A full-body cringe overcomes me at the thought of pretending to be “very much in love” with Brett ever again.
Before I can formulate an answer, Ethan says, “They’re in talks with Oprah’s people to see if they can get a Meghan and Harry-style interview with her for you two. The jackass would have to publicly apologize to you, as well. Which will include the standard BS, ‘I almost lost everything that matters to me.’ You get to hold his hand and pretend you believe him.”
“They’re going to Oprah before I’ve signed off on it? That’s unbelievably presumptuous.”
Ethan cringes. “The thing is, Harp, you’ve taken him back multiple times before, so …”
“So they just assumed I’d do it again,” I answer. “Oh, my God, does the whole world think I’m a pushover?”
“No, definitely not,” Ethan says at the same time Prisha shrugs and says, “Kind of, yeah.”
“Listen, neither of us want to see you get back together with him.At all,” Ethan says, and I can tell there’s a but coming. “But, if you are going to take him back anyway, do it now because you’ll get half of his salary free and clear,” Ethan says quickly like he’s ripping off a Band-Aid.
“I couldn’t care less about the money,” I tell him, folding my arms across my chest. Digger’s words about what my kids will learn from how I handle this situation pop into my mind. “And there’sno wayI’m going to agree to an interview my kids will be able to watch when they get older. I’m done lying to the world about him. I’m just done!”
“Good for you,” Prisha says firmly.
I nod at her, then look at Ethan. He stares at me for a second and I know he’s thinking about the millions of dollars I’m turning down. Finally, he says, “Screw it. Let’s not insult the public by putting lipstick on a pig.”
“Who exactly is the pig in this scenario?” Prisha asks, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Their marriage,” he says as if it should have been obvious.
“I want to be offended, but at this point, I’m too tired to care,” I tell them while leaning against the porch railing. “I just need this all to be over with so I can try to create some sense of normalcy for the kids.”
“Here’s what I propose,” Prish says. “We go back to Brett’s people and tell them you’re willing to make a public statement to the effect that while you and Brett are separating, you’re going to work together to co-parent your children as seamlessly as possible. You’ll have to tell them the photographer who took the photo misunderstood what you said, and that Brett has never been violent.”
I stare out to the lake, watching two loons as they swim along with their family in search of dinner. Smug loons with their perfect unions. “How the hell did Brett’s contract becomemyresponsibility? I’m not the one who was servicing the nanny.”
“It is not on you at all. We’re just trying to make things as simple as possible for the kids,” Prisha tells me.
“The easiest way to do that is to show some level of cooperation,” Ethan says. “Like it or not, if you make an enemy out of Brett, he’ll bend over backwards to tarnish your reputation along with his. We don’t want you to get blacklisted too.”
Rolling my eyes, I tell him, “I don’t care if I ever act again. I just want to do what’s best for Lily and Liam.”
“You may not want to now, but who knows how you’ll feel down the road,” Ethan says. “My job is to protect you todayandin the future.”
Glancing toward the trees, I see Evie driving up the path in a golf cart. I wave to her. “Supper’s here,” I announce. “What do you say we don’t talk about Brett while we eat?”
“As his very name nauseates me, I’m in full agreement.” Prisha makes a face like she’s about to barf.
“Hey, Evie,” I call out. “Thanks for bringing supper.”
She hops out of the golf cart and picks up a large picnic hamper. “Digger put together a fish fry for you. Homemade tartar sauce, slaw, the works.”
My stomach grumbles noisily. “Yum.”
She walks up on the deck and hands off the basket before nodding to Prisha and Ethan. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, Evie. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I watch as she walks back to her ride before I start to unpack our food.
“Digger cooks the meals, too?” Prisha’s eyes pop open with interest. “What a Renaissance man. Maybe you should marryhim.”
I know she’s joking, but her words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. “He’s not the marrying kind.” I hand out individually packaged foil containers.
“And just how would you know that?” Prisha asks.
“His mom ran away from home when he and his sister were kids. She went to Hollywood to make it as an actress but wound up dying from a heroin overdose.”