Page 38 of Honeyed

The pain in his voice makes me want to burn the world down.

“Harassing you … wait, how long has this been going on?”

“Since the week we got married. He was waiting outside the restaurant the first time he approached me.”

That was two months ago, and it only now registers that we’ve been married for two months. I brush that revelation aside to focus on him, though.

“What the hell, that’s a new one.”

This isn’t the first time the media or a filmmaker has attempted to ask Warren about his mother’s murder. Movie rights, life rights, interviews … he’s been offered big bucks to sign off on all of them and never has.

“It’s going to be on a big streaming service. They’re apparently doing the full treatment for it, dragging out jury members, the original detectives on the case, my father. My mother’s old friends, even grade school classmates of hers, have signed on. These fucking people. Can they not let her rest in peace?”

The balled-up letter flies across the room as he violently chucks it like he wants it to smash like glass. But it’s not satisfying whatsoever, just floating to the ground.

“Can you stop it at all?” I ask dumbly because I don’t know what else to say.

Warren stares at the floor, and I hug him tight, realizing my arms are still around him.

“How would I even do it? No, there is no way. They’re not asking for permission, the guy is bulldozing me. Keeps sending me emails and release letters, saying he’s moving forward without me. That without my own words in the documentary, they can put out whatever they want without my side being told. I don’t even know what the fuck that means, my side. I was ten at the time. I didn’t do shit, I wasn’t involved.”

“You were a victim.” I gasp, astounded at how insensitive it sounds like this director is being.

“This guy is aggressive. It’s unnerving. This thing is supposed to be a multi-episode series, and I just want it all to go away. Is it not enough that I live with her death daily? That I know what an evil monster one half of me is? I fucking hate this.”

I’ve seen Warren upset. I’ve seen him injured. I was at the hospital the day he broke his hand, and his dreams of being a football legend flew out the window. I’ve seen him pissed off, exhausted, annoyed.

I’ve never seen him defeated. Not until now.

I wouldn’t say it’s shocking that another special about his mother’s death is being produced. It’s local lore in these parts, and his mother was so gorgeous that it’s a no-brainer why she became this news cycle phenomenon. Her murder was also complicated by the fact that Warren’s father misled the cops and press for weeks, made the show of the ultimate husband and father. That was before they discovered he’d killed her, hidden her under her vegetable garden in the backyard, and cut off her ring finger, including her wedding band, to keep as a souvenir. Yes, I read all the gory details. No, I never told Warren. But I needed to know what was out there about his family so if he ever wanted to talk about it, I could be prepared.

In all the years we’ve been friends, he’s never gone into detail about it with me. For him, it’s the secret he wishes would stay buried forever.

Now it was being dredged back up because of some asshole looking for a paycheck and notoriety. Whoever this director is could go straight to hell, and I’ll personally deliver that message if he keeps bugging Warren. Who the hell is he to keep bothering someone who lived through something like this? If Warren said no the first time, the guy should have gone away.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I hug him as tight as I can and rest my cheek against his chest.

Those strong arms come around me, holding equally as tight, as if I’m his lifeline.

“I kept his goddamn last name. I kept it because it was hers, and now it’s yours and I just … I’m sorry, Al. I’m sorry this is going to affect you, too. This stain will never come off, no matter how much I scrub it. No matter how much I try to be the exact opposite of the man he is.”

Now the words on the driveway click even more; Warren wants to be the good, respectful, responsible man his father never was. He wants to keep his promises and doesn’t want to cross any lines or ruffle any feathers. He’s lived his life on this tightrope because he thinks that part of him could do something like that.

What a foolish man he is to think that, but right now is not the time to point that out.

“Let’s get out of the house,” I blurt out, having no clue where my mind is taking us.

“I thought we were avoiding each other.”

“Right now, we’ll call a truce. Imprisoned father issues trump fake marriage issues.”

Thankfully, Warren snorts at my completely inappropriate joke. I knew it would bring some levity because I know him.

“Where are we going?” The expression on his face is all skepticism.

I tap my chin, trying to figure out what will take his mind off this insanity. Then it clicks.

“I have an idea.”

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