46. Fischer

46

FISCHER

I t's been four days since Maggie walked in on me and Matthew. Gibson agreed to give Matthew a two-week leave from his job without my having to get involved. Regardless, our weekend together in the Bronx was exhausting.

The sex—intense. Every time we're together, we go nearly nonstop until Matthew wears himself out, which is usually well after I'm totally spent. But that doesn't stop him, and I'm happy to be the thing he wants to use. The only thing. He's scheduled for his rapid test today, and by tomorrow, if all goes as well as I expect it will, he'll be able to breed me the way the good lord intended. And he can get off the PReP.

Because I won't share him, and he knows it.

I'm at work Thursday afternoon, working on an opening monologue when an email from my divorce attorney shows up on my screen. I frown, hovering over it to read the subject line.

Amendment to Custody Agreement.

The divorce was settled over a year ago, as were the custody arrangements. I rarely, if ever, hear from my attorney Hillary. Nicole and I have a good relationship. If we need to switch weekends or rearrange our schedules, we text and work it out. My mouth dries up instantly, my throat like sandpaper.

My first instinct isn't to open the email. It's to call Nicole. My hand hesitates over my phone where I see that Hillary called. Twice. Fuck, I've had the thing on silent since the editorial meeting. Taking a shaky breath, I open the email.

I read Hillary's note with a sense of impending doom.

Fischer,

I hope I've managed to get in touch with you before you see this, but here it is. I'm not sure what's going on. Lacy was very cold when I spoke with her and wouldn't give me much information, so I hope everything's okay. Please reach out if this is all news to you. I'm assuming you would have let me know if you needed any changes.

Long story short: She's asking for full custody with no visitation. Are you going overseas again?

Call me,

Hillary

She's what?

I skim the attached document, and sure enough—out of nowhere, Nicole wants to take Vaughn away from me— and my family.

I scroll back to the top and read the filing word for word. I find no indication as to why for three pages, until I get to it.

Unsafe living conditions. Suspicion of abuse/neglect.

Rage is the first emotion to bubble to the surface. The implication that I would ever put my little boy in harm's way is too absurd to entertain. But abuse?

Abuse?

I grab my phone and call Hillary.

"What is this?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," she says.

"I have no idea," I say. "Lacy didn't tell you anything?" Lacy is Nicole's attorney.

"No. Did he break his arm or something?"

"No! He was perfectly fine when she picked him up Wednesday. I picked him up from his aunt's house?—"

I freeze.

Maggie.

Abuse.

No.

She wouldn't. There's no way.

"Fischer?"

"I need to make another call," I say. "I'll get back to you. Don't agree to anything."

"Do not contact her," my attorney warns.

"I'm not," I say. "I'm calling my sister."

"Fine. I'll wait to hear from you. But you let me handle Nicole."

"Thank you. I will," I choke out before ending the call and pulling up Maggie's number.

Taking a deep breath doesn't stop my hand from shaking. I grip the phone harder and put the call through.

"Hello," Maggie answers the phone curtly.

"Is there something you need to say to me?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

I pick up a pen with my other hand for no reason and work to keep my voice level. "Did you speak to anyone after we saw you on Friday?"

"If you're asking whether I talked to Nicole, yes. I did. She and I talk a few times a week, and I assumed she knew about you and my brother since her kid stays with you. I wasn't trying to out you or whatever. Why? Is she upset?"

I close my eyes at this barrage of information, all of it wrong in some way or another. When I'm positive I won't shout, I speak. "She's suing for full custody of Vaughn."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's what you have to say? What the fuck did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her anything. I asked if she always knew you were bi. I was curious."

What the fuck ? Who does that? "Why would you ask her that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I'm getting married, and I don't want to get blindsided, so I wanted to know if that was something she knew before she married you or if it came out later."

"So, because you all of a sudden don't trust your fiancé, you just decided to have a casual conversation about my sexuality with my ex-wife?"

"In fairness, we talk about a lot of things. She's gonna be in the wedding, Fischer. We're close."

I'm so angry. It's taking every molecule of my self-control to stay on this call to find out what I need to know. "Did you tell her about Matthew and me?"

"No."

"No?"

"She asked," Maggie says, and it feels like a grenade going off.

My ears ring in the wake of the explosion. I don't understand. "What did she ask?"

"I guess while you've been screwing my brother you've also been screwing Ravenna Gallo?"

The question knocks the wind out of me.

She lets out an exasperated breath. "Ravenna saw you two in a mailroom or something? And your apartment?"

Jesus Christ.

"So Nicole asked if I ever saw you two together around Vaughn. She also asked if…well, if Vaughn had ever mentioned whether he didn't want to go home with you for any reason."

"Has he?" I ask, my stomach sick, my mind flashing back to Vaughn almost walking in on Matthew and me.

"No," she says, sounding slightly contrite. "He hasn't. He waits for you."

I put a hand over my mouth, my head sagging with relief. But could he have said something about the other day? What the fuck does my ex know?

"Look, I don't know who all knows what," she continues, "and I know what Matty told me the other day about when this all started, but…you get what it could look like, right? Or why we might have every reason in the world not to believe you guys are telling the whole story."

"And that means that my son isn't safe with me?"

"No one said that."

"The court document does," I snap.

"Oh. My god. Well, I didn't say anything like that ."

"What else did you say?"

"Nothing. Just that you and Matty are—hooking up—or whatever."

"Great. Thanks a lot, Maggie. Anyone ever tell you it's not your place to out someone?"

The sound of her shocked breath comes over the line. "I?—"

I don't want to hear it, unable to keep the seething resentment from my voice, I ask, "You think with your super close friendship you might be able to talk Nicole off this ledge?"

She only digs her heels in. "I'm not getting involved."

"You are involved," I tell her, near raging. "She wants to remove all visitation. That means you . That means Dick and Donna. That means I have no right to time with my child. And my time is your time as you fucking know."

"Don't speak to me like that."

I rub my eyes, unwilling to apologize because I'm still trying to find my balance in this dystopian alternate reality.

"I get that you're upset, but you don't get to talk to me like I did something wrong. I'm not the one fucking my brother and trying to hide it—badly. But if you were calling for my advice, I do have some—stay the fuck away from him. If you can manage that, then you might have a snowball's chance in hell of talking Nicole into backing off. Otherwise—thanks for breaking my parents' hearts. Again ."

The line goes dead and the phone slips from my hand, bouncing in its case on the desk to land face down.

Her hatred is stunning.

Her words— worse . I'm reeling. Blindsided. Devastated .

I'm itching to do something, to fix this, but I can't think of a soul in the world who could help me sort through this mess.

A knock on the door startles me, and my producer pokes her head in. "Ten minutes. You want to walk up together?"

"Um…"

"Are you okay?" She steps into the office, concern etched on her forehead.

"I just got some upsetting news. Personal."

"Oh. Um…are you okay to go on?"

I nod, fighting for that mask of stoicism I've always worn so well. Struggling to don it. There's nothing to be done this late in the day. Maybe tomorrow, I can reach out to Hillary—explain the situation. She can speak with Lacy who can convince Nicole… Fuck .

How the hell did this happen, and why the fuck didn't I see this coming? Have I been that stupid? Careless? Raven saw me and Matthew in the mailroom? A few times, if that, in my apartment? Did she insinuate something disgusting to Nicole? Or is this just Nicole working with very little information extrapolating something that freaked her out? And if so— what ? She doesn't want our son around a gay couple?

Is she some closet homophobe, and I somehow missed that? Her sister is a lesbian. Surely, it would have come up.

"Let me just call home first," I say to Kim and then, once again, my hand freezes before I grab the phone. Stay the fuck away from him.

I can't do that.

There's no possible way I can cut Matthew out of my life because my ex-wife is misunderstanding something I could easily clear up. She trusts me. Doesn't she?

I send Matthew a text instead of calling.

Won't be home until late. I'm sorry. Please don't wait up.

He doesn't respond until I'm on the air. I check his message during a commercial break.

Matthew

Don't work too hard. I love you.

Bile rises as I close the screen, and I swallow hard. When I leave the network's building for the evening, uncertainty screams inside me. In the end, and I hate myself for this more than I can say, I tell my driver to drop me off at The Eastmoor.

I hate my apartment, too. I see it through Matthew's eyes now. Clean lines, bland art, no heart. I don't want to be here, but everything Maggie said is eating away at my brain. I'm scared to death to go anywhere near Matty tonight, and I feel the selfishness of that fear like an oil slick in my stomach.

Gibson arrives with a bottle of my favorite vodka about thirty minutes after I get home.

He was the only person I could think of besides Gavin that I trust. And bless Gavin, but he's practically a kid. Also, I don't know what the fuck Raven might have said to Nicole—whether she implied I was having gay orgies in my apartment with my kid sleeping down the hall or what.

But I'll deal with her later. Tonight, I need a friend.

"Thanks for letting me drag you away from the club," I tell him when I let him in. I thought of visiting him at his building first, but I can't take any chances.

"I was surprised you asked. It's not like you to reach out," he says in that cool, smooth way he has.

Even outside his realm, Gibson Hayes carries himself like royalty. He wasn't always like this. In college, he was a numbers geek and shamelessly devoted to Marianne. I missed when he became this new version of himself. Sometime when I was back and forth from D.C. reporting on Congress. He's better looking than he used to be, too. And bigger. Dark haired and blue-eyed with a GQ model jawline and a rakish grin. He's aging unfairly well. But somewhere in that broad chest beats the heart of a true and loyal friend, despite his reputation as a ruthless dealmaker or deviant.

"So," he says. "I made a few calls. You want to tell me what the hell you did to piss off the Gallos?"