The Secrets I've Exposed Page 2

  “It’s to be expected when you run a business, right?”

  “If only that were the single stressor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, juggling a family and running a business are not tasks for the weak-willed or the lazy,” I answer in a hushed tone.

  “I bet,” she says. “Do you get any alone time?”

  “An occasional minute or two, usually I hide out in my office for a bit before going home, like I did tonight. Maybe, had I left earlier; I wouldn’t be stuck in here.”

  “Then I would be alone in this and part of me is glad to be stuck in here with you.”

  “Why?” I’m a bit taken aback.

  “There are people far worse than you I could have had to endure this with. I’m glad it’s with someone at least moderately sane.”

  “Who could be worse than someone you don’t know? I would think knowing the person would make things easier.”

  I shuffle along the floor as I make myself comfortable, eventually ending up on my side, on top of my clothes, my laptop case shoved under my head as a makeshift pillow.

  “You haven’t met Chad.” She laughs. “He tries to be oh so suave, always failing miserably, at least with me. I think I’ve turned into a competition for him, but I can’t be sure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s not that awful, just one of those guys who thinks too highly of himself. He views himself as some ‘perfect being’ and won’t have anyone tell him otherwise.”

  “Makes me glad I don’t have to deal with flirtatious men.” I laugh. “Wait, I take it back. There was this one instance.”

  “Do tell.”

  “A male fan had sent me thirty emails. I couldn’t help but open one. This was back in the beginning when I actually read all the emails sent to me. What I saw was definitely not what I had been expecting.”

  “Which was?”

  “He made a video of himself proposing to me, ring and all. At first, I thought it may have been for someone else, but then he mentioned his love for me, well let’s just say I couldn’t finish the video. He was a decent looking guy, I guess. But I’m only attracted to women. Especially ones that don’t propose to me via email with homemade posters of my face as their backdrop.”

  “Jeez.”

  “The never-ending joys of being famous keep on coming.”

  “There must be at least some benefits though, right?”

  I sense her move in the darkness, then her foot unexpectedly grazes against mine, and for some reason, her simple little touch makes me a bit jittery.

  “I will never be Chad from your office, so there’s that.”

  I take a deep breath, trying not to think about her.

  “Do you ever miss the normal life?” she asks me.

  “More than you could ever know. I love my life, and I know I could never change it, but there are definitely things I miss.”

  “Being normal isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

  “To be completely honest, it’s conversations like this I miss the most. The idea I want to be perpetually in the spotlight, never mind my career, is far from the truth. I get treated differently because of who I am, and at times, it’s hard to live a happy, regular life. For most people, there is an expectation of privacy. Something as simple as grocery shopping can be an ordeal. I’m not a jerk. If people want a photo with me, I generally say ‘yeah sure’ because I feel an obligation to them. I mean something to them. I hope this doesn’t come across as whiny, because there are many benefits that come along with the job, but all too often the dark underbelly conceals the true joy of my position. That I’m doing something good. And for some godforsaken reason my opinions and actions matter, not just to me, but to the audience I have built up over the years.”

  She stays silent, so I add, “What I’m trying to say is part of me likes being stuck in here with you. It’s giving me a minute to sit, relax and talk to someone, without the awkwardness of my “fame” being in the way.”

  “I’m glad to help?”

  Should I not have said those things?

  Did I make her uncomfortable?

  I got all wrapped up in the fact she didn’t treat me differently, so I have treated her differently.

  I don’t know her.

  I don’t know why I’m sharing my problems with a stranger. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Then I realize what’s happening. I’m nervous. I’m letting my thoughts dribble out of my mouth, word-vomiting all over her. I’ve done countless live interviews, I run a multi-million-dollar company I built from the ground up, shed light on dozens upon dozens of horrible people, never dripping a sweat, but now, I’m terrified. I shift myself around as the elevator floor sends bouts of pain throbbing up and down my back. This is what fear is. Feeling out of control, acting unlike yourself.

  “Do you think this is an accident?” I ask her, tension straining my veins. My only solace in the fact she can’t see me, that she can’t physically witness my breakdown.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  I shrug, even though she can’t see it.

  “Besides,” she continues, “aren’t there other more efficient ways of hurting people? Why would someone ever go through all this trouble?”

  She sounds confident in her answer, but there is much she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know this isn’t the first time my life has been threatened. But those that have threatened me had always done so with spoken words, online videos, or written letters. Never has my life actually been put into any real danger. But she’s right. There are easier ways to take someone out. For this to be anything but an accident would be inconceivable.

  “You’re right.” I nod.

  “Unless you have enemies.”

  She meant it as a joke.

  “None I know of.” I lie.

  Am I in the wrong profession if there are people out there that could really want me dead? The thought has crossed my mind before. I have a list of people with restraining orders against me, one who’s doing time right this second for violating it, but no one has ever been directly violent towards me.

  I know what I do for a living makes me disliked, how couldn't it? I’ve exposed multi-million-dollar companies for fraud, embezzlement, harassment, the works. I've left very powerful people in very sticky situations. Situations I’m often blamed for. But now, as far as I know, things have been peaceful.

  But then I think of my son and the fact he has lived the entirety of his life in the spotlight. At the age of three, he has been televised and photographed far more than any child should be. One day, he will be a man, one that may regret his life was documented for the world to see. Or he could grow up having these same life-threatening worries—because of me.

  It was my choice to attend public events with my family, putting our faces out there. But if all of this was an attempt at my life, then I may not be the only one in danger. I may have not only put my own family in the crosshairs, but I may have put Kate, a complete stranger, in harm’s way too.

  “I’d think you would know if someone wanted to hurt you,” she remarks, interrupting my thoughts. “You do great things, Phil. You share with the world stories that are otherwise untold, exposing the liars and awful people of the world. Though not everyone is going to agree with your opinions, you’re doing it for the right reasons. You have to remember that.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, once we get out of here then you can figure all of this out, right? There is nothing we can do here. How about we talk about something else,” she offers. “Anything else.”

  She starts to move around again, her bag rattling as she drags it across the floor. She must be uncomfortable too.

  “I’ll start,” she says confidently. “Something I enjoy is running, usually with my best friend. We’re signed up for a marathon in August.”

  “I couldn’t run a mile to save my life,” I admit, feeling embarrassed.

  “I couldn’t either. Two years ago, I joined a runner’s group, met my best friend, and the rest is history. I always make time for it before work, which reminds me.”

  She shuffles through her bag, the contents clamoring against one another.

  “Could you turn around?” she asks.

  I’m not able to see my hand if it were an inch away from my face, but I oblige.

  As I turn in place, I pull my sleeves up over my elbows and roll my pants up to my knees, but it doesn’t do much to cool me down, instead the sweat builds in the creases.

  “I’m facing the wall,” I answer with a bit of sarcasm.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you feeling warm too?”

  “I thought it was just me,” I answer, though I can distinctly feel the sweat pooling under my arms.

  “It’s not just you.”

  We stay quiet for a while and after sweating it out for the next several minutes I decide to undress down to my boxers. Instantly I’m glad to be rid of my clothes. I prop them behind me and sit myself up against the wall, but it doesn’t make much of a difference comfort-wise. Then I imagine Kate disrobing, her dress in a pile, leaving her undergarments exposed. I physically shake my head, attempting to etch-a-sketch away the mental picture I had created, but a faint trace of my sexual thoughts remain.

  “What’s on your mind?” She asks.

  “Nothing” I say quickly. “Wh-what about you?”

  “I don’t believe you. You must be thinking about something.” She quips.

  “Do you want the real answer?” I rub at my eyelids as they ache, pleading to close. I had tried to keep them open as it made me feel less claustrophobic, but it doesn’t help very much.

  “No, I want you to lie to me,” she remarks sarcastically.

  “My wife.”

  “It would be wrong f
or you not to think of her at a time like this.”

  “It’s the context of the thoughts that are wrong.” It’s odd to be so truthful with a stranger, especially a woman. But she has an ease about her, an outwardly friendly persona. But is that the only reason I wish to divulge my secrets?

  “This may sound cliché, but we aren’t the same people we used to be. I started out with nothing, not a penny to my name. We lived in a basement barely able to pay rent or feed ourselves. I got a job out of college, as did she, then we got married, had Trevor, and I started my own company. Some days, I feel like everything is as it should be. I have the life some people can only dream of. But there are other times it doesn’t feel like it is my dream.”

  “Money changes people.” She says with a clear certainty.

  She sounds calm, collected, as if maybe she has suffered a similar fate.

  “Has money changed your life?” I ask.

  “Living in debt changed me, for sure. It took me years to climb out from under it. Now I have a steady job, but it wasn’t always that way. I’m able to live comfortably, buy what I need without the stress of money, but to answer your question, yes, money changed me as much as I let it. I could afford a nicer place to live, a fancier car, but for what? I have enough space, and a car is a car. I save more than I spend, and I am happy, isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  “So, you are saying money isn't important to you?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m saying having an exuberant amount of money isn’t important to me. You need money to eat, to get to work, to survive. A society without money would be madness. It’s how you spend it that makes the difference.”

  “My wife does not share those opinions.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She is a spendthrift. She buys things to buy things. Then she argues with me over her exhaustion from shopping and the and I quote “hard-laborious work she has to go through.””

  My heart pounds as my blood boils, the intensity of Erica’s disregard of me coursing through my veins.

  “She screams at me over nothing. She makes me sleep in the guest room. She does not work. She does not clean. She does nothing!”

  I can’t see Kate and now more than ever I wish I could, to be able to gage her expression. I didn’t mean for the outburst, but now I feel relieved—a weight lifted off my shoulders.

  “Then why stay?” She yawns.

  “My son, Trevor.” I sigh. “I can’t imagine not seeing him every day and with a divorce you lose half the time with your children.”

  She exhales loudly again and suddenly her leg bumps into mine. I can tell she is lying down, or at least trying to.

  “I want a better life for my son.”

  It's ten minutes later and every few breaths or so, she lets out a soft nasally snore. It’s adorable. The unintentional noise breaks the silence that had been filling the space. As much as I had wanted to continue to chat, I let her fall asleep.

  My lower back and knees throb as I stand from the floor. I stretch my arms in the air, releasing tense muscles, then I reach out my hands grasping at air until I find the elevators panel. I push each of the elevator’s buttons individually, but nothing happens. I gently sit down, this time near Kate's head, not wanting to be kicked while she sleeps, a habit of my wife.

  Is Erica waiting up for me? Is she at home wondering when I will be finished at work? Has she tried to call me?

  Has anyone called Kate? Is there someone waiting for her to come home or would no one be aware of her midnight disappearance?

  There is nothing to do but rest. But as hard as I force myself to welcome it, sleep will not come. It sits tantalizingly out of reach. After what I can only guess is half an hour’s worth of unsuccessful attempts, I give up entirely. I have always had a hard time falling asleep, it becoming so prevalent I've turned to melatonin for assistance—my own miracle drug.

  Then suddenly Kate is lying in bed beside me, piles of pillows and blankets crowding around us. The bed is plush yet firm as it cradles us together, a clash of intertwined limbs. We cuddle closer beneath a luxurious satin comforter, but I quickly notice a sheet tucked around her body. She props herself up on an elbow to face me, all smiles. The sunlight trickling in from her bedroom window illuminates her beautiful awe-inspiring figure.

  “What do you think of the upgrade?” she asks, flashing a doe-eyed grin. She's started pulling her sheet down, showing me more and more of her with every passing second.

  “You’re more than an upgrade.” I moan, my eyes absorbing every inch of her I'd not yet seen. Can a mental picture too be worth a thousand words, because I could spend hours describing how this makes me feel.

  She laughs. “I meant the bed, it’s quite a step up from the floor.”

  Why can’t this be real? Why is this a dream?

  “You know the answer to that,” she answers, reading my mind.

  “I can’t leave Trevor behind.”

  “I don’t want you to ever believe you are leaving him behind. I just don’t want you living a life of regret. You deserve to be happy, just as they deserve to be happy.” Her green eyes sparkle, hypnotizing me. I reach out to touch her, to hold her, but she slips right through my fingers.

  Then my wife is in her place, facing away from me, her attention on her phone. She’s dressed in a conservative two-piece nightgown as we lie together in “our bed,” the bed I haven’t slept in for over three months. She’s browsing a shopping site, adding a multitude of dresses to her virtual cart. It tears at me that her attention is not on me. Just look at me Erica. Can't you please make an effort?

  Then in a flash, I’m at a bar with Kate. We are huddled together in a booth, drinking, laughing, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We joke had it not been for a mechanical failure, we would have never found each other.

  I wake up feeling very groggy, and after barely opening my eyes, an intense pain plows through me. I’m temporarily blinded. I blink rapidly until my eyes adjust to the bright lights drowning the room.

  The elevator starts vibrating again.

  Kate isn’t waking up!

  It starts shaking harder and harder!

  I pull her up onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her torso. She’s dead asleep.

  The floor moves violently beneath us, but I don’t let her go.

  “Kate. Kate! Wake up!”

  We drop again. And again. Stopping then starting, like those children frogger games at the amusement park. We’re jolted around like rag dolls.

  Quick heavy breaths leave my lungs! My body can’t keep up! I can’t breathe! I feel like I am suffocating!

  My arms wrap around her as tightly as I can without hurting her. Her head rests against my right shoulder while the rest of her is situated over my legs.

  Then with a final jerk, we stop.

  My body is shaking. I can’t get enough air. My heart is pounding. Every muscle in my body is constricting at once. But eventually, my heart rate slows. I loosen my hold on her.

  “Kate,” I whisper, patting down her hair. “Kate?”

  She stirs, and I am hesitant on what to do. Her body is slumped against mine.

  This looks very, very bad.

  “Kate, are you alright? We fell again. Did you get hurt?” I place my hands on the elevator floor, moving them off of her.

  “You-you protected me.” Her voice is raspy and slow.

  “I thought you were asleep.” I whisper, my urge to hold her close to me is so unbelievably strong, but I stop myself.

  “I was, until the shaking and the dropping." She mutters with a fearful lingering ache. "But you protected me.”

  She cuddles herself against me, wrapping her arms around me, nuzzling her head into my neck. My heart thumps erratically. My hands wrap around her, rubbing her back and neck, memorizing the way her back curves, the way her long hair falls over her shoulders. I am comfortable with this woman. This stranger I just met. I feel safe. Warm. Cared for. My body relaxes. Somehow, she is doing this to me. Her hair smells of lavender as the flyaway strands prickle at my neck.

  She moves herself off of me. I can’t feel her. But then she's back. She'd positioned herself so we sit shoulder to shoulder. After less than a minute she inches her way into an awkward hug.

  One of her arms circles around my body, and one of mine mirrors hers, my fingers pattering on her side. She rests her head on my shoulder. Knots form and tighten in my stomach. Goosebumps envelop my arms and an internal shaking starts. I need to let her go, but I can’t.