Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 2

Vivian appears. The lower half of her, at least. But it’s definitely her. I know those skinny legs, that flawless, perky butt.

She isn’t wearing anything. Not one single, solitary stitch of clothing.

She isn’t alone, either.

The man appears again. Bicep, forearm, half a stubbled throat drenched in shadow.

The camera jostles and points away from the couple.

I hold my phone closer.

And all the blood rushes from my face.

I know the headboard. It’s the one my grandmother left me, dark oak with the two carved knobs. One of the knobs is loose because Connor knocked it with the vacuum in 2019 and never fixed it, so now, it leans a quarter-inch to the left.

The one in the video?

It’s leaning a quarter-inch to the left.

When the camera pans, I realize I know the quilt, too. It’s shoved down to the foot of the bed, but it’s without a doubt the green and gold one I bought from the Parachute shop in SoHo last spring.

Worst of all…

I know my husband.

I slam my phone face-down on the stainless steel counter. But I forgot to press pause first, so I still hear it, the moans growing louder and louder, the creaking of the bedframe, grunts and whispers that I know well because they’re supposed to be for me, for me alone, the one thing in this world that Vivian can’t take from me.

But she is.

She’s taking it.

I fumble with my phone, trying to turn off the volume, but my hands are shaking so badly that it falls to the floor and bounces underneath one of the rolling carts.

Feeling nauseous, I stumble over to the sink, turn the water on, and stand there with my hands under it. The water is cold, then hot. I watch the red icing come off my thumb and swirl around the drain. It looks like blood.

I keep thinking, That can’t be real.

That can’t be my sister sleeping with my husband in my bed.

It can’t be.

It can’t.

But it is.

I cut off the faucet and stand at the sink for a while. I couldn’t tell you how long. Long enough that the drips stop.

When I feel like I’m stable on my feet again, I go back over, drop to one aching knee, and fish out my phone from where it fell.

Because I guess I’m a masochist, I make myself open the second one, too. Four seconds is all I can take, and all I need. Same bed, different night. The moans and grunts are pretty much unchanged.

I tap the little i in the corner of the first video. The information comes up. It tells me the file name, how big it is, and when it was taken.

That little string of characters is basically another punch in the stomach.

August 8th. 10:42 P.M.

August 8th was a Saturday. I know that for a fact because, on August 8th, I did the Montoya wedding for three hundred people. I didn’t finish until eleven at night, by which point my feet were swollen up like loaves of Wonder Bread. I slept at the bakery on the cot in the office because I had a brunch order at five and I didn’t want to drive home twice.

Connor brought me a Gatorade at nine, kissed the top of my head, and said, Go easy on yourself, Dee.

Then he left. He went home.

To her.

I sit down on the floor.

Not on purpose. My knees just stop holding me, so I end up on the rubber mat with my back against the cart, phone in my hand, the screen still showing that little box of information.

File name. Size. Date.

The walk-in freezer motor chugs along. The fan over the cookies clicks every few seconds when the blade catches on the guard, which I’ve been meaning to fix since October, just as soon as I can find the spare funds.

It’s amidst that backdrop of noise that I finally admit something out loud that I’ve never let myself say before.

“If I have something she wants, she takes it.”

That’s the story of Delilah Dorsey. Thirty-one years of my life in nine words.

I’ve said other things. I’ve said, Viv’s just like that. Or She doesn’t mean anything by it. I’ve said, She’s the baby, she never learned.

I have a soft, padded room of excuses I put her in every time she does something.

But those are lies.

The truth is simple.

If I have something she wants, she takes it.

When I was fourteen, I saved up for a gorgeous Burberry coat that I wanted more than life itself. It took me four months of babysitting every single Friday and Saturday night before I had enough.

I wore it twice.

Then Vivian, who was twelve, decided she loved it.

Mom said, “Oh, let her wear it, honey, it looks so sweet on her,” and that was the end of my time with the coat. It hung in her closet until she outgrew it and then it went to Goodwill.

When I was twenty-two, I got into the pastry program in the city. I had a plan and a deposit down.

Then Vivian announced she wanted to go to school in California.

Dad only had so much cash that year, so I got a hand on my shoulder and a speech about how I was the strong one, how I could work and save and go later.

I did go later. Much later. Seven years later, with my own money.

In high school, there was a boy named Kellen Estrada who I liked so much my hands used to sweat whenever he was around. Vivian sat on his lap at my own eighteenth birthday party, then they left early in his car. I told everyone it was funny and that they looked so cute together.

So the pattern isn’t new.

This is just the latest instance of it.

She took my husband. In my bed.

Filmed it.

And then uploaded it to an album she shared with me.

That last bit is truly bonkers. I mean, the affair is, too, of course. But that’s such a huge thing that I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to process it just yet.

No, it’s the album that’s got me in a tizzy right now.

How careless do you have to be to expose yourself like that? Then again, that’s just who Vivian is. I can’t even picture her doing anything else.

Trying to keep a secret? Deleting things? Thinking twice?

Hell no.

She’s never had to be careful about anything in her life, because she’s always had Mom or Dad or me to cover up for her oopsie-daisies.

Do-It-All Delilah was always there to save the day.

But she’s not the only perpetrator here, is she? No. She’s not.

My husband has a role in this thing, too.

It’s funny—as much as I was enjoying this morning’s work, I really was looking forward to going home. To doing exactly what I promised Priya I’d do, making cinnamon rolls and then going to bed with Connor.

Now, that whole happy, domestic image is spoiled.

What would it look like if I went home now?

I’d drive home, back out to Sheepshead Bay. The garage door would whine when it cranked open. I’d go up the stairs, skipping the loud steps, and find Connor asleep in our bedroom with his arm thrown across his face.

I’d turn on the overhead. With my phone dangled in front of his eyes, I’d say, Explain this.

And then what?

He’d sit up. Squint. He’s always been a devoted poker player, so his face wouldn’t give anything away.

He’d just say, Delilah, are you saying that’s me? Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? That could be anybody.

You’ve been up for twenty-four hours. Look at yourself, you’re not even making sense.

In some ways, my brain would start to side with him. I mean, technically, his face isn’t even in it. Just a back with a mole beneath the left shoulder blade, and an arm, and a headboard that could really be anyone’s.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not.

Then, as soon as I conceded the point and slunk away to shower off the bakery smells, he’d be texting her. Cover your tracks. She’s onto us.

By the time the sun came up, that album would be empty.

After that, Mom would be on the phone. Delilah, what have you done? I told you this bakery was a bad idea. You’re under such strain. It’s not good for you. I’ve been telling you, haven’t I? First, I saw the toll it’s taken on your skin, and your hair, and your weight, my goodness. I told you that! Now, look! You’re saying outlandish things! Connor’s been so patient with you, but no man is a saint. Did you ever stop to think about how lonely he’s been?

She’d keep going. That’s what she does best. In the end, it would boil down to, Delilah Aileen Dorsey, don’t you ruin this family Christmas. It’s the first one since your father passed. You’ve always been jealous of your sister.

Don’t do this.

Don’t you dare.

So no. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’m not driving home.

What I need to do is be certain. I need proof.

I don’t know yet what that looks like. I’ll figure it out. I figured out how to get a bakery built with nothing but a credit line and a used deck oven, so I can figure out this.