, slapping his chest. "Fast forward through three more years of friendship, since that's the only choice you gave me, three years of waiting for you to be honest about your feelings for once!" Fox swings in a circle; his breath comes in short little pants. "You come to me because you know you can, and then you go back to him because you're still not sure. And here we are again: unhappy house mistress and hired hand. Junkie," he snaps, pointing at her, "Fix."
"Fox, it wasn't like that! I wasn't trying to use you!" she shouts, her eyes filling with tears. "What about Misha? What was I going to do, turn into my mother? I was trying to do the right thing for her," she says emphatically.
"So what happens in a couple of months when you decide that the right thing for her is to be with her father?" He cocks his head, waiting, but she doesn't answer. The fire in his eyes dims to nothing. Fox shakes his head and strides wearily, heavily, toward the bedroom. Suddenly, he spins around. "You don't know what happiness feels like?" he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain and disbelief. "I do. I just felt it."
Just like a year and a half ago, Whitney watches him turn on his heel and stride toward a door that leads away from her turmoil, either oblivious or unconcerned. He has changed, not absolutely, but rather by degrees, the difference between loving and being in love.
The difference whittles Whitney's thoughts to shards of sense over the night and the next morning. When she wakes, she finds her discarded dance card on the pillow next to her - a note from her husband detailing his plans for the day, meetings that last longer than they should, calls that will not be made. Eight o'clock sunlight stretches over his neatly arranged side of the bed, a considerate act that would please a woman who could be pleased. Whitney flings back the mint green duvet and scrambles out of the overstuffed king size mattress as though climbing out of quicksand.
She finds her daughter in the kitchen, slurping soggy cereal, her innocent eyes glued to a small white television set mounted under the cabinet. The housekeeper, Andrea, nods a greeting as she swipes a last speck of dust from the pristine tile countertop that is as white as the floor tile, the dining table, the matte eggshell walls. Everything is as white as a straightjacket.
"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Harris?"
"No thank you," Whitney murmurs as she bends to press a kiss on Misha's forehead. "Hi, sweetie."
"Mom," Misha sings, her eyes never wavering from the screen.
"Breakfast, Mrs. Harris?"
"No, Andrea. Thank you." Whitney punctuates her clipped words with a cool glance. "There is a gown in my room that needs to be cleaned. Today, please."
"Yes ma'am," Andrea replies, scurrying away.
Whitney fills a glass of water from the filtered chrome tap at the sink. She drinks to wash away the faint trace of a hangover at the base of her brain; she is almost successful. Her cotton pajamas slide over slick tile as she leans back against the counter. A breath, almost deep, anxiously rises in her chest; she rubs her almost rested eyes. Today is the day; she has to get her head together. She can't almost leave; she either will or won't.
She dismisses Andrea shortly before noon, and in the silence of the stark modern house, she prepares for her final performance. It is easier than she expected to pack the handful of things that she cares about into her Vuitton duffel; her breaths become longer and deeper with each dress and jewel and treacherous high heel that she leaves behind in the closet. Misha's things fill two larger bags, but that is as it should be; her daughter deserves everything that she can take from her husband. Whitney smiles darkly; she will take a lot, her half and more, whatever it takes to buy back the years he spent looking at her and not really seeing her.
Whitney knows that she has grown thin, even transparent. She doesn't blame Chad for reducing her to bones; no - she did that herself, allowed it to happen. He promised that she would only go hungry for a little while, that she would feast when his life was rich and fat. He promised her life and only gave her survival after she had left her family, her hometown, to follow him back to California. He has only provided a place for her to exist, always at his side, always for his convenience.
At a quarter of six, Whitney plops down on her unmade bed and picks up the phone to call for a car. "Where?" she mumbles, staring dumbly at the cordless handset. She sits silently listening to the dial tone and then the harsh beep in the line, the corners of her mouth tightening like a vise. Abruptly, she flings the phone across the room; the plastic case cracks against the champagne papered wall. A year and a half ago, she was sitting in the same spot, with the same phone, and the same question. There is only one man who has the answer. She snags her purse from under the edge of the bed where she dropped it last night, digs out her cell phone, powers it up. She hesitates only a second over his name in the dull blue digital display before pressing the call button.
"Crane."
"Fox? It's Whitney."
Fox's pulse lurches at the trill of her voice. He shrugs his free arm into the sleeve of his suit jacket, shifts the phone to his left ear. "Hello."
"Hi. Where are you?"
He blinks against the demure question. "Preparing to leave, actually. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Take me with you." Her breath halts as she swallows, trying to steady her voice. "I know you're angry with me, but . . ."
"I can't do this again," he replies haggardly, snapping his briefcase shut.
"Fox, I'm leaving. Leaving," she declares emphatically.
"But are you leaving him for me?" Fox demands through gritted teeth. "Do you love me? That's what I need." He waits through her stiff silence, through the spasm in his chest as his heart begins to crack. "Goodbye, Whitney."
"No - wait!" Whitney clears her throat, pushing through a clog of confusion and tears. "I don't know what love is anymore, Fox. I don't love you because I can't." Her voice is just a whisper, a thin fine thread of truth. "But I want to."
Green light. Go. "You're at home?" he asks hoarsely.
"Yes. I packed; I was about to call a . . ."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The antique silver finish of his English sedan glimmers in the last of the afternoon light, a chariot at sunset. His brooding thoughts fill the luxurious leather interior like fog, a fog that thickens with the slow, foreboding pulse of the George Michael CD that has been his constant companion for five years.
Here in the dark, in these final hours
I will lay down my heart; I'll feel the power
But you won't; no, you won't
I can't make you love me if you don't . . .
Fox takes the steps up to the door two at a time, rings the bell. When Whitney answers, his eyes bind to hers, seeking, searching. "I had to come and see for myself. Words are cheap; I've heard them before."
"Come in," Whitney murmurs, accepting his scrutiny because she has to. She draws him into the entryway, past the living room where Misha is trying to erect a fort out of a magazine stand and a bath robe, and into the institutional white kitchen that makes his black suit seem like armor.
"Where's Chad?"
"I don't know. Everywhere." Whitney laughs spitefully. "He always wants me to know where he is; he always has to know where I am. He's stupid like that." She abandons Fox beneath a rack of dangling copper pots and circles away, pacing in sneakers and well worn jeans. "Do you remember where we left off?" she calls over her shoulder, her hands reaching up to smooth back her hair.
Fox frowns, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
"Before. Five years ago." She turns at the end of the island and leans against the back of a high legged stool. "I don't," she declares baldly. "I don't even know who I was five years ago except a pregnant girl with a high school diploma and no place to turn. My parents split up because of your father. Simone hated me." She laughs shortly, harshly. "Maybe she still does; I don't know. I haven't talked to her since she left for London."
"Why don't you call her?"
Whitney shrugs out a tremulous sigh. "I don't know what to say. That's why I stopped calling you; I didn't know what to say except that I was lost and I wanted someone to find me. That's my biggest problem, Fox - I need to find me." Her left hand taps the statement over her heart, turning it into a pledge. "I can't just tell you, 'Oh, I'm in love with you.' I need to be free for a while, or else I'll do the same thing with you that I did with Chad: just stand there." She throws up her hands; her arms flops back to her sides like broken wings.
"Free?" Fox repeats icily. "As in, alone?"
"Maybe. I don't know!" Whitney replies shrilly. She turns the stool and sits down, burying her face in her hands. "Maybe," she repeats softly, raising her eyes to his. "Fox, I can't make any promises right now. But I need you; I know I do. I've always felt that. I couldn't just let you go and not have you in my life."
Fox crosses the kitchen slowly, his leather shoes clicking on the satiny tile. He scrubs his hand over his mouth while he looks at her, considering. "You love me, Whitney. Need, love - it's the same thing. Why can't you say it? Just tell me." His voice drops to pleading. "Just trust it." Firm hands fold over trembling fingers; Fox sighs. "Trust me - that's all I want from you. You used to," he says wistfully, his eyes drifting into the past. "You used to be so sweet and . . . you used to show me your heart, a little at a time. That's how I knew. When we lived in Harmony, I knew that you loved me." His brow furrows over darkened eyes; he shakes his head. "I'm not sure anymore, and it's eating me alive."
Whitney's lips part on a gasp, a stutter like the erratic heartbeat of something dying, or coming back to life. "How can I trust you when I don't even trust myself?" she sobs, her soul bleeding from her eyes.
Compassion flutters his heart beat and then his voice. "Oh, my love," Fox murmurs. He cups her face in his hands, his thumb wiping the tear stains from her cheeks. "I'll teach you," he whispers, pronouncing the words carefully, slowly, drawing them up from his own battle scarred soul. "I know you, Whitney. And you can be . . . so much more than this. Even more than me," he promises, nodding slightly. "However much you love yourself, I will always love you more - that's your strength. That's love, Whitney. When are you going to let me love you?" He doesn't wait for an answer this time; he steals it from her mouth, answers in kind. A promise begins with the soft seal of lips, becomes an oath heavy with breath and motion, then deepens to the feuding tongues and wet slickness of a blood covenant, ancient and eternal. They devour each other before the little eyes peering in from the living room and the wide enraged eyes scorching the glass insert in the back door, oblivious and unconcerned.
It is Whitney's sudden sharp intake of breath that alerts Fox, turns his head; his body shifts the few precious inches that deflect a crushing blow from his spine to his instinctively raised arm. The bones shudder as though they will snap yet he pushes back the instrument of pain, shoves against the spaded end of a steel shovel, tries to push it out of the attacker's grasp. A woman screams, his stomach lurches, he turns to her - a mistake that costs him a blow to the jaw and then his vision when the shovel sweeps behind his knees and sends him spiraling toward the tile.
"Chad, stop!" Whitney shrieks. Her heart stops when he raises the shovel; she charges him, bounces off of his shoulder like a rubber ball, and then recoils when the shovel swings in her direction.
Protect your own; kill your enemy - it takes a second for Chad to make the distinction. When he does, his palm presses against Whitney's forehead and shoves her away. "Stay out of it," he snaps. He jerks at the sound of a stool scraping; he turns to find Fox pulling himself up from the floor. A swift kick to the ribs flattens the enemy on his back.
"Stop it!" Whitney shoves Chad from behind; that doesn't stop him from stomping on Fox's sternum once, twice. "No!" She jumps him, grasps the shovel with one hand and throws her other arm around his neck.
Chad rears back under her weight; he swings and throws her off against the counter. She slides to the floor; the shovel clatters next to her. "You stay out of this!" he bellows, glaring at her. "You're cheating on me with this . . ." Chad spins and plants his foot on Fox's throat. "I trusted you, you son of a bitch! But I caught you this time. Yeah." His eyes widen and swing back to Whitney. "You thought I didn't know, huh? Huh?! You thought I was stupid." He spits, panting, almost laughs. "I've been keeping tabs on you for a year - who's stupid now?!" Chad's pupils sharpen on Fox's compressed face; he bounces on his knee. "Didn't make it in time for the party last night, buddy, but I got you this time. I knew," he spits, punctuating his words with pressure, "I knew something was up. She came back to me, but you couldn't leave her alone, huh? You will this time." Chad's heel slips; he leans forward, bearing down on his thighs, watching the blue tinge that creeps into Fox's face.
Whitney rises like the wind, bulldozes Chad, her fists thumping uselessly against his thick hide. And then the twig snaps; the change is absolute, the difference between loathing and hatred. Her eyes narrow, tighten; she snatches the shovel from the floor. "Stop it!" Whitney commands, the shovel pinging dully against his shoulder. "Stop! Stop! STOP!" Metal contacts bone with a sickly wet thunk, a tiny crunch. Chad stops; he has to. His vision blips like a faulty screen, full of static, full of color. Yellow. Red. Red light.
