When I Let You Go (Let Me Book 6) Page 3

  But he was not up to standards.

  Not even close.

  And we imploded just ten months after our love affair began.

  I asked him to come to my parents’ annual Fourth of July bash on Martha’s Vineyard, sure in the knowledge that he was booked for a gig in Hyannis. I was not looking for my two worlds to collide. So when he strolled out onto the pool deck that evening wearing a snug, threadbare black Kiss t-shirt and cargo shorts slung low on his hips, I nearly fainted. Back on campus, my heart would have been beating double time with lust at the sight of him, but here? I quickly surveyed the scene, taking in my mother’s scrunched up nose, Millie’s waggling eyebrows and Bunny’s smirk. I swear, it was if the music had stopped, people froze in place and every conversation halted midsentence. He could not have looked more out of place if he tried. As he scanned the group for me, I saw the corner of his mouth tick up in an amused smile as he took in the crisp khaki shorts, seersucker pants and the bright hued polo shirts, each and every one with the collar turned up.

  We were done the moment Jesse’s eyes landed on me. I tried my best to smile and put on a surprised yet delighted expression, but back then I was a terrible liar. I was easy to read. My unease and embarrassment were obvious. His eyes hardened.

  He didn’t seem to care that my parents made no effort to hide their distaste when I introduced him, and he was unreadable when my so-called friends practically laughed in amusement when he told them he was from Dorchester. He could have just as easily said Boston, but no, Jesse made sure to clarify to everyone that he was born and raised in the most economically depressed part of the city. The only person who was civil and friendly towards him was Vincent Cole. He approached, shaking hands, introducing himself as Vince as he handed Jesse a beer, simultaneously taking a sip from his own longneck bottle. And while Jesse was cordial in return, his hard eyes never once left mine. When Vince left us, Jesse downed the rest of his beer, tossed it into the trash so that it made a loud clanking sound, and then turned to leave without another word.

  “Jesse, where are you going?” I asked, knowing full well what was happening. Fully aware that I couldn’t fix this or undo the damage.

  He was walking down the long driveway as I nervously trailed behind, trying to catch up to him but wary of actually doing so. His head shook from side to side. “Never in my life, Margot….I’ve never felt like that before. I can’t fucking believe it, you’re actually ashamed of me.”

  “I am not!” I heard him let out a cheerless laugh. “Come back, Jesse.”

  “I’d rather chew glass than be around you right now.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked desperately as he kept making his way down the driveway with long, purposeful strides.

  “It took me nearly two hours to get here between the ferry and the long ass walk. What a fucking waste.” I caught up to him and grabbed his elbow. He shook me off and then rounded on me, pointing in the direction of my grandparents’ sprawling home. “Go back, Margot. Go back to your life.”

  “I’m sorry, Jesse. Please, just wait a minute,” I pleaded as he turned and continued walking.

  “Nothing to wait for…We’re done.”

  I felt as if I’d been kicked, as if the breath had been knocked right out of me. I staggered back and sat on the front steps for I don’t know how long before Bunny sat down and handed me a glass filled to the brim with Chardonnay.

  Bunny was my roommate. We were soul-sister close since that first day of freshman orientation. From a Main Line Philly family herself, her upbringing was similar to mine so she understood me. But while she seemed to genuinely like Jesse, I always got the feeling she was humoring me. Like she thought our relationship was nothing more than me taking a walk on the wild side, living out some bad-boy fantasy. She’d tag along when I watched him play, sometimes hooking up with a bouncer or one of his bandmates. But drunk and calling out to me over the bass and drums, Bunny had once laughed as she informed me that Jesse and I had less than a snowball’s chance in hell of making it.

  “I’m sorry I giggled when he came in, that wasn’t cool. But that outfit, Margot! I just, I thought you would have prepared him.” I was too busy gulping my wine to be annoyed with her. “Where is he?”

  “He broke up with me. He’s gone.”

  “Aw, honey, I’m sorry. You know how I feel about the whole thing, but I like Jesse. He’s a good guy. And he loves you. I’m sure you can work this out, but—”

  “What?” I interrupted. “But make sure I get the approval of the tribe first?”

  When Bunny didn’t answer, I looked up to see her staring reverently at Vince. No words passed between them as she instinctively got up and abandoned me, leaving room for Vince to take the now vacant spot next to me.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “I’m a terrible person,” I said to no one in particular.

  He lowered his head and reached over, slowly dragging his thumb over my jaw, catching a wayward tear. “No, you’re the best kind of person, Margot. You follow your heart. Not one of those girls back there would even look outside of our set. Sometimes,” he shook his head, “sometimes I feel like I have a target on my back when I’m around this crew.”

  “You are kind of the crown prince. I think my mother would actually mud wrestle Juliet Hastings’ mom for the honor of being your mother in-law.”

  I had a quick laugh as I visualized that scene, but then just as quickly I began sobbing—ugly chest-heaving sobs.

  “Hey,” he soothed, drawing me in close as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Do you love this guy?”

  “Yes.”

  I would come to realize months later that my quietly murmured yes, that one simple word, set the course of the rest of my life in motion.

  Before Vince got up and made his way towards his new toy, a pristine black BMW convertible, he squeezed my shoulder, kissed me chastely on the temple and said, “Then I have my work cut out for me.”

  Three years later, at just twenty-two, I was a June bride. I was the envy of nearly every female along the Eastern seaboard between the ages of eighteen and thirty, about to embark on a month-long European honeymoon before taking my place alongside my husband as the prototypical supportive corporate wife.

  I was now Mrs. Margot Cole.

  Twenty-nine years later, Vince and I take our place of honor in the front pew. I look to my only child, my son Dylan—my life’s work. As he turns to watch his bride make her way up the aisle, his expression mimics mine: smiling, confident, winning. There’s something barely perceptible around the eyes, though. And I’m sure if I had a mirror, I’d see the same look reflected in mine: resignation.

  As the priest recites those solemn words, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” I think to myself: I’ve done it. I’ve ruined his life, just like my mother ruined mine.

  I’ve only cried four times in my life, not counting skinned knees or the time I got kicked in the nuts for telling a girl she was fat in the fourth grade.

  The first time was after I’d caught my father cheating on my mother, balls deep in his secretary. I also cried as I left Church on that cold March morning, trailing behind the coffin that had my cousin Will trapped inside. The third time was just over twelve years ago, when a few tears escaped during a weary ride back to the airport, just having lost her. Now this, the fourth time, I am drunk, staring ahead at nothing in the pre-dawn hours of my wedding day.

  I’m going to go through with it. There’s no reason not to.

  Cecilia has been patient, waiting five long years for me to commit. She didn’t pester me when the wedding invitations from friends dwindled, only to be replaced by baby shower invitations and birth announcements. No, she didn’t say anything at all. It made me angry. She was telling me right from the start that she would acquiesce to me at every turn, that my needs surpassed hers, that she would do anything just to be with me.

  I kind of hate her for that.

  Several hours later, I plaster on a
mega-watt smile as my bride enters the Church, flanked by her mother and father, who just happen to be my parents’ closest friends. She looks beautiful in her cream colored dress—lightening would likely strike if she’d tempted fate and worn white. Her dress is classic but fitted just right, letting the world know that while the future Mrs. Cole is elegant, she’s packing some indecent curves underneath that fabric. Her silky chestnut hair is piled above her head, revealing her long, sensuous neck, and her make-up is understated because she knows that’s what I prefer.

  As she gets closer, my jaw strains with the effort it’s taking to hold my smile in place. I let out a relieved sigh, happy for the opportunity to regroup for a moment when Mr. Tate pulls me into a tight hug, whispering, “Take care of my baby girl,” as he joins her hand with mine.

  I will take care of Cecilia.

  I said I would, so now it’s my duty to do so.

  She has to nudge me when the priest raises his head, looking to me, waiting for me to repeat those tired, standard vows after him. A week prior, Cecilia had sheepishly asked if I’d like to write vows of our own, ones that were more personal. I balked, said that went against tradition. But truth was, I knew I could spit out the standard lines with ease, in sickness and in health and all that. Express feelings of love and devotion for Cecilia in my own words? I was a good liar but even I couldn’t fake my way through that.

  So we exchanged the rings that served as symbols of our love and—ahem—fidelity, danced to our first song as man and wife, and accepted the toasts to our lifetime of happiness.

  The only way I could get through it was to down another shot of Macallan, close my eyes and picture her face as I fucked my wife on our wedding night.

  Seven years later…

  “You know I’d love it if you could come with me, but I don’t want to pull you away from what you’ve got going on here. Seems important…What is it again?”

  She looked at me with a doting, loving expression. “I’m co-chairing the Juvenile Diabetes Research fundraiser with Samantha Paulson. It’s in two weeks. I put it on your calendar, but please make sure that dimwitted secretary of yours doesn’t book anything for the weekend after next.” I looked back at her with what I imagine was a blank expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s up to speed,” Cecilia amended. I didn’t take care of trivial bullshit like that and she knew it. “There’s just so much to do, but I hate the thought of you traveling all alone.”

  I could almost laugh out loud at the predictability of it all. I ask you to join me, you decline. I ask again while subtly reminding you of your other obligations. You hem and haw—decisions, decisions. And then it’s settled. I go on my merry way, solo and unburdened, while you stay in New York, tending to your charity ball nonsense or whatever other inane pastime you and your fellow Stepford wives are currently into.

  I hate the thought of you traveling alone.

  What Cecilia really wants to say is something along the lines of: If I don’t come with you, I know you’ll be nailing that twenty-five-year-old account executive from the Zurich office, and I hate the thought of that. And she’s right, I will be. In fact, I’ve already called lovely Lara and told her to clear her schedule for the next four days, giving her the play by play of all the dirty things I plan to do to her in my suite at the Baur au Lac.

  Just pretending to want Cecilia’s company is enough to reassure her. “It’s up to you, CeCe.”

  “Ugh…I’d really love to go but do you mind if I stay here? I really do have so much to do.”

  “It’s fine, I’ll be busy anyway. Probably wouldn’t be much of a vacation.”

  The buttons on her blouse come undone slowly, one by one, and then she lowers the zipper on the side of her fitted pencil skirt. Underneath she wears a corset-style bra and a tiny scrap of a thong. Cecilia still has a tight, well-toned body, long legs and firm tits.

  She sinks to her knees in front of me. “If I won’t be seeing you for nearly a week,” she purrs, “then I have to give you something to remember me by.” She undoes my belt, lowers my zipper slowly and pulls my cock out, stroking me until I’m hard.

  Cecilia does everything I like. She touches herself as she sucks me off and takes me deep into her throat when I push her head down as I thrust up into her mouth. She’d basically do anything to please me. Let me take her any way I wanted, wherever and whenever I wanted. Cecilia was my wife but acted like she was my sex slave, always looking to keep me interested by suggesting things that were edgier, riskier. For our one year anniversary, she organized a threesome. On my thirtieth birthday she planned a trip to Paris, arranging a night at an upscale sex club. It was the kind of place where couples paid ungodly sums to protect their privacy while either swinging or being voyeurs as members of parliament, models, business titans and socialites mingled and got it on wearing masks and little else.

  It wasn’t always like this. I’d known Cecilia my entire life and I genuinely liked her. There was a time when she had interests and opinions. And even though deep down I always knew she’d come running if I snapped my fingers, I found her to be intelligent, ambitious and kind. I used to admire her. But I set a chain of events into motion that night so many years ago, the night I tapped out a text as I sat in first class on the last flight back to Chicago. I needed comfort after I’d just gone and fucked up my life—lost everything. I should never have reached out to her, but I did. And that’s when things began to change. Without meaning to do it, that’s the night I set about ruining Cecilia.

  I upended her world. Her pursuit of a master’s degree was halted mid-way through her program. Finish school? We traveled too much. Start her own career? How could she when I needed her by my side, handling my calendar and our social obligations? Her days became just like those of every other insipid society princess in our social set: work out at a trendy gym that offered the newest pilates-spin-cardio fusion bullshit routine that cost more per session than feeding a homeless family for a week, pop into the dermatologist’s office for whatever fountain of youth procedure that was currently the rage, shop, lunch with friends on wine and lettuce leaves, and then service your husband in the evenings if he bothered to come home and see you.

  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  My poor, dull wife—she just didn’t get it. There was nothing she could do to keep me interested in a monogamous relationship with her. The only woman who had the slightest chance of reining me in was long gone.

  Back then, back when I had Kasia in my life, I fought hard against my baser instincts. I hired plump, middle-aged office managers and personal secretaries. I traveled alone, conducting business during my business trips. I lived to please her. And if I’d just had some more time to grow up, I know I could have been the man she deserved.

  But I fucked up royally back then, and I’ve been paying the price ever since.

  “What time is it?” I groan into the phone, registering Cecilia’s name on the caller ID.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry! It’s just after eleven here. I just got back from dinner with Melanie and Samantha.” Cecilia sounded giddy; I estimated she was good for at least three glasses of Cabernet right now. “I just wanted to tell you that I love the flowers.”

  “CeCe, it’s five in the morning here. I have a meeting in two hours. I’m glad you like the flowers, but can we talk later?” I manage to sound annoyed even though I’m blissed out and smiling. Lara was nudging me with her bare ass, grinding against my morning wood.

  “Ok, baby, I just really loved your note. You know that I feel the same way, right? You are my one true love, Dylan.”

  What the fuck was she babbling about? “Did you girls have a lot to drink tonight?”

  “No, I had only two glasses of wine! Maybe I’m just feeling sentimental tonight…Missing you. And that note, well, it just made me feel loved. I love you, Dylan.”

  Lara was now sucking hard on my thumb as she rocked her hips with more force. “I love you, too.” For that, Lara scraped her teeth against me so
hard that I nearly yelped. I manage to choke out, “I’ll be home tomorrow,” before hanging up on my wife.

  “Do you want children?”

  Melanie sat across from me, sprawled over one of the two deep leather chairs that sat opposite my desk. People literally sank into those chairs, which was intentional on my part. Made my adversaries feel even weaker in my presence as I sat tall behind my desk. Even if we stood eye to eye, which was a rarity, I typically had a good half foot on them once they took a seat.

  “Hmm…do I want them? No, but I’m going to do it. I mean, I don’t know how much longer I can put him off. Jonathan is being a major pain in the ass about it lately, not to mention his mother. I hate that bitch.” Her mood brightened when she added, “Anyway, I’ll have nannies. It’s not like I won’t be able to live my life, right?”

  At least she didn’t sugar coat her opinions to make them more palatable to others.

  Melanie Pierce, now Mrs. Melanie Sheffield, was a close friend. Maybe my closest friend, even though I didn’t like what that said about me. Not that I wanted to hang out with her often, it wasn’t that kind of friendship, but there was a level of comfort in our relationship that I had with no one else. Melanie knew almost everything there was to know about me and I knew all the depraved and lurid details of her life as well. We grew up together, a generation of overindulged rich kids, just as our parents had grown up together decades before.

  We attended the same parties, vacationed together and even spent four years together at the same university. She was a close friend of Cecilia’s, and Melanie used to date my fraternity brother and friend, Christian. For years, I liked to think of me, Christian and Melanie as members of our own little secret society. We were like minded, free-spirited and didn’t see how the rules of relationships applied to us. The nights I wound up in Christian’s bed with Melanie sandwiched between the two of us were too numerous to count.