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I ignore her tantrum and pat the seat next to mine at the breakfast bar. “Come have a seat. I just want to fill you in on where things stand with Monica and Lilah.”
Her lips form a thin line, but she sits down, placing her glass on the counter in front of her.
“I spoke with Lilah about what happened with Bernie all those years ago.”
“Great. I’m sure it wasn’t her fault.”
I know this is hard for Adelaide, but her attitude is like a thirteen-year-old who just got told she can’t date. Not to sound like a martyr, but I’m doing the best I can, given the circumstances, to include her and make her see that we’ll get past this, but she’s not making it easy.
I explain everything Lilah said to me, as well as our plan to keep things as they are until we figure out a more permanent solution and Monica knows I’m her father.
“You’ll still be permitted to go on our honeymoon, right?”
I inhale a calming breath. “Of course I’m going on our honeymoon.” I tuck a piece of her dark hair behind her ear, and she meets my gaze. The fear in her eyes reminds me how hard this is on her. The bond Lilah and I share—shared—was public news six years ago. “Everything is going to work out, okay? We’re going to have the wedding of your dreams and our life together will be amazing. You just wait.”
She relaxes, her shoulders dropping. “Okay.” She places a chaste kiss on my lips, but her wedding phone rings. “I’d better get that.”
She slips off the stool, and I watch as she answers her second cell phone, the one strictly for wedding stuff so the contacts won’t be able to reach her after, as though her life is perfect. She gushes about the table linens and the center pieces for the wedding as I sit back in the chair. Will she really be able to hop on board with the new direction my life has veered?
* * *
A couple of weeks pass.Monica has grown accustomed to me coming and going. Lilah's anxiety about me taking her away dramatically decreases with every Saturday night she returns from work. We’re on a good track, and my anger toward Lilah has diminished a small bit.
I head back into the kitchen to clean up our dinner dishes after tucking Monica in. She suckered me into two extra books, but I would have done ten, so I feel as though I still won. I finish drying the dishes and putting them away and settle on the couch to watch TV until Lilah gets home.
She worked all day but asked if I could watch Monica tonight while she went out on a date. Of course, I agreed—I’ll say yes to anything that means I get more time with Monica. At first, I was irked that she was going on a date, but then I calmed down because I’m engaged to marry another woman and Lilah has been nothing but supportive about that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket while I’m flicking through the channels. I pull it out and see Keane’s name on the screen.
“Hey, what’s up? I don’t usually hear from you on a Saturday night.”
“Turn on CNN,” he says, foregoing any pleasantries.
Nausea wells up in my throat. I haven’t told my team about Monica yet, wanting to enjoy this small window where I don’t have to think about protecting my daughter from flashing cameras.
“Give me a sec.” I pick up the remote from the couch cushion, envisioning my name splashed across the screen amid reports of a secret love child. Once I locate CNN on the guide, I click the channel and hold my breath.
But instead of me, there’s a picture of Bernie Butler.
“What the hell?” I sit up straighter, my arms resting on my legs.
“Exactly,” Keane says. “This just broke. Apparently, there’s a report coming out on Monday in theLA Times. One of the journalists has been working on an investigative piece about how Bernie’s been using his power and influence for years to sexually assault women in the business.”
“Holy shit.”
I watch the rundown in silence—how three women have come forward, detailing similar experiences where Bernie forced them into sexual situations, using various roles and jobs as negotiation points and telling them he’d ruin their careers if they didn’t cooperate.
My mind travels to Lilah’s experience with Bernie all those years ago. She wasn’t alone. She was one of many.
Of course she wasn’t. I was an idiot to think she was or to not give any thought as to how many women like her would’ve had the same thing happen to them.
“Have they named the women who have come forward?” I ask.
“Not as far as I can tell. Guess we’ll see on Monday, if not sooner.”
Plastic creaks and I set the remote control back on the couch before I break it.
“This is unbelievable,” I say, though in hindsight I guess it’s not. Pieces of the puzzle all click together—the rumors that surfaced from time to time, the actresses who would be at the height of their career and suddenly wouldn’t be able to land another role, the way Bernie always spoke about women as though they were objects.
