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“Your flight. Is it for business or pleasure?”
Some of my triumph dims as the cloud of Kendall’s loss—the whole Kendall situation, really—floats back to the forefront of my mind. “Technically, neither. A friend of mine—you met her, actually. Kendall Hewitt. I don’t know if you remember, but I introduced you at—”
“Laney’s party. Of course I remember Kendall. I very discreetly—because I am discretion itself after two martinis—suggested you invite her along for your weekend of work.” He chuckles. “Took my advice, eh?”
“Unfortunately, no. She recently lost someone who meant a lot to her. A friend she grew up with. I’m taking a few days to be with her. Offer my support. It’s a difficult time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you convey my condolences when you see her?”
“Yes. I—”
“I best let you go. I don’t say so often, but there are a few things more important than America Rocks, and you’re onto one right now. Safe travels. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks,” I reply at the same time a gate attendant announces preboarding for my flight. A few minutes later I’m staring out the window of seat 3C, caught in a weird emotional limbo. The rush from Nigel’s call has calmed to low-grade euphoria. I can’t share the news with anyone at the moment, so even a limited round of thank-yous and congratulations with my inner circle will have to wait until I deplane. Meanwhile, another part of my brain is working overtime to figure out exactly how I carry off this uninvited visit I’m making. I have Kendall’s home address from Dixie, so I could just show up on her doorstep and tell her I’m there for her if she needs me. Some might consider that an ambush, though, so maybe I should call first? Hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if you needed my emotional support, or missed me, or are open to revisiting the topic of “us”?
My cell rings again, reminding me I haven’t toggled to airplane mode yet. They’re still boarding the main cabin, so I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s my father. Apparently good news travels fast. My low-grade euphoria rises a degree, and I figure I have enough time to take the call and thank him before I’m wheels up, because he deserves massive credit for helping make this happen. Basking in our achievement might provide the right foundation for rebuilding the father-son part of our relationship.
“Hey Dad. I take it you heard—”
“I saw it.”
The short reply, delivered in his terse tone, effectively cuts my words off. “Already? I didn’t think it would happen this fast.”
“You knew about this?”
“I learned, like, ten minutes ago. Nigel called to tell me—”
“Goddammit. Nigel knows about this?”
Okay, we’re definitely not on the same page. A cold fist squeezes my gut. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a video someone uploaded of you stumbling around intoxicated at the end of your driveway after parking your car in the motherfucking hedge. The lighting sucks and the sound is lousy, but it’s definitely you. And if I’m not mistaken, Kendall costars in this candid documentary currently elevating CelebrityDrunkCam channel to trending status on YouTube. Jesus Christ, Vaughn. What the hell were you thinking? Your mother and I have already buried one child. Don’t you dare put us through that nightmare again.”
For an endless moment my mind spins like a tire in mud, fighting for sufficient traction to follow what my father’s saying. Then, slowly, his words sink in and form treads strong enough to propel my thoughts forward—straight into a brick wall of consequences so huge I can barely measure them. The first brick hits me directly in the heart. “Kendall…” Shit. “Kendall wants her privacy.”
“Nobody’s going to tag Kendall. She’s not the drunk celebrity,” my dad points out, “and her back is to the camera most of the time. I assumed it was her based on the totality of the circumstances.”
A tiny fraction of the pain in my chest subsides. He’s probably right. Whoever took the video—it had to be Becca or her friend—wouldn’t know Kendall’s last name or be concerned about figuring it out. I’m the target. Me. Because I didn’t want to keep up with our charade? I knew she could be manipulative, but this is…fuck. The next brick in the wall of consequences lands heavily in the pit of my stomach, because the opportunity I worked hard for, and won, is no doubt about to be withdrawn thanks to shady revenge tactics from someone I once called a friend. I should be off-the-chain furious, but right now I just find the whole thing sad. “I haven’t seen the video. Until you told me, I didn’t even know there was a video, but I promise you the situation wasn’t what it looks like.”
“Let me put it in focus for you, Vaughn. To your mother and me, it looks like you don’t give a shit about us or what it would do to us if something happened to you,” he says bluntly. “To a random viewer it looks like you got trashed and lost control of your car. In case none of that matters to you, I’ve got one more. To the producers of America Rocks, it looks like a whole lot of risk they don’t need. Risk you have a judgment problem, potentially a substance abuse problem, and a propensity to ignore the law and endanger yourself and others.”
Guilt and an oversized brick of self-pity threaten to pile on, but I deflect these and use the rubble to construct an architecture of truth. “I do give a shit about you and Mom. I lost Andie, too. I felt the pain, too, and I saw what it did to you. I’ve spent years trying to distract you, most of all, from that pain, so do me the favor of knowing me well enough to believe I wouldn’t throw everything away intentionally. I did drink too much that night, but I didn’t get behind the wheel. I went for a walk. Bec…” Right now I want to rat her ass out so bad, but there’s no point. Her word against mine, unless I drag Kendall into it. And I won’t. “Someone else decided to go to a club, took my keys without my permission, and made it as far as the end of the driveway, nearly running Kendall and me over in the process. I would have ended the night in a body bag if not for Kendall, because the person driving my car didn’t—”
“Was it Dylan?” my dad asks, with a real crack in his voice. “I know it’s not Matt, and I’d give Dylan more credit, but that kid has a reckless side.”
“Not Dylan. Not Matt.” I look around to confirm nobody’s paying attention to my end of this conversation. “It was Becca,” I relent. “Either Becca or her friend recorded and uploaded the video. Perfect timing to wreck my career, because Nigel called me less than fifteen minutes ago to tell me I had the job.”
An extended, presumably shocked silence greets my revelation. Finally, my father clears his throat. “Why would she do this?”
“Jealousy? Spite? Because I told her it was time for us both to move on.”
“I thought she understood how this business works.”
A flight attendant catches my eye and signals for me to end my call.
I nod. “Dad, this business involves people, not chess pieces. When you manipulate them to further your own ambitions, can you really act surprised when they turn on you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. Perhaps I’m guilty of tunnel vision where you’re concerned, but it doesn’t change the fact that you earned the hosting job. This bullshit bad press doesn’t have to cost you your shot. We just need to get ahead of the scandal and overtake it with our narrative before it has a chance to do any damage. I’ll place a call to Nigel to explain everything and convince him to give us twenty-four hours to resolve this to their satisfaction. The video doesn’t show you driving—or even in the vehicle—so he should be able to grant us that much. Hell, we can accomplish a lot of damage control in half that time. An interview with a major media outlet—Kit from Access Live will jump all over this. You tell the real story. Kendall will corroborate, and…”
