A Thin Line (7 page)

We met up with Morgan and Nate and danced our hearts out. Preston sweated all the way through his shirt, having shed his jacket early on. Morgan and I headed toward the ladies room to freshen up.

"Did you guys get a room for tonight?" Morgan asked.

"No," I said, frowning into the mirror. "Preston has to work tomorrow. He thought it would be better to work this weekend because he's taking prom weekend off." I dabbed a little powder on my face and pulled out a tube of lipstick. "He doesn't work until late tomorrow, so I think we're going to sneak up to the lake for a little bit."

"Oooh....
bow chicka bow bow
," Morgan teased, snagging my lipstick before I could apply it to my lips. "I like this color. You think it would look good on–"

A door slammed open behind us and we both turned to see who was making so much noise. Stacey Fullmer, my junior high nemesis stepped out of the stall.

She moved around us to pump soap into her hands, lather and scrub them under the spray of cold water. Morgan and I ignored her, chatting away and fixing our makeup. I grabbed the lipstick back from her and applied a thick coat, then blotted with a paper towel.

I snapped my clutch closed. "I'm ready. Are you?"

"So ready," Morgan said, tossing her paper towel in the garbage, narrowly passing Stacey on the way out.

"Hey, Angie," I heard behind me. Against my better judgment, I stopped and turned around.

"Yes, Stacey?"

She wore a lace dress that was nearly see-thru and barely covered her ass. "How do you like my handiwork?" She asked, ripping a towel from the machine and rubbing her hands dry.

I stared at her, confused. "I don't follow. What are you talking about?"

"Your boyfriend?"

"Preston? What about him?"

She sighed, tossed the paper towel into the garbage and teetered her way over to me in four inch stiletto heels. "I heard you bragging about going up to the lake tonight. Probably to fuck. I mean, that's why he and I used to go there."

"Excuse me?" I was starting to see red, but trying not to show it. Morgan grabbed my arm, in case I felt like slapping her.

"Oh, he didn't tell you how he heard about that place? Didn't tell you who took him there first? Who taught him all the sexy, dirty shit he knows how to do? He didn't, did he?"

I shook my head. "You're a fucking liar. He's only ever been with me."

She chuckled then her lip curled in an angry sneer. "I don't have to lie, sweetheart. I fucked Preston in the eighth grade and believe me, he was a virgin. I had to cut him loose, though; he was getting too attached. So he came after you.
You
ask him
yourself
. We did everything. And I mean…
everything
.”

She pauses, flicking her tongue out at me few times. “So if you like what you're getting, you owe me a nice big thank you for his skills."

I wanted to vomit at the idea of Preston's mouth being anywhere near Stacey's body
. And then my mouth
. 

I started to back away before I really did slap her. People were filtering in and out; albeit slowly so they could eavesdrop. Stacey has a big mouth so she may as well have been telling the entire school that she fucked my boyfriend.

Before me.

I left her behind and walked right into Preston, who was standing outside the restroom. "Hey, someone said there was something going on over here. You okay?"

Stacey came barreling after me, yelling something that I didn't catch.  I wound my fingers between Preston's and turned around to face her. "Ask him. He'll tell you. He's only ever been with me."

The smile crossed her face, I could only liken to the grin on that evil little monster, The Grinch That Stole Christmas.

"Stacey, please don't," said Preston.

She tossed her head back and laughed. "You think your sweet Preston is so perfect and would never lie to you, but... surprise! If he told you that you were his first and only lover, he lied. He was with me first. Tell her, Preston."

I rolled my eyes at her and glanced at Preston but instead of seeing indignant anger in his face, I saw something else. Something that looked like guilt and shame.

"Preston?"

He licked his lips and tightened his fingers around mine. "I need to talk to you..."

"About what? About how you've been saying all this time that I was the only one you'd been with and you were with her before me?"

Preston looked pained. I didn't blame him for being as scared as he looked. "The thing is, Angie...I never actually
said
that you were the only–"

I sucked in a lungful of air in complete shock and pulled from his grasp. I had distinct memories of the exact opposite.  Didn’t I? "The fuck you didn't! The first time–"

"Angie! Shhhhh!" He grabbed my arm and tried pulling me away from the growing number of people standing around. "Let's go talk. I'll explain."

I yanked my arm out of his grip and stared at him. Hard. I wanted him to feel every ounce of anger that was coursing through my veins. He looked so uncomfortable. I didn't care.

"Are you saying to me that I wasn't your first? For anything?
Everything
we did together, you did with her first?"

I will never forget the look on his face. Helpless. Near tears. Desperate. He shook his head slowly, reaching for me. "Angie... baby, please.”

"Oh. My God, Preston." I couldn't get away from him fast enough. I backed up until I hit the wall and couldn't go any further. And then I began to sink to the floor.  Preston kneeled to try to help me up, but I didn't even want him touching me. I smacked his hands away.

Smirking and apparently satisfied, Stacey swished by, hips swaying and heels clicking, her dress inching up her thighs.  "I win," she said, as she pranced past us–me on the floor, Preston on his knees. "How’s it feel to be sloppy seconds, Angie?"

There was no enjoying the rest of the night. I felt like throwing up. It shouldn't have been such a huge deal, except it was. It meant everything to me to be Preston's first. It killed me to know that first of all, I was wrong. About so many things I was wrong. Namely, about this man... this
boy
I was in love with. Thought I was in love with.

On top of everything, I was second to
Stacey
. A battle I thought I won long, long ago had been quietly raging. She won the war.

My stomach churned at the thought.

I made Preston take me home. The ride was twenty minutes of Preston talking and me not saying a word. He wanted to say something, but didn't think it was that big of a deal. He knew it meant a lot to me and didn't want to take that away from me. He considered me his first.

I got out of the Jeep, slammed the door shut, stomped up the front steps and through the front door. My parents were still awake, watching TV in the den. I heard my mom rush behind me as I ran up the steps to my room.

"Angie? Back so soon? Did you forget something… Angie! Evangeline Nicole, I'm talking to you! What happened?"

I wanted the tears to wait until I was well inside in my room, face down in a pillow so no one could hear me.  I made it as far as the top of the stairs, where I tripped over the hem of my dress, landed on my knee and collapsed in a sobbing mess.

  Morgan came over the next day to sit with her arm around me and let me cry and scream and vent.

"I gave myself to him. My whole self, my whole body. It’s all wasted."

"Not a total waste. You guys had some really good times."

I glared at her. "Based on a lie! A total waste."

She shrugged me. "Maybe, maybe not."

"How is it not? He wasn't being brave and bold and exploring new things for the first time with me. For all I know he was reliving his time with..." I retched.

"You know that's not true. He was with you for three years. He chose you. Don't you think you're more important than...
her
?"

"I want to be, Morgan. But when I think about it, I'm not." I looked at her, the tears welling again, my nose growing bulbous and red again. "She got to be the first. She got to be the special one and she didn't even deserve it. She took away what should have been mine. Now I feel like just another girl. I don't feel special at all."

Preston called, sent letters, left flowers and candy at our doorstep. Every day, something new showed up. I was throwing them away but my mom got mad, saying he was spending good money on me and the least I should do is talk to him. He was the last person I wanted to see, but getting my mom off my back was important to me, so I told Preston to come over.

I wanted to feel sorry for him.  I wanted my heart to go out to him, to see him and think that being mad at him was stupid.

But when I saw him, I wanted to throw things at him. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die.

He came in and sat at our kitchen table. I sat across from him and stared at the wood grain and waited for him to say something. In a gritty, tear worn voice, said, "I'm really sorry, Angie."

I swallowed back tears, but said nothing. He kept talking. "I know you're mad at me and you have every right to be. But I was with you because I wanted to be with you. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you about that time with her... I didn't think you would go out with me if you knew about her."

My eyes flicked up to his gorgeous, deep browns with golden flecks that I loved. Used to love. "You’re right. I don't go out with boys that have fucked Stacey Fullmer."

"I know," he said softly. "I really did want to be with you. I always wanted to be with you."

"Then why weren't you with me? Why were you with her? Why did you do that stuff with her first? Practice?"

"No... I don't know. I... she...I don't know. I thought you didn't like me that way and she... she just... we were hanging out, and...." He shrugged. I know what happened next.

"It's not even that. It's that you let me think I was special to you–"

"You are! You always have been. I love you so much... please..."

"And then you let me waste all my firsts on you."

I couldn't control the venom in my voice. I had nothing but hate for the boy that sat across from me. I didn't even know him anymore. "I can't do this. I don't want to be with you. Or see you. Or talk to you or hang out with you. I used to think you were different..."

I shook my head as tears fell from my eyes. "You're just like all the others. And I hate that about you."

I got up from the table and tried, very hard, to forget the look in his eye as I said those words. Despite everything I've said to him since, I think those words hurt the most.

Preston worked double time, over time to get me to forgive him. He showed up in places he knew I would be, still tried to hang out with Nate and Morgan and I but it wasn't the same. If I knew Preston was going to be there, I wouldn't show up. Preston and Nate became closer, because I hogged Morgan like a selfish brat. 

And then… he gave up. The calls and letters and emails stopped. He no longer dropped by to drive me to school. He ignored me unless he was forced to speak to me. There was a giant invisible wall between us, one that neither of us was willing to climb.

Preston's plans for after graduation changed. What was keeping his grades up was me, forcing him to study for tests, helping him with his homework. His new girlfriend didn't care about his grades apparently; they dropped so low that the administration threatened to keep him from graduating. He barely skated out of high school with a passable GPA.

He ended up going to Rollins because his admission to University of Central Florida was put on hold due to his senior year transcript.

As near as I can figure it, Preston has spent the last... lifetime, it seems... making sure I see him every day. Maybe it's his way of reminding me of what we used to be, what we used to have, what I was missing out on.  Maybe he thought he'd stick around just in case I changed my mind.

Was it a mistake to break up with Preston? Sometimes I think... yes. I created this monster. And maybe I could make the monster go away by un–making that huge mistake. I was an emotional teenager, prone to fits of senselessness. 

But... then I think about Stacey Fullmer. How he let her tell everyone I was
sloppy seconds
. How he let me think I was something special to him, that we shared something special that no one else had with him, and I ended up just being another notch in his bedpost.

And I think about all of the women since then. Was he making up for lost time?

And the kind of work he does. The clients he represents. His penchant for earning a buck, no matter the personal cost.

And the man he is; a man that is so different from my sweet Preston.

A sick taste sits at the back of my mouth and... I can't do it.

Preston is the most relaxed I've seen him in a long time. He's decked out in his usual dark Varvatos ensemble, leaning back in his leather executive office chair, feet propped on a corner of the desk and crossed at the ankles. His socks are a bright raspberry and match his tie.

His office is an eclectic mix of his personal style and the Perry Law Firm professional interior design. The building is a loft-style space of exposed brick, large arching windows and real oak floors buffed to a near mirror shine. His desk, an L-shaped behemoth, screams mid-level executive. On the desk are piles of folders and notepads and photos in mismatched frames: his family, a few pictures of Morgan, Nate, he and I over the years. I'm surprised and unprepared to see that he has added a new photo to the collection. Homecoming. Our senior year.

I pretend I don't notice it and he doesn't point it out.

My visit to Preston's office isn't a social call. I've arrived for a conference between him and me, his client and mine. This will be the first time that all of us have been in the same room. My prayer is that one of our clients doesn't leap across the table and try to choke the other. For that matter, I pray that neither of the attorneys will either.

Before that meeting, we have a call with the Events Manager at
Rendezvous St. Lucia
, an all-inclusive, couples only resort. We were both wowed by the seaside suites, the excursions and other amenities, the food and drinks, not to mention the fact that we won't be sharing our Caribbean vacation with families that choose to bring their children to an island.

"Let me do all the talking," Preston says, while we listen to the line ring.  "I know how to handle these people."

I snicker. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of opening my mouth. I don’t talk for a living or anything."

Preston smirks. "Okay fine. If you have questions, pipe up."

I smile and whip out my notebook, opening to the first of several pages of notes. Preston rolls his eyes.

"Rendezvous, this is Andrew. Can I help you?"

Andrew has a sexy British accent that is well paired with the deep tone of his voice. He must sound great with the ocean waves crashing onto the shore as a background. I'm instantly interested in speaking with him.

‘Hi, Andrew. This is Preston Reid. My associate Randall Warner gave me your contact information. We spoke briefly on email about a wedding party in October–"

"Ah, yes. Yes sir. I remember. A group of perhaps twenty people?"

"Correct. And I've got my planning partner here, Angie Campbell. Say hi to the man, sweetheart." I grimace at the term of endearment. It's like he's marking his territory. 

"Hello, Andrew,” I say, in the general direction of the phone. “It's a pleasure to meet you. We're excited to work with you."

"Hello, Miss Angie," he answers, and I swoon inside. "Yes, I think this will be an exciting event we're planning. Your friends are very lucky. Will you and Mr. Reid be joining the party?"

"I wouldn't dream of missing it. Why don't you tell us about your resort? Like what can we expect from a destination wedding standpoint?"

Andrew spends the next twenty minutes giving us a virtual tour of the resort. I feel as if I know every nook and cranny of the island. I almost feel the sand between my toes, the breeze blowing through my hair and the (included) frosty drink in my hand.  He answers all of my questions with concise, yet thorough answers.

"So, I think October will work for your group, if you want to take advantage of current year pricing." I hear the soft sounds of a page turning. "If not, we start to pick up at the beginning of November and we're booked through the New Year until..."

More pages flipping. "Well, a large part of the next year is booked in some way or another. Our best option for your group would be May."

"So we should try to make October work," muses Preston.

"Correct," Andrew says. "And I don't want to rush you at all, it's just that our rooms fill so quickly, especially for winter months in the north, and–"

"Right, right. I get it," says Preston. "Can you hold for a minute?"

"Certainly."

Preston presses a button on his desk phone and the ‘mute' light begins to flash. "Nate gave me his credit card number to hold the deposit if we like it. But only if we both agree."

I nod. "It sounds fine. I mean, it's now or May."

"And we have Nate and Morgan primed for October."  We thought they were going to take the early date badly, but they seemed excited about getting the whole deal over with early. Frankly, so was I. If I had to bite back every word I wanted to say to Preston from now until May, I wouldn't have a tongue left. "Let's do it."

"You sure?" I give a solitary nod and with that, Preston turns off the mute. "Looks like you're a skilled salesman, Andrew.  My planning partner just told me that if we don't book this right here, right now, she's not coming."

I cringe inside. Preston is flirting with Andrew
for me
. Egging me on, making fun of the fact that he knows Andrew is flirting back. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was jealous.

Once we've booked the resort and our dates–a glorious week at the end of October on the luxurious island of St. Lucia–I feel like I can breathe. Through all of this turmoil with Preston, I forgot to be excited about Nate and Morgan handing over the reins to their very special event and letting us plan it.

I didn't forget that I know exactly what they're doing. And when this wedding is over, our best friends are going to be shocked as hell to find that their little ploy didn't work.  Four months and counting until he's out of my hair.

Preston's phone rings soon after we're off the line with Andrew.

He picks up the call via speakerphone. "Yeah."

"You have a guest in the lobby," his secretary, Andrea, mumbles in monotone.

"Show them up."

"I don't have time," she says, and then the line goes dead.

"Andrea? Andrea!" He punches a button that makes the crackle on the line disappear. Preston grabs a few files, a notebook and a pen from a cup on the desk. "We'll move to the conference room."

There are no doors at Perry, just arched openings in the long brick hallway, so I can peek into the offices of Preston's coworkers. They're all dressed to the nines–dark suits, white shirts, classy ties, shiny black shoes. Like a lawyer uniform.

Each office is a testament to the personality of its inhabitant. Some are neat and tidy, files stacked in one corner of the desk, laptop front and center, phone to the side. Some, like Preston's office, are a mishmash of everything in the center of the desk, the phone buried somewhere beneath that, laptop on a side table open to an internet browser with the Gmail tab open.

He escorts me to a small, windowless conference room and immediately leaves again. I pick one side of the long table and begin to unload my bag–case files, notepad, a tape recorder. A few minutes later, Preston walks in, followed by my client, Carlos Sanchez and his client, Phillip Bailey.

Bailey is taller than I imagined. He is smarmy and underhanded, so I pictured him more like Danny DeVito than Paul Bunyan. He towers over everyone in the room and his black suit makes him appear even more menacing. We shake hands. His are enormous. 

Carlos scoots around to my side of the table and avoids looking at Bailey. After introductions, we're all seated, Carlos and I on one side, Preston at the head of the table and Phillip Bailey across from me. I slide my recorder to the center of the space between us all and press the small red button. A light illuminates. I speak for the record.

"Today is June 28th. We are at the offices of the Perry Law Firm. Present are attorneys Preston Reid for Perry Law Group and Evangeline Campbell for Flanning & Rourke, LLP, Plaintiff Phillip Bailey and Defendant Carlos Sanchez. This conference is in reference to filing number FL-356-49234, Bailey v. Sanchez, filed May 17th for complaint of Housing Discrimination and Civil Rights Violation. This conference is being recorded in accordance with Florida Law."

I continue, "Phillip Bailey, owner of Bay Ridge View apartment homes, located at 8664 Bay Ridge Blvd, Orlando, Florida, has begun eviction proceedings against my client, Carlos Sanchez, and has requested the tenant vacate the premises well before the expiration of the lease."

I open a folder and produce a copy of the discrimination filing and slide it toward Preston. He picks it up, glances at it and slides it back. It is nothing more than two pages of typewritten legalese, indicating an order has been filed. 

"In response, my client filed a discrimination complaint, alleging that Mr. Bailey is outside of his rights as property owner to ask the Sanchez family to vacate the apartment. Mr. Sanchez contends that he has not violated any term of the lease and that Mr. Bailey has and is engaging in active discrimination and has violated his civil rights by attempting to deny him a place to live. The Florida Housing Authority referred Mr. Sanchez to Flanning & Rourke for representation, thereby halting eviction proceedings."

Preston pulls a few pages from a folder in his stack and slides them to me. It is the original Order for Eviction that Bailey filed in early May. I've seen it and decline to review it again. Carlos reaches for it and flips through it, then tosses it back. Bailey is quiet, stone faced, staring at the table.

"My client, Phillip Bailey, contends that Mr. Sanchez had multiple family members living in his two bedroom apartment for periods longer than 48 hours, which is the length of time permissible by the lease–"

"But that's not true!" Carlos exclaims. "Christina was never there more than two days!"

Bailey, who finally appears awake and alert, lashes out at Carlos with his index finger pointing across the table. "I track everything. You should know that by now. Almost every time your sister ran to you, she stayed over the 48 hour mark. I have notes."

Preston placed a hand on Bailey's shoulder and squeezed. Instantly, he clammed up and sat back in his seat. "As Mr. Bailey mentioned, he has detailed notes of arrival and departure of guests to the Sanchez home over the last few years. We can go over those times if you want."

I shake my head. "Not if there's nothing to corroborate those notes. No video with time stamp? He could have made them up. It's your word against ours."

"Fine."  He pulls more pages from his folder, one of which is an 8x10 glossy photo of a wall that looks like the Incredible Hulk went at it and an apartment door with a foot sized dent.  I hadn't seen the photos before, so I grabbed them up to view the damage up close. "Mr. Bailey has documented extensive damage to the hallway outside of the apartment, the door and the interior of the living space. I should also note that this damage remains and Mr. Sanchez has neither accepted responsibility nor agreed to pay for repairs."

"I'm not paying thousands of dollars to fix a wall and a door in a building where I can't live. Bailey has insurance, let him file a claim."

"Why should my vandalism premiums go up because my tenants have animals for relatives?"

"Phillip!" Preston barks. "This conference is being taped. Shut your mouth and leave it that way." Once again, Bailey shrinks back. He folds his massive arms across his chest and scowls. "Mr. Bailey wants control of his building. He feels that there's nothing to stop the man that did this damage from coming back to destroy more property–"

"Mr. Santos is in jail and his wife, Mr. Sanchez's sister doesn't live in this apartment. He has no reason to go back there."

"And if he should be released from jail, there's nothing to stop him from coming back to Bay Ridge View and knocking in a door or a wall, trying to find her. Correct?"

"Correct, but–"

"Good, we agree on that. There are eight months remaining on the lease. Normally tenants would be responsible for the remaining months but Mr. Bailey would be willing to forego any penalty for early cancellation. The Sanchez family could walk away today and owe nothing. Step right into something else."

One look at Carlos tells me that isn't the answer he's looking for. I shake my head at Preston.  "No way. My client has done nothing wrong; there is no violation of the lease here. Mr. Bailey is evicting them simply because he doesn't like them. He's made up reasons to kick them out and hopes they'll legally stick. They won't."

"Do you have a counter offer?"

Incredulous, I chuckle. "Sure. Your client withdraws his eviction filing and lets my clients live in peace. They'll pay for the insurance deductible so Mr. Bailey can get his property repaired. Past that, we don't have any other obligation or concession."

Bailey has been shaking his head for a few minutes. "No way," he mumbles. "I want them out.  Not going to have a bunch of Mexicans all piled up in that apartment. They think I don't notice them coming and going."

Carlos rolls his eyes. "There aren't a pile of Mexicans living in my apartment. I was born in Miami, you redneck inbred!"

"Carlos," I whisper, trying to shush him. "You are on tape."

He starts to rise out of his chair but sits back down when I hook my nails into his arm and catch his eye.  He stares me down for a few seconds, but then his calm returns.

"My wife, my children, my family," he says quietly. "We are citizens. We speak English. Fluently. I want him to know that."