Page 9 of The Awful Truth

His gut churned and he glanced at Miguel for some comfort. Only his husband had now added chewing on his bottom lip and bouncing his knee to his tap, tap, tapping the arm rest. Winslow wasn’t the only one hiding a terrible secret. It was clear that Miguel was too, and he’d been doing an admirable job of keeping whatever it was he had done from Winslow.

But Winslow could tell. If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was stupid. Closed off, humorless, and unforgiving, yes, but not stupid. He knew when he first laid eyes on Miguel that someday Miguel would leave him. Anyone could see it. Winslow was twenty years older than Miguel (it was actually twenty years and eleven months, but with multiples of five it was acceptable to round down). Winslow was reserved—the quintessential home-body—whereas Miguel was the world’s brightest and flittiest of all the social butterflies. He was like every monarch left on the planet had been rolled into one short, lean man who somehow managed to completely fill every space he was in with an abundance of energy. People were drawn to Miguel, whereas Winslow had the charisma of a pissed off osprey and was given a wide berth by his employees and neighbors alike.

No one could resist Miguel. Even Winslow’s mother, Regina, took delight in being in Miguel’s presence, and she could have taught Queen Elizabeth a lesson in self-restraint. She was a woman who so rarely laughed, the sound of it was a shock to Winslow’s system. It was as unsettling as if she’d opened her mouth and gold coins had come spewing out from between her thin lips, spilling all around the room. But Miguel could make her hoot with the slightest effort. An expression. A waggle of his eyebrows. A hushed comment whispered in her ear. He made Regina glow like a teenage girl whenever they’d visit her at her home in the country, and it gave Winslow the chance to imagine her as she might have been when she first met Winslow Taggart IV all those years ago. Before his father had systematically sucked every speck of joy out of her with the vigor of an industrial carpet-cleaning truck, until there was no trace of it anywhere inside her hollowed-out body.

Sometimes, Winslow woke up in a cold sweat, terrified that he was doing that exact same thing to his darling, sweet, gregarious Miguel. It usually happened the night before they were due to attend some dreadful dinner party that Miguel was dragging him to, and they’d gone to bed irked with each other because Winslow had predictably tried to get out of it and Miguel was holding his ground. He’d sit up in bed, rubbing his eyes and staring at Miguel’s vulnerable young face, telling himself to suck it up and be a good sport for once. Miguel didn’t ask for much from him in exchange for all the color and light he brought into Winslow’s world. He could surely give him the pleasure of a meal with his silly, obnoxious friends.

Winslow had been very good lately, quickly agreeing to this whole yacht trip, even though he’d rather perform dental surgery on himself than be trapped on a boat with strangers. He had even suggested that Miguel invite their friends round to their home for an evening of drinks and games. Miguel adored games of any sort—cards, murder mystery nights, board games (especially that hideous Cards Against Humanity that made him howl with laughter until he had a headache). Miguel’s face lit up when he suggested it. They were sitting in bed, Miguel was scrolling Pinterest on his phone while Winslow read an Edith Warton novel, his mind unable to stay with Ethan Frome as he lusted after his awful wife’s cousin. Instead of losing himself in the pages, thoughts of his own awfulness kept stabbing at him, along with a creeping feeling that he might have made a grave error when it came to his husband.

The month before, when Miguel had been offered his dream job renovating that ridiculous mansion in Ontario, Winslow had given him an unequivocal no. Miguel was furious, as expected. He was so angry, he packed a bag and stayed the night at the Ritz, charging a champagne and caviar experience, a two-hour massage, and a club sandwich that ran ninety pounds (not that Winslow would ever stoop to doing something so tacky as to discuss the cost of a sandwich. But still, ninety pounds!) The next day, Miguel returned back home just after one in the afternoon without another word about the job. Winslow was already exhausted at the thought of round two of what he was certain would be an epic battle that would last weeks, but instead, Miguel said nothing. He dropped his bag at the front door and poured himself a glass of chardonnay that had been chilling in the fridge, then asked Winslow what he wanted to do for supper.

Just like that, as if he hadn’t stormed out eighteen hours earlier, his cheeks stained with tears and his throat hoarse from shouting how this house was actually a gilded cage and how his marriage was stealing his sparkle! Miguel just smiled up at his husband blandly, as if nothing had happened. It was one of those tiny moments in which, to an observer, it would appear that nothing was happening, but was actually a fork in the road that ends with them either together (at least for the foreseeable future) or forever apart. There was a smugness to Miguel that dared Winslow to question what he’d done after he disappeared. Had he shared the hotel room with someone else? Some random guy he picked up in the hotel bar, or perhaps his recently single friend, Jay, who flirted with both Winslow and Miguel as if he was getting paid by the compliment? Was it a two-hour massage or two one-hour side-by-side massages that Miguel had talked the hotel into misrepresenting on the bill?

But Miguel wasn’t a cheat. He may have been a flirt and an over-spender, but he was loyal. And best of all, he loved Winslow in a way no one had before or would again. Winslow was certain of it. No one would ever care for him this way for the rest of his life. Miguel understood him, he forgave him for his many faults. He lit up when Winslow walked into the room. But something had happened in that hotel. Something big. Winslow could feel it as he stared back. There was a shift in the power. It now tipped in Miguel’s favor for the first time in their relationship and Winslow was suddenly the one who felt wrong-footed.

He’d said no to the biggest thing Miguel had ever asked of him. No. Without any discussion or wiggle room to negotiate. He’d deftly snuffed out his dream, exactly how his own father would have done, when he could’ve, at the very least, listened. Or at the most, gone along with the scheme, patiently waiting for Miguel to get overwhelmed by it and decide it wasn’t for him. That would have allowed Winslow to be the hero, the supporter, the soft place for him to land when it all fell apart. And that type of selflessness would have bought him at least another five years with Miguel. Maybe six.

But Winslow had been in a mood when his husband came rushing into his den, his cheeks flushed. It had been a horrible day at work, then he’d gotten stuck in traffic for close to two hours on the drive home and found himself running to the toilet with the fear of wetting himself, which was a new terror he’d discovered just after he’d turned fifty-nine. It hadn’t happened yet, but he lived in dread that it would happen eventually. His bladder wasn’t holding up like it used to when he was young and could go to bed with an urge to pee and sleep soundly for eight hours before getting up to relieve it. It was humiliating, and it wasn’t something he could talk to his young, hot husband about. Miguel would laugh. Not on purpose, but out of shock. Then he’d feel awful and become overly involved in finding a way to fix it, which would be so much worse than him laughing. He’d do something terrible like book an appointment with Dr. Curran for Winslow, and perhaps ask around to see if any of the older men in their life were dealing with the same issue (they were, of course, but none of them would be so crass as to discuss it). It would be mortifying. It would mean he was old. It would mean Miguel would look at him differently from then on, like he was morphing into a frail, elderly man who should start taking vitamins with the word ‘silver’ on the bottle and doing sudoku puzzles. So Winslow kept it to himself. He tucked away all that frustration he had with his aging bladder (that he imagined now looked deflated and pathetically saggy) and when his young, handsome, still-has-his-best-years-ahead-of him husband hurried in to tell him he’d just been offered his own television show, Winslow had snapped, coming out of the gate far too strong, fearing that if he gave an inch, his husband would move them thousands of miles.

And the next day, as Miguel sipped his wine while he stared at him over the rim of the glass, Winslow was being given a choice. Play along or move along.

“How about we go out to that little curry place you love?” Winslow answered.

Miguel regarded him for a second. “Mm, yum. But to be honest, I’m beat. Let’s get take-away.”

And that was the moment that the sand shifted under his feet, leaving Winslow on the losing end of everything from then on. Without a word, it was clear to Winslow what it would be like between them until Miguel finally got bored of playing ‘You stole my dream, so we’ll do what I want,’ and left him for good.

Only Miguel hadn’t made any unusual demands. He hadn’t pouted or whined or made any passive-aggressive comments under his breath. He just…moved on as if he were fine. He seemed resigned to his fate of remaining here in London with Winslow paying for his every whim. The guilt was eating Winslow alive. At one point, he suggested Miguel redecorate the entire house as a peace-offering, because nothing made his husband happier than tearing apart a room and completely redoing it top to bottom. But Miguel just shrugged at the idea. “No, thanks.”

And just when Winslow was starting to relax, to believe that maybe Miguel, who was thirty-nine, had matured enough to realize that fame would be a burden, not a blessing, Miguel had told him about the invitation from Travis Bishop. There it was. The sound of the other shoe finally dropping.

Miguel’s eyes were lit up again, and this time, Winslow had played along, even offering to help convince Bishop that London was the perfect setting for the show. Winslow had managed to negotiate much harder things with much more difficult men. He knew he could make this happen. And he wanted to do this for Miguel. He had to or he would lose him forever.

AFTER THE INCIDENT

“Bad choices make good stories.” ~ Rajkumar Hirani

1:17 P.M. — WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

PETRA

Petra’s heart pounded as she turned the handle on the door to the Department of Policing. She glanced around, wondering if she looked different. She certainly felt different. Her face was flush and her back was straighter than normal, as if her spine somehow understood that she suddenly had the opportunity to become someone’s wife. And not just any someone. A famous podcaster. Well, famous in the Croatian true crime world, anyway.

The entire walk back to the building was a blur. She couldn’t have said if it was still sunny out or if the clouds had moved in. Instead, her mind raced through his instructions—find out the name of the yacht and where exactly it was docked, who was on it, and if anyone had been taken into custody.

The Director would make it difficult. He had actually closed the door as soon as the call came in, which was odd because he rarely closed the door. Only when he was going through his divorce and his wife would call. He’d shut the blinds too sometimes, and when he’d finally emerge, she could tell he’d been crying. It was all so awkward for her—should she pretend everything was fine or offer him a tissue and some sort of platitude about time healing all wounds? She chose to pretend everything was fine, except the look on her face must have told him she knew, which meant he knew she knew and was unwilling to do the human thing and ask if he was all right. But should she really have to add therapist to her job description? Not for what she was being paid. Petra wished his ex would stop calling him at work so he could cry at home instead. And then one day, a few months ago, that’s exactly what happened. No more angry calls about who was keeping the cocktail shaker. No more hushed, desperate words floating out of his office. No more crying. The Director sunk into a deep funk, barely able to focus on anything, which was so much worse for Petra than the crying had been. And now that he was about to start dating again, she knew she’d be in for a ride she didn’t want to take. He’d go from nervous to bursting with excitement to being devastated over and over again. After two decades on the dating scene, Petra knew the cycle by heart, and the last thing she wanted was to have to witness The Director going through it.

God, she needed this all to work out between her and Luka. But first, she had to get answers for him as fast as she could. By dinner time tonight, if possible, he had asked. They were going to meet at a little restaurant in his neighborhood that he said serves the best cevapi and deep-fried potato rounds in Zagreb. It was all the way on the northeast side of the city, which would mean a lot of driving for Petra, but according to Luka, the restaurant was almost always empty on Wednesdays so the chances of getting seen by someone she works with were slim.

It would be their first time in public together. A real date. She was going to rush home and shower first, then change into something more daring than her usual conservative work attire. Her little black dress and some stilettos she’d only tested out in her bedroom. She’d be a Bond girl with red lips and lots of juicy intel.

But first she had to get the intel.

Petra glanced around the office, realizing that her coworkers would linger until five, and if she waited, she’d run out of time to get all dolled up. So, she’d have to be smart about it. Stealth. Getting caught was not an option.

Oh God. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. After all, even if she did manage to give Luka a leg up, it wouldn’t mean that the podcast would be a hit. And even if it was a hit, he could always change his mind about her. Then there was the possibility that he was just using her. It sat tucked in the back of her mind like a scratchy tag on the inside of a cheap shirt. And if that were the case, Petra knew she’d be done with men forever. It would be worse than the time that Josip Lončar, her boyfriend in high school, dumped her for her best friend, Nina. Nina had gone through what Petra’s teenage niece would call a ‘glow-up’ during the summer between grade eleven and twelve. She got her braces off, got contact lenses, and her boobs finally came in. Petra had been so happy for her friend as they walked side-by-side to their first day back at school. Only when they got there did she realize that her best friend’s good fortune would be the cause of her own great pain. The moment Josip saw them coming down the hallway, his eyes lit up. Only not for her this time.

Josip had never promised her forever, and now that she thought about it, Luka hadn’t either. He suggested that it was a possibility based on his success. But a possibility was better than any offer she’d had up to now, so she was going to take it. She would make it happen. She would ingratiate herself to Luka, and he’d get so caught up in the excitement that he’d be happy to marry her. And she would be a good wife to him. So good, he’d never want to let her go. She might actually even use those blow job tips. Well, probably not.