Unsaid

  “Avon Porter was a bad time for all of us, you especially.” Lex never forgot the fight which had caused Vive’s boyfriend’s death. The police had ruled it an accident, but Sanderloo had tripped on LSD. Paranoid from the acid, he started gay-bashing Blake, accusing him of coming on to him when they were drinking in the woods. He’d beaten Blake until he blacked out. To this day, Blake maintained he couldn’t remember. But Vive never forgot. How could she?

  “I should never have picked up that shovel.” Vive’s pink face turned green.

  “Sanderloo didn’t give you much choice.”

  Vive had stepped into the brawl, fending him off by striking him. The blunt force trauma to the head had instantly killed him.

  “Reliving nightmares won’t inspire me to quit drinking. I was sixteen and five months pregnant with his baby. Sanderloo and our child are on my mind every day. They don’t turn off in my mind. I can’t go to rehab again. I don’t want to deal with it. I have too much going on in my life now to dig up that past. Please, don’t make me…”

  Taddy swallowed so hard Lex heard it from across the table. She’d made everyone promise never to talk about that year at Avon Porter. Covering up the dead body had been Taddy’s idea until Vive cracked and turned herself in, telling the Connecticut authorities where they could find Sanderloo.

  “Other than facing the past, what’s holding you back from going?” Lex wanted her to talk more as Taddy seemed in a haze. Hearing Sanderloo’s name had that effect on them.

  “Debauchery is doing great. We’re outselling People magazine this quarter. I can’t leave the publication for a month. It’ll tank.” From her satchel, Vive pulled out the latest copy and threw it across the table toward her.

  On the cover were Lex and Massimo. The headline read, “Royal Wedding Planned at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  “Sure you can, darling. We’ll help with the magazine while you’re gone.” Taddy’s brief moment of distraught left as if a strong wind came through giving her focus to rejoin the conversation. Work talk remained her forte. “Kiki in my office will round up freelance editors to come on board. Blake and I will work to keep your ads up. Hell, most of your advertisers are my clients. It’ll be easy-breezy.” No doubt Taddy could run the magazine in her sleep. Kiki, too.

  Squinting at Taddy’s simplification of her job, Vive mumbled to herself, “Rehab didn’t work last time. Don’t you two remember? I’m immune to sobriety.”

  “They got you off the pills, but you never addressed the drinking. You went right back to vodka when you got home.”

  “So fucking what? I can’t give up everything. Pick one: booze or pills.”

  “My mother says liquor is your pathway to other addictive substances. If Mom can do this, so can you.”

  “Birdie is stronger than me. I won’t make it.” Lowering her head to Hedda’s ears, Vive spoke quietly to the restless dog. Hedda snarled, showing her teeth.

  “So…you’re going to live out the rest of your life drinking, being miserable and mean to everyone around you,” Lex stated.

  Wishing Blake was there to help, she noticed the time. He should’ve come. But the boys were dealing with their own drama. If he hadn’t already, Miguel would be coming out to his folks soon. Afraid he’d chicken out, she and Taddy let them off the hook for the intervention.

  “I promise I’ll be more pleasant to be around. Give me another chance.”

  Her courage to see Vive through sobriety gave her no choice. “If you don’t go to rehab, Taddy, Blake, and I can’t be your friends anymore.” That was the worst thing she could say, but the social worker had told her it was the only way. The intervention would work. It had to.

  “Taddy?” Vive’s right eyebrow arched as she glared across the table in denial of Lex’s threat. “You can’t be serious.”

  Waving aside any hesitation, Taddy said, “If you refuse to go to treatment, I will cut you out of my life.”

  Her best friend crossed her arms, hugging herself as if a chill had set in. It had—maybe not in temperature, but in determination. She admired her more for not breaking eye contact with Vive.

  “Screw you both.” Reaching for her purse, Vive jerked to her feet; Hedda bounced in her right arm. “Thor would never turn his back on me. My parents won’t stand for this, either.” Just as she grabbed her purse to leave, the doors behind her opened. Frozen, Vive’s eyes widened in alarm as if seeing something, or someone, she didn’t expect. “What the fuck are you people doing here?”

  “Watch your tongue, Viveca,” a Scandinavian voice scolded.

  She turned around in relief to see they’d finally showed up.

  “Sorry we’re late, Alexandra. The midtown traffic was impossible. We should’ve taken the helicopter. Hello there, Tabitha,” Mrs. Farnworth said.

  With powerful hands, Mr. Farnworth yanked Lex to her feet. Mrs. Farnworth gave her a kiss on both cheeks. So did Thor who’d come in behind them. He introduced Vive to another woman. Must be the therapist.

  For the first time ever, Hedda barked. She didn’t stop yapping until Vive sat back down in her seat and held Lex’s hand.

  The therapist took control of the group. “Let’s get started.”

  Upper West Side

  Miguel couldn’t feel his legs, but knew they were attached when he climbed the marble stairs heading to his parents’ apartment. Holding on to the iron railing, he turned as Blake came up behind him. “I have to tell you something.” He motioned him over to the rear stairwell and sat down next to him.

  “What?” Blue eyes widened more innocent than ever.

  “It bothers you I don’t talk about my family. I understand your frustration.” Dropping his tone, he said, “My parents are different than yours.”

  “I’d imagine so.” Blake reached for his hand. “I’m confident you came from two wonderful people.”

  “Papá suffered a stroke a few years back, causing him to retire from Washington. His speech is slurred, right side paralyzed, tires easily, and becomes agitated often.”

  Blake gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  “He has a cardiovascular condition.” He only hoped he wouldn’t break his father’s heart by telling him he was a homosexual.

  “Understood.”

  “Mamá is a bully. A devout Catholic, she’s stubborn, opinionated, and will cut you off if you say something she doesn’t want to hear.”

  “Sounds like you two have a lot in common.” His friend snickered.

  “Ready?” He stood, wanting to get this over and done with.

  “Signal me when to chime in.” Blake studied his face. “You’re going to be fine,” he reassured.

  “Never thought I’d be doing this.” His sweaty hands gripped Blake’s, pulling him to stand.

  “We’ve accomplished plenty this week. Just think, it could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “We could be with Lex and Taddy right now as they try and get Vive to go to rehab.”

  Blake knocked on the door then sidestepped, pushing Miguel front and center. As a rule, he went right in. With his lover on his arm, he felt as though he was a stranger at the door—one who didn’t belong. He’d stood at the entryway a million times, but that night he felt would be his last. The entrance labeled The Santana’s opened. A familiar smell of fried beans flowed out.

  His mother, dressed in her favorite hand-stitched apron with her raven hair in a bun, wrapped her flour-covered arms around him. “¡Hola, hijo!”

  “Mamá.” He hoped she’d still greet him that way once he came out. I love you. He held on to her a moment longer, as if it was their last moment together.

  Blake coughed.

  Seeing him over his shoulder, she released his embrace and faced her guest. “Blake?”

  “Mrs. Santana, nice to meet you.” He extended a handshake.

  “Inez says you come.” His mother smiled as her eyes studied him up and down.

  Blake held out the liquor. “A gift for you and Mr. Santana.”


  “Gracias.” Miguel’s mother clapped him on the shoulder and accepted the bag. “Please, call me Marisol. Entra.” She waved them in.

  Miguel followed his mother down the long hallway with Blake close behind. Family photos taken during happier times decorated the walls.

  “Papá slept earlier. He has energy for tonight.” His mother chatted in Spanish under her breath, letting him know that since they were late, the food was getting cold, so they’d sit down and eat right away. “Cierra and Ofelia ate pizza earlier. The girls are in the back room playing with wooden puzzles you gave them for Easter.”

  He stepped into the living room. “Hola, Papá,”

  His father stood slowly on his good side, putting pressure on his cane to support the bad. “Miguel.” A smile caused one side of his face to jerk up while the other remained dead-still.

  “Meet my friend…Blake Morgan. Blake, this is my papá, Teo.”

  Blake greeted his father with a handshake. A few words were exchanged in Spanish, which were impossible for him to understand, but his friend accommodated him with sincere engagement.

  Inez emerged from the kitchen, wiping the oven heat from her forehead. “Hi, guys.” She hugged them both. “Let’s eat.” She flipped the light switch on in the dining room, his favorite part of the house. Many Christmas dinner memories came from that room, and studying Algebra in the late hours with his father. No matter how busy he was with his political career, he always made time for him and his studies.

  There was a long, oval table with two chairs on each side and one at each end. The tablecloth had stayed the same, Mexican embroidered linen made by his late grandmother. The design featured caracara birds flying in the center as Aztec dahlia flowers bordered the corners. The best china was out for the night.

  Surprisingly, his father, who never took anyone’s hand for support, leaned on Blake. They shimmied to his place setting. Falling in behind them, Miguel listened intently to their talk, paranoid about who’d be saying what to whom. His nerves clustered in a ball.

  “Inez says you’re in advertising, sí?” his father asked Blake as he held his arm tighter.

  He could tell because Blake flinched.

  Miguel realized his father’s condition was deteriorating and Inez must’ve looked Blake up online to know what he did for a living and blabbed to his parents. He hadn’t mentioned his friend’s résumé during their talk on the phone. Snoopy big sister.

  Blake responded with his usual spiel about his career achievements. They were impressive, even hearing them the tenth time around. He and Taddy had built Brill, Inc. together, starting from scratch and growing it into the millions in client revenue.

  Entering the dining room, his father took the first seat. He patted the empty high-back chair and added, “Sit next to me, Miguel.”

  The lump in his throat thickened. “I can’t do this,” he whispered in Blake’s direction as he sat beside his father.

  “Yes, you can,” Blake replied under his breath. “This dinner looks delicious,” he said louder, over his previous words, and sat beside him.

  His mother poured his friend a cocktail.

  “Mrs. Santana, what’s this?” he asked as he held the salt-rimmed glass.

  She served her husband a much smaller glass. “Teo’s favorite, Micheladas.”

  A lime beer mixed with Chamoy spices and Serrano pepper, Miguel knew it by heart. “Should Papá be drinking a Micheladas?” he asked with concern.

  “Die in peace,” retorted his father, holding up his tumbler for a toast. “Salud por la Amistad, Blake.”

  “Salud,” Inez toasted, dipping her head with a smile at their guest.

  “Papá cheered you,” he whispered to Blake for clarification.

  “Thank you.” He swigged his drink. His light-skinned face beamed an immediate fire engine red.

  “Caliente,” his parents responded in amusement.

  Inez reached for a fresh glass, pouring him papaya juice and nudging him to sip.

  Blake chewed on ice cubes, blotting his forehead and cheeks with the ivory napkin from his lap. “Mecha-whatever you called it is spicy. Not for the faint of heart.”

  The glass rose with another quick swig before his mother placed the beverage far from reach. “Enough.”

  “¡Ay, dios mío!” He rested his hand on Blake’s leg under the table to try and get it to stay still. No one in his family could see the fear his hands were showing.

  Blake raked his fingers on the top. He appreciated his friend’s attempt to try and calm him.

  “My daughters have a crush on you, Blake.” Inez filled up his empty glass with a second nectar helping. “They insist you take them back to the tea room for scones.”

  “Scones?” repeated his mother with curious amusement. She stood and served the chiles rellenos dish.

  “Cierra and Ofelia are wonderful girls.”

  “Gracias, Blake.” Inez’s pride for her two daughters radiated. “I wish I could spend more time with my girls. Work keeps me away from them.”

  “Any time you need a babysitter, I’m game.”

  Blake studied his plate. Miguel realized he might be unfamiliar with the red sauce covering the dish.

  “I like him,” Inez enthused to her parents over Blake.

  “Sis’ll put your digits on speed dial.”

  We’re all getting along. So far, so good.

  Around the table, his family quieted and ate their dinner.

  “It’s wonderful.” He complimented his mother’s cooking. He winked at Inez, knowing full well she’d made the meal. Everyone enjoyed their food, except for one person.

  The uneaten plate in front of Blake was seized by his mother and loaded up with yellow rice. “This will calm the hot sauce.” She returned the dish to his place setting and ordered, “Dig in.” Her Mexican accent was thick but endearing when she became bossy.

  “Sí, sí,” chimed his father. “Miguel mentioned you met at the university?”

  “We’ve been friends for about ten years—” Blake cut himself short with a forkful from his plate.

  The homemade rice brought a smile to his face as he chewed. He hoped it would set his mother at ease since Blake was eating.

  “¿Diez?” his father repeated, questioning the timeline and turning to Inez. He lowered his voice and mumbled in his disabled tone audible to his children.

  “Blake, Papá asked since you two have been friends for a decade, why are we just meeting you now?” Inez’s unease was evident. “Why not sooner?” She mouthed to Miguel, Tell them.

  His mother placed her silverware down then folded her hands together. “Tell us what?” She hunched over her plate and leaned in.

  “I can’t.” Panic rioted inside him. Sick, the room began to spin.

  “About those ten years. I’m glad you asked,” Blake interrupted.

  He nudged his friend under the table. Stop.

  Squeezing his hand, Blake continued. “Mr. Santana, Mrs. Santana, we came over tonight because Miguel has something to share with you.” He pinched his hand hard and stated, “News which has been on his mind for quite some time.”

  “Sí. Ten years,” his sister added.

  “Inez,” he hissed at her to shut up.

  “What is it?” Bleak worry flashed in his mother’s eyes.

  “I was hoping to get you two warmed up on tequila then I’d share.” He cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, I’m gay.” He slipped the words out, immediate and unrefined. “I’ve known since I…well…since puberty, I suppose.”

  His mother made the sign of the cross. She recited a prayer verse in Spanish from the Act of Contrition.

  Was the news too much to handle?

  A Sobering Future

  Upper East Side

  Lex clung to reality, hoping she could keep her cool. “We’re all here for you.” Again, she encouraged Vive to admit she needed professional help.

  “No…you’re not. How can you do this to me?”

  Just w
hen Vive got close to agreeing to treatment, she reverted, claiming she’d manage her disease alone. For ten minutes, she kicked the table, threw her purse, and threatened that she’d move to Paris and never talk to any of them again.

  Vive hated Paris.

  Hedda licked the tears falling onto her hands after she wiped her face. Mr. and Mrs. Farnworth remained collected and strong. Clearly, they’d been down this road before with their daughter. Everyone stood their ground not giving in to her ideas for a second chance.

  There’d be no retreats to St. Bart’s for sun therapy or detoxing mud baths in Romania. Every whammy Vive came up with got rejected. Mr. Farnworth made it clear she’d be cut off from the family’s fortunes and removed from all financial support first thing in the morning if she didn’t go to rehab that day.

  Head hanging low, Vive appeared worn down. Her body leaned in toward the therapist, possibly hoping for advice. Taddy and Thor listened on as the social worker, Georgette, explained the next steps and the program.

  Hampton Horizons remained the most controversial rehabilitation therapy center in North America. The first phase prohibited patients from communicating with the outside world, reading or watching TV as they sought medical treatment. Once stable, Vive would be placed on a crop farm on Long Island where she’d work on the land and attend classes on addiction. After a few weeks, she’d be granted contact with her family and friends and allowed to use the phone while continuing to work the season’s harvest. Though it was the furthest thing from the norm for Vive to get her billion-dollar hands dirty, this was her best hope for getting sober.

  “Tonight you’ll be driven to Hampton Horizons.” Georgette sat on the edge of her chair.

  “Who will ride with me?”

  “Just me.”

  The conversation needed to come to a close. It was time.

  Georgette pulled out the forms from the folder and spread them on the table along with a pen. “Sign here, please…”

  “Who’s going to admit me?”

  “Since you didn’t attempt suicide like last time, there isn’t a court order.” Mr. Farnworth’s thin lips pressed together. “You will admit yourself. Now, be a good girl, Viveca, and sign the papers agreeing to stay ‘til the program is over.”