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I strongly dislike my emotional inconsistency. The way I’m switching between believing in myself and doubting my own ability to simply breathe is just messing with my head.
I’m expecting Tess to jump into another motivational speech on how strong I am and how she’s going to be there all the way, but she doesn’t speak. Her face goes downcast.
Tess has that look of absolute guilt on her face. I recognize it from our childhood days. She’s like an open book to me and I know what all her expressions mean.
“Tess, speak up. What is it?” I ask, reaching out to hold her hand.
Tess swallows hard and nervously tucks her hair behind both ears at the same time. And then she exhales and starts wringing her hands.
I’m not liking the suspense.
“Tess, come on! You’re making me nervous. Out with it.” I give her hand a little shake to egg her on.
Shutting her eyes, Tess drops a bombshell in a flurry of fast words.
“Roscoe found out about your pregnancy. He knows. I am so sorry, Charlee… It slipped out accidentally. I don’t know when I mistakenly mentioned the baby and he started probing me and I told him what I knew. He knows it’s Harry’s. I don’t know if he’s told him yet… I’m so sorry… I’ll never forgive myself for this. It wasn’t my place…”
Tess has broken down into soft sobs and I’m just staring at her, shocked, unable to speak.
I don’t want to process it immediately.
I can’t even process this news as a whole at once.
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know how to feel.
If Roscoe knows, it’s only a matter of time before Harrison finds out. It’s now inevitable that news of my pregnancy will get out in an utterly embarrassing way.
This is bad, really bad.
20
HARRISON
Has the official chauffeur been drinking on duty?
Why does this car smell like cheap bodega scotch in a box? The windows are rolled up, the air conditioner is blaring, and that distinct smell of street liquor is making me nauseous.
I’ll deal with him later. Right now, I have to get to BB27.
The legal team is taking forever to make a break in our case, and the recent revelation about my CFO has put a major hold on our in-house efforts at unearthing Hayes’s motive. This is all getting too much for me and I really need to talk to Roscoe. Even if he doesn’t have a solution to my problems right now, talking to my brother always has a way of helping me get things into perspective.
Today, my mind is racing at a billion miles per second and I’m not sure I know which train of thought to follow. I called Roscoe an hour ago and he postponed a meeting for me, without hesitating.
“Mr. Bridges, pardon me, but may I speak to you about something?” The chauffeur, Jones Walter, snaps me out of my thoughts. He’s usually a quiet guy, cordial and polite, and only speaks to ask a question or pay a compliment. I like the guy.
“Sure, what’s up?” I’m seated in the back and I can’t see his face clearly, but I can see him glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
That liquor smell is actually getting really bad now, like it worsens each time he opens his mouth.
“Sir, I’m sorry about what this may sound like, but what happens to us if… you know… when… if Building Bridges doesn’t really… come back together?” He is fishing for words and I almost pity the man.
I try not to feel the sting of his insinuation, but a pang of pain slices through my chest, nonetheless. How unfair is it that we are all subjected to this wickedness and heartache for nothing? I’m not angry at this guy. This is a man with real responsibilities and bills to pay, and he’s worried about his source of income.
However, that’s not an excuse to be intoxicated on duty.
“Is that why you are driving under influence, Jones?” I ask and both his hands instantly tighten on the wheel. The nervousness riveting through the man is making me queasy as well.
