CHAPTER ONE ╱ Betrayal Tastes Sour

The scent of lavender consumes the air. A faint beeping, followed by the sloshing of hands, and antibacterial soap clouds my senses. My lashes flutter against the floral-printed blindfold I'd been bestowed by a crew member. I didn't necessarily know why they had to blindfold me considering I was well aware of the segment. Of what was to come.

I figured it was just for ratings. A shocked guest treated to a mommy makeover unbeknownst to the audience. It is all about the shock factor, especially nowadays. (My subconscious warns me, screaming, no pleading: Everything's about to change! And it's going to be televised across the world!)

I was urged to follow Reena's lead by a red-haired woman with a mic grazing her rose-dusted cheeks. Was her name Lisa? Linda? I hate myself for not committing it to my memory. It's just so rude. I could make out freckles beneath her thick sheet of foundation.

I pinch my cheeks, hoping to add a bit of color to my sunkissed skin. Behind the eye mask, my brain pumps apprehension throughout my veins. Suddenly, I was picking myself apart.

            Should I have gotten my lashes extended before agreeing to this? Applied that new lip gloss Mama had sent me that she insisted would make my lips thank me? Maybe gotten my hair done? I missed those blonde strips that accentuated my chestnut hair, that framed my cheekbones, brought out the golden specks in my eyes. Summer was around the corner. I'd make an appointment for next Tuesday with Val.

            My fingertips scrape beneath the hem of my sundress. I could already feel the white marks emerging along the skin of my thigh, reddening with each scratch. Clawing my way beneath my skin, I wished I could just reside there.

            God, why did I agree to this?

            "You deserve this, June!" Rosalind had encouraged. Her blue eyes pierced right through me, omitting a message my mind couldn't gather.

            Did I? Did I really?

            I secure my fingers around my sleek ponytail, guiding my palm downward. I tug on it slightly, an effort to bring myself back to earth while a batch of words fumbled out of Lisa's? cherry red lips.

            "On my cue, I'll lead you backstage. I'm going to plug your ears briefly, then I'll give your shoulder a little nudge and you'll be led by our producer, Kennedy, who will remove the plugs when necessary."

            "Is there any particular reason my ears have to be plugged? My ears get very irritated. I had tubes when I was three so they're very sensitive and I just want to—"

            I feel her hands wrap around my shoulder, thus silencing my rambling. The tips of her heels brush against my exposed toes. Would closed toe heels have made me seem more elegant? I think to myself. I love my Target braided heels, don't get me wrong, but when I'd casted my eyes on all of the red bottomed heels the women were wearing around here I couldn't help but feel a sense of . . . mediocrity?

            Rosalind wears red bottoms, too. Everyone compliments her on them, even Spencer, my husband.

            My mama always said, "It's not about the name brand, it's about how you wear them, honey. You could be dressed in designer and still have a blackened heart."

            I straighten my back at the recollection. I love my braided heels and my dusty yellow sundress, the one I spotted at the consignment shop on Uptown Boulevard that matched the dress my friend from back home, Ruthie, gifted Pearl for her fourth birthday. I love my brown hair, and pure heart, and natural lashes.

            I snap back to reality again when the woman digs the pads of her fingers into my skin.

            "Junia, snap out of it! Hellooo? You're on in five!"

            Physically rattled, I shake away the nerves, and bob my head. "Goodness gracious, I'm so sorry! I'm just a big 'ol bucket of nerves." I laugh so forcefully that a snort sneaks its way through, as well as the southern accent I've tried to conceal my whole life. Especially after moving to California with Spencer. He had the dialect, but he'd grown out of the drawl he used to speak with. I kind of missed the way it bounced off his tongue.

            I could sense the woman's discomfort as she tore her hands away from my shoulders. Her fingertips barely graze my backside, urging me forward into the direction of the backstage area. My ears are plugged now. They could've at least provided me a set of headphones, blared a bit of Fleetwood Mac for my own personal enjoyment, would've eased my nerves even further.

            I could discern a blast of light ahead. I was moments away from stepping out onto a stage, in front of a camera and a live audience, as well as millions of Americans watching from their couches in their homes—my parents being two of those viewers, and probably the entire town of Graceland. No pressure or anything. Oh no, I'm sweating again.

            I feel her squeeze my arm and guide me forward. That was not a shoulder nudge, but I stumble forward into the hands of, who I presume to be, Kennedy. The woman's hands are soft to the touch. She gently plucks the plugs from my ears.

            In a hushed, saccharine tone, she murmurs into my ear. "There's a few steps. Up," I step upward. "Up," And again. "One more, honey." Now, I'm on the main stage. The crowd isn't clapping. When I sit on the couch, I resist the urge to sink into the cushions. The cloth around my eyes is removed and I feast my eyes onto the hoard of people seated ahead of me.

            Many of them are clutching their chests, holding their breaths. A memory of Merida Hudson flashed through my mind, reminding me of the time I slipped up and said shit in church after tripping over my own two feet. She'd clutched her pearls so tightly, bounding them around her wrinkled fingers. She never said a word to me after that day.

            I cinch my brows together with a smile on my face. I inch my neck around to face Rosalind? My smile widens. "Oh, thank God, you're here!" I murmur.

            She doesn't say anything. She's wearing a deep cut blouse, her signature dress pants, and her closed toe Louboutin's. Shit! I apologize to Merida wordlessly. God rest her soul. Rosalind's plum lips are arranged in a frown. My brows furrow even further together.

            I glance around and spot Reena Rowan. Her acrylics are gripping her mic. "Hi, Junia. How are you?"

            "I'm good, Reena." My eyes are darting around. Is this apart of the segment? Act clueless? Did she intentionally tell the audience to stare at me pitifully? That is pity I discern on their faces, I determine. And Rosalind's presence, an additional confusion tactic, possibly? It doesn't seem like it the more I squirm on this designer couch.

            "Do you know why you're here today, Junia?" Reena asks.

            I swallow. Harshly. I'm certain my mic picked up the nervous gulp. "Um, I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure." A nervous laugh is trapped in my throat. I force it out, all while my fingers are pinching at the excess material of my sundress.

            "And the woman sitting beside of you, do you recognize her?"

            I glance back over at Rosalind. Her lips have lifted slightly. Another pitiful expression. "Yes, my best friend, Rosalind. Well, Rosie. I call her Rosie." I'm stumbling over my words a bit. I'm wearing my anxiety like a cloak and it's beginning to swallow me whole.

           "She told us she loves you very much, that she was the first friend you'd made in San Francisco, and that you're one of the best people she's ever met." Reena explains.

            My chest slows to a rattle. My heart feels blissful for a moment. I glance over at her again and smile. She smiles back, before guiding her eyes towards her lap. What is going on?

            "I love her, too."And I mean it.

            Reena draws a breath, then eyes the audience for a moment before settling them back onto me. I feel awkward, like I've just walked into a comedy room after a joke has been told and every looks at me because I don't get it, and it's because it was at my expense, told when I was off in the bathroom. "She'd never want to hurt you in any way. Not intentionally."

            I swallow again. A nervous laugh departs from my lips again just as Rosalind takes my hands in her own. I blink down at them, then gaze up at her unknowingly.

            "Rosie?" I rasp.

            Rosalind inhales sharply and exhales leisurely. She's clutching my hands for dear life. Worry seeps into my veins again. "Junia, I want you to know that I didn't mean for this to happen." She never calls me by my full name. Shit! Shit! Shit!

     "You're scaring me, Rosie. What's going on?"

     "Spencer and I are having an affair."

            The crowd doesn't gasp because the crowd has known this entire time. So did Reena and so did Kennedy. The red head, too. And now, the entire fucking world. I am the brunt end of the humiliating joke that is my life. Was my life.

            My previous worry transforms into complete and utter embarrassment. Pulsing through my veins like poison. As if the declaration wasn't enough, Rosalind continues explaining. I ease my hands away from hers, because if I don't, I may break them instead.

     "He loves me, Junia. He wants to be with me, marry me. I am so sorry. It all happened so fast, and I—"

            I hold up my hand to silence her.

            "Rosie wants you to know how much she values your friendship. She wants—"

            "You know what I want?" I interject. My voice is as callous as I could possibly make it sound which took a large amount of effort, even given the circumstance. With narrowed eyes, I glance between the two women, "I want you both to tell me this is your cruel versions of a joke . . . and if it isn't, I want you both to rot in hell."

            The crowd gasps this time. If I weren't so angry, I'd be gasping as well.

            "So which is it?" I hiss.

            Reena clears her throat, forcing a smile onto her peachy lips. I'm not a violent woman, but I wanted to rip them right off of her botoxed face, and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. How dare she? How dare they?

            Ratings at the expense of a double-crossed woman whose heart is exploding on this millionaire's designer couch? Really? I am a human being, damnit, and a hurting one at that. I don't deserve to be a public confessional to fill Reena Rowan's pompous pockets. I expected Rosie to at least have the decency to settle this privately, but I don't know Rosie. I haven't this entire time. That backstabbing bi—

            My thoughts are ceased due to Rosalind's stare, pleadingly urging me to look in her direction. And I do. It's apologetically laced, but I could still detect the relief in her expression. I make an effort to stand, but Reena isn't quite finished. As if I've not been mortified enough, she says. "Spencer is here. Does anyone want to hear what he has to say?"

           Not really, no is what I'd like to say. But I don't. I say nothing like always.

            The crowd doesn't know rather to scream wildly with anticipation or sit idle, mortified nearly as much as I am. Either way, they're all still watching. Waiting.

            I scoff, lowering my eyes. Everything in me is screaming Run! Get off of the stage! You've suffered enough! But I remain, foolishly as Reena welcomes a blindfolded Spencer to the stage.

            He's guided onto the stage just like I was and eased onto the middle cushion. His ears were deplugged so when Reena tells him he can remove the cloth he's able to hear and follow suit.

            His gorgeous eyes meet mine first. He knew about the segment so he's smiling until he swivels his neck and realization dawns on him that we are, in fact, not alone. I'm practically dangling from the arm of the couch so far separated from the two. Disgusted, above all else. I can only imagine the look on his face, his immediate one anyway because he's a smart man. Panic would grace his handsome features for a moment and then it would fade because he doesn't want to show that he's guilty of anything.

            "Hi, Spencer," Reena welcomes him begrudgingly. Her lips tighten around the corners. I look away when she begs the question I already foresee the answer to. "Are you having an affair with your wife's best friend, Rosalind?"

            He hesitates, then shockingly admits, "Yes ma'am."

            I'm on my feet now. I escape the way I had come. Kennedy's arm is extended, waiting for me. She's apologizing as I flee. I don't tell her it's okay because it isn't. Nothing about this is okay.

            "Where's my daughter? Please tell me you're not all evil enough to have left a monitor on for her to bare witness to that at the very least?" I shout, tossing her a vexed look over my shoulder as my heels clank against the cement floors.

            Various crew members are watching as I tear through the atmosphere, my face ablaze and my heart burning with every step. I expected him to follow me, but he doesn't. Shamefully, they're both still on stage, probably professing their love, asking America to forgive them for the sake of their unanticipated love. They didn't ask for this, they didn't mean to hurt me, America, please understand! Sexual desires, they just can't help it. Fuck the vows!

            "Hate festers, baby. You pray for people you hate, gives God room to heal all their bad. If you don't send out a prayer for 'em, it makes it easier for God to see your ugly and God can't do much with ugly."

            I'll pray about it later, I silently promise to my mama who I wish were here. She must be irate, pacing the porch boards back at home on the phone with Daddy and screaming into the receiver.

            Daddy's gonna kill Spencer Beckett, and not with kindness. Sawyer, too. All while August and Mama hug me.

            That is, until he cools off. Which he will. He'll simmer long enough for Spencer to thank God he's in San Francisco and not down Cider Mills Road back in Graceland, Georgia where his parents still live.

            "She's still in the playroom." Kennedy informs me.

            My walk has morphed into a full blown sprint. I turned the corner and spotted a familiar door. I gripped the knob, leaving my clammy imprint behind and thrusted the wooden door open.

            My daughter, Pearl, is perched on a beanbag chair. Her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Bugs, is tucked beneath her armpit. A young lady with goldilocks for hair is crouched in front of her, two Barbies in hand, tapping them against a nearby table. When the door squeals shut, Pearl's doe eyes shoot up and meet mine.

            I swept her up before she could say so much as a hello. My grip is tight around her little frame. Her lavender-painted fingernails loop themselves around my neck and Mr. Bugs cascades toward the floor.

            "Mama, are you okay?" she squeaks.

            I loosen my grip and capture her essence through my bourbon eyes. Smiling, I brush my hands down her braids. She insisted on two, right down her back, and the yellow dress to match mine this morning.

            "I wanna look like you, Mama. Can I wear my yellow dress, the one Aunt Ruthie got me? Pretty please!" she'd begged.

            "Of course I'm okay, Peach." I assure her.

            Her little fingers graze my cheeks and pull back damp. A pout emerges on her lips. "But you're crying, Mama."

            "What?" I exhale, still exasperated from my brief run.

            I hadn't noticed that tears had fallen down my cheeks. Too occupied on dashing to my safe place, my blessed Pearl, I had simply blinked back any moisture. I hadn't realized they'd fallen down my cheeks instead of returning back to the place they originated from.

            The tears blotched my cheeks, surely turning them an awful shade of red. Pearl eyed me pitifully. I was starting to loathe the look.

            I sniffle. "I'm fine, sweetie. But, hey! Guess what?"

            God bless the attention span of four year old's, because now Pearl's eyes are sparkling with anticipation, accepting my deception as truth. My heart aches for lying to her, but she wouldn't understand. Not now.

            "What?!"

            "We're going to visit Nana and Pop Pop for a little while. How's that sound?"

            Her mouth stretches outward into an excited grin. Her front teeth sparkle against the overhead lights. "Really?! I didn't think Daddy liked staying in Georgia."

            The mention of him turns my heart to stone, sours the taste of my tongue. I glance back at Kennedy, who remained steadied against the door. Tight-lipped, her shoulders slump when she meets my eyes. An apology drifted through the air once again.

            I'd accept it eventually. With time. Like everything else.

            I turn back to face Pearl. "It's just going to be a me and you thing, Peach." I lower my voice to a whisper, "A girl's only trip."

            Gleefully, she flings her arms around my neck again. "When are we going?! When are we going?!"

            "Now, baby. We're going right now."