[Atlas]
Cordelia pushes past us as she rushes up the stairs. A few seconds later I hear the sound of her door slamming. I could tell that Sydney’s presence was causing her pain.
Maybe I should go upstairs and apologize but I was feeling petty after our argument this morning.
Sydney coughs. For a moment I had forgotten the guest I invited over that I hadn’t meant to invite over.
“I’m sorry you had to see that. My wife and I…” how do I phrase this without giving too much away. “she can be a bit…well dramatic.” I settle on a word. It doesn’t feel fair, but it also fits.
Sydney shrugs as if none of it matters. “Um…where should I put this,” she indicates my oversized suitcase. I ask her to set it down near the stairs and I notice that she has a slight limp.
Cordelia must have pushed her down harder than I thought.
“Hey, wait,” I stop her before she can reach the stairs. Taking the suitcase from her, I bring over a nearby chair and instruct her to sit while I take the suitcase and put it away. “Rest your leg.”
She grimaces, giving me a small salute. Taking that to mean she understands and will comply, I haul the suitcase up the stairs and stash it in a nearby closet.
I can hear Cordelia sobbing as I pass the door to her room. I pause, my hand above the doorknob. Should I enter? Will she even listen to me if I try to explain myself? It feels like I’ve made a mess of things and I’m not sure what should happen next.
Angelica would have wanted me to take better care of her sister than this. I owe it to her to at least try and be her friend.
When I make it back downstairs, Sydney is nowhere to be found. The front door is slightly ajar, so I open it the rest of the way.
Looking down the path, I see her holding a small suitcase. When she sees me, she waves and trips over a paving stone, landing once more with a hard smack.
I rush over to her side. “Stupid shoes,” she laughs, looking down at her dented and scratched pink heels. “I’ve been such a clutz today!”
Shaking my head I help her stand. “If you had just stayed put like I told you to, you wouldn’t be hurt right now..”
“I guess so,” she shrugs dismissively. “But then I wouldn’t have my things,” she lifts her suitcase to show me what she managed to get from her car in the brief moment that I was away. “I keep this in my car just in case.”
She starts to stumble a bit as we walk back. “Here. I give her the support of my arm, inviting her to hold onto my waist as I guide her back into the house.
When we get inside, I see a problem immediately. There is no way that she is going to make it up those stairs, even with assistance. “Hold on tight,” I instruct her as I sweep her into my arms bridal style and begin climbing the stairs.
“This feels silly,” she giggles, her body jostling with each step. “And nice. You are very strong, Mr. Steele, I mean Atlas.” Her cheeks go pink as she looks away, avoiding eye contact.
I’m sure it must be embarrassing for her to be so helpless.
“Will you keep me company?” she blinks at me with her large, hazel eyes, looking defenseless and small and I have this overwhelming urge to protect her. “I’m not a bit sleepy and if I’m not allowed to walk around…”
“How about this,” I compromise. “I’ll eat dinner with you but then I want you to rest your body. Maybe read a book,” I suggest.
She pouts. “Sorry to be such a bother. I’m sure you’re too busy to hang out.”
I feel a little guilty. Her injury is partly my fault. If I hadn’t sent her here with the suitcase, she wouldn’t have run into my wife and gotten injured in the first place. The least I could do was spend a little time with her.
By the time I return to the room, Sydney is sitting up, lying with her bruised side in the air. She had changed into an oversized t-shirt and shorts which are barely longer than the shirt. Her suitcase is still open next to her. In the suitcase is a bottle of wine.
“Do you usually carry wine in your overnight bag?” I raise my eyebrow curiously.
“You never know when it might come in handy,” she explains weakly. “I mean, what if I get stuck somewhere and I need a way to relax? In fact,” she reaches down to pick up the bottle, “I thought maybe we could have a little with dinner.”
She hands the bottle out for me to open, but I stop when I recognize the label.
It is the same wine as last night. The same label, the same year.
My hand slips right as she releases it from her grasp.
I try to reach the bottle in time but instead, the back of the couch hits the wall with a smash as I fall over, trying not to land on Sydney, releasing a small moan as my head hits the wall.
Sydney shouts, “Oh Atlas!” as the bottle crashes to the ground. She reaches down to grab some of the glass and cuts herself. “Ahh…Ahhh…” she begins to freak out as she watches the blood pouring from her hand.
“Uh,” I grunt, stumbling backward as I try to avoid the glass. “Stay right there,” I order Sydney. Grabbing a towel from the nearby bathroom, I get it wet with warm water and gently clean her wound. “Hold onto this while I go get a dustpan to clean the rest of this mess.”
By the sounds of things, there is a slam of a nearby door and a set of fast, rapid footsteps.
Cordelia? Where is she going at this hour?
[Cordelia–earlier this evening] He doesn’t believe me. He can’t even see me. And he thinks this is all my fault. Watching Atlas speaking with his secretary in hushed tones as turns his back on me reminds me of the scene from the other day in the cafe. All the small, tender touches between them, are so different from how he treats me. Even right now, his hand is on the small of her back protectively as he pulls the suitcase across the threshold. I watch the scene unfold, helpless to do anything. Here I am again, the fool, watching him love another like a stranger in my own relationship. Only now he is bringing her into our home, flaunting his relationship right under my nose. My world is spinning. With blurry eyes I rush past them on the stairs, heading to my room. I slam the door behind me and land with a crash on my bed. The mumble of their voices in the entryway below just confirms what I already knew. “He doesn’t love me and he never will,” I mumble into my pillow. “Fo
[Atlas] A letter from Cordelia’s lawyer arrived two days later requesting that I schedule a day for us to meet and go over the terms of our divorce. When she left that stormy night, I never thought she’d seriously go through with it. I expected her to come crawling back the next day, wet and resigned. She never learned how to take care of herself alone. She moved from her parents' house directly into mine. She’s never had to do anything for herself. When her lawyer’s aide dropped this letter off at my office he was swift and kind. It has all been handled in such a mature and professional manner I find myself glowing in pride for how much Cordelia has grown. I guess she grew up while I wasn’t watching. Eventually, I’m going to need to call her lawyer. Set up an appointment to speak with Cordelia. Maybe even convince her to not go through with this divorce. But not today. Today I am finally finalizing the deal with Bryant Textiles. The letter has been on my desk for a week
[Cordelia] After I hung up with my lawyer, I wasn’t sure where I should go. I couldn’t go to my parents, they would just send me straight back here to “fix” things. I didn’t really have any friends…my whole adult life has been tied up in being the wife of Atlas Steele. When I got married at the age of 20, I dropped out of school. The only person who had ever made any effort to stay connected was my old college roommate Tilly. I almost didn’t call her, I was worried that my troubles would just be a burden, but when she answered, she was overjoyed to hear from me and immediately invited me to meet her for drinks and catch up. We hit it off immediately and it was like we had never been separated. When I told her about my marriage and the disaster it had become, she offered me her spare room. She didn’t want rent or anything for it. The only price she asked of me was to “use this place to heal–and start designing again!” Because Tilly had grown up to become Mathilda Madison, de
[Cordelia] “I’m surprised to see you here.” Sydney’s reflection takes up most of the mirror. Her face is twisted into a small, mysterious smile. She is holding a full glass of champagne in her finely manicured hands as she circles me. Everything about her glows–her hair, her gown, the points on her stiletto shoes. “Do you like my outfit?” she takes a sip of her champagne before adding “Atlas bought it for me. I didn’t need him to, of course, but he does like to spoil me.” “Um hmm,” I murmur, “Excuse me, I…” She puts her empty hand down on the counter, blocking me in. “He’s very generous,” she takes a moment to gently caress the jade necklace that graces her neck like the kisses of a lover, “but I’m sure you already know that.” The way she hits that last word, like an accusation, tells me that she knows it isn’t true. Seeing the hurt in my eyes, she digs deeper. “You should have seen him this week. I was so proud of him. We have been working late nights all year. He looked s
[Sydney–Earlier that Evening] “What about this one?” I twirl in front of a mirror. Atlas is standing to the side, speaking with the shop attendant. He looks up from his phone briefly, giving a weak thumbs up. Sighing, I go back into the dressing room, shaking my head at his inattentiveness. To be fair he didn’t ask to be here, but after his last-minute invitation, I guilted him into giving me a ride. Making a decision, I picked the dress that got the most reaction from Atlas, a gold lame ensemble dripping with crystals and gold sequins. As I go up to the counter to pay, I realize I must have forgotten my credit card at home. “Oh shoot,” I swear, turning to the shopkeeper. “Can you just put this on hold for me? Last name, Bryant.” “What’s wrong,” hearing my distress Atlas puts down his phone. “Don’t you need that dress for tonight?” “I forgot my card at the office,” I sigh, showing him the inside of my empty wallet. “Not a problem,” he pulls a platinum card from his inside co
[Cordelia] When choosing what to wear this morning, I wanted something that could make me feel confident and strong. I ended up wearing large sunglasses and a designer dress–my armor to hide the fact that I had spent the night crying and I still feel sick to my stomach with anger and sadness. Atlas is ready and waiting at the office when I arrive, looking as freshly pressed as always. Sydney is standing just behind him, her head down, holding a briefcase and her coat. She is also immaculately dressed, her pink Chanel suit a perfect complement to his darker attire. Both sets of lawyers stand framing a large oval table. On that table are several stacks of paper arranged in order of what needs to be signed and by whom. Divorce is never simple, but a divorce with billions of dollars on the line is always a mess requiring many hands. Our marriage was more than just a marriage, it was a contract that combined our family fortunes and businesses. Now all of that hard work of combin
[Cordelia] My body is shaking as I drive across town and I am still in shock over my mother’s words when I pull into the parking lot of the hospital. A kind nurse shows me the way to my father’s room. After thanking her, I stand outside his door, my hand above the handle as I try to calm my nerves. My father might be dying. Hearing that from my mother hurt in ways I wasn’t expecting. It is one thing to know it might happen someday and another to see it happen before your eyes. We’ve tried over the years to build a stronger relationship, but there is something about the two of us that just doesn’t mix. Even when I try to do my best to please him, it always comes across as a lack of effort on my part or some type of disobedience if I choose to do it my own special way. It has never been my intention to hurt him, but every time I try to be my own person, it seems to harm our relationship. As I take my last deep breath, the boisterous sound of my father’s laughter rings out i
[Cordelia] Curiosity drives me to accept the doctor’s offer of coffee. We take our conversation to the small cafe located near the hospital lobby. Taking a seat in the back corner where we can have a bit more privacy, he tells me everything he has observed about my father. “Heart attacks have very specific symptoms, none of which your father has. At your family’s insistence, three doctors and four nurses, including myself, have all checked his vitals and he seems perfectly healthy. His blood pressure is slightly elevated and he has high cholesterol, but that isn’t unusual for his age.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, wincing. “At best I say he had a panic attack,” I take my own hesitant sip. The look on his face makes more sense now as this is probably the worst cup of coffee I have ever tasted. “Panic attacks can sometimes feel like heart attacks,” he explains in more detail. “Your heart seizes for a microsecond and your body feels a considerable amount of pressure. It’