The Thunder Beneath Us

by Nicole Blades

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

To the world, Best Lightburn is a talented writer rising up the masthead at international style magazine James, girlfriend of a gorgeous up-and-coming actor, and friend to New York City’s fabulous. Then there’s the other Best, the one who has chosen to recast herself as an only child rather than confront the truth.
 
Ten years ago, on Christmas Eve, Best and her two older brothers took a shortcut over a frozen lake. When the ice cracked, all three went in. Only Best came out. People said she was lucky, but that kind of luck is nothing but a burden. Because Best knows what she had to do to survive. And after years of covering up the past, her guilt is detonating through every facet of her seemingly charmed life. It’s all unraveling so fast: her new boss is undermining and deceitful, her boyfriend is recovering from a breakdown, and a recent investigative story has led to a secret affair with the magazine’s wealthy publisher.
 
Best is quick-witted and headstrong, but how do you find a way to happiness when you’re sure you haven’t earned it—or embrace a future you feel you don’t deserve? Evocative and emotional, The Thunder Beneath Us is a gripping novel about learning to carry loss without breaking, and to heal and forgive—not least of all, ourselves.

Release date: January 1, 1949

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Coochie. Vajayjay. Box. Beaver. Taco. Vadge. Bajingo. Lady Garden. Call it whatever you want; the goddamn thing just killed my career.

When I get to Trinity’s desk, she’s squeezed into a corner looking serious, uncomfortable, cagey. This doesn’t help. She had a similar cramped-up pose the last time I was called in to meet with JK like this, all vague and abrupt. If I walk in there and see anyone from legal, I’m not going to bother taking a seat. I already figured out which books in my office I’ll pack and which ones to leave on the shelf for my replacement.

I’m supposed to be lightning in a bottle. That’s what Chalk Board magazine called me in that “Media’s Top 25 Under 25” piece last week. Mind you, I’m twenty-seven, but I keep popping up on these industry lists anyway. Honestly, it’s just code for Yes, we let the right one in. Check off the diversity box. I’m totally cute, though, so that helps. Mediagenic. That’s another word they like pushing up next to my name. Morning-TV producers think I’m hilarious, even when I’m feeding them warmed-over quips I thought up in the shower. You’re great. You’re so great. I’m not. I’m not great. I’m the opposite. Heinous and horrible, a feral beast capable of atrocious things like that night. Like that night with Benjamin. He didn’t deserve that, and had those merciless tables been turned, he would have never done that to me. Benjamin, he would have found a different way, because he was good. I’m not. But people are drawn to me, never wanting to let me go (more from Chalk Board). They don’t know any better. None of them. Fools. They’ve bought into it, this story of me being golden, blessed, lucky. They haven’t clued into what I figured out long ago: that luck is nothing more than a burden.

It’s that ignorance, blissful and simple, that makes people want me around, want me close in their circle. All of this should ease the choppy pulse behind my eye right now, send my shoulders down. It doesn’t. Because I know I don’t deserve good things. Getting fired from a fluffed-out women’s magazine job: that sounds more up my alley.

I squeeze my hand into the shallow, front pocket of my jeans. They’re extra tight, pencil-cut, and the stiff edge of the denim scratches my knuckles. I don’t care about that; I need to feel the smoothness of my tokens.

For the last ten years, I’ve carried these two gold coins, clicking them together—sometimes loudly—like ruby slippers. They’re not worth anything; cheap tokens from the winter fair. They were my brother’s. You would think, after everything, I would remember which brother. But I don’t. I just know that I need them. They’re part of my story.

“You good, T?”

She shrugs, then nods and finally shakes her head.

Crap. I’m done. How am I going to look my dad in the face?

None of this is a surprise, though. As soon as I went from writing legitimate women’s health stories to becoming the vagina reporter, that was the signpost and I ignored it—on purpose. Giddy at being special, held up to the light for my merit, not some unfair fluke, I pretended that I was worthy, that I deserved this goodness. And now look at me: mowed down by the vagina. At least I know how to get a bump-free bikini line. There’s that. There’s also:


All of this is intel that will help me after I get fired today. Clearly.

Fuck this. The vagina will not do me in. It can’t. I need to play this thing arrogant, like there’s no possible way I could have made another misstep in print.

I pull my posture up, drop the befuddlement, and add some certainty to my voice. “So, it’s two o’clock,” I say to Trinity. “Just go on in?”

She’s moving her head in an almost circular nod. Trinity doesn’t want to answer me and she definitely doesn’t want to look at me. I try to read her jerky movements anyway. Trinity Windsong Cohen (yes, real) is the worst with secrets. All three of my promotions were spoiled by her; the good news blurted out while she was latched to my forearm, in a red-knuckled grip. I move closer to her, lean in, open my clenched torso for any impromptu choke holds and last-minute reveals, but I hear nothing, just the muffled swish of the year-round space heater at her feet.

“Um. Let me just check with James,” she says, finally. Her words are run-together, her voice barely above a whisper.

The churn in my stomach returns, and I brace for what’s coming. Maybe they’ll skip the meeting; have Trinity walk me to the kitchen for cupcakes and put me down with one bullet to the back of the head, Mafioso-style. I really wasn’t supposed to be here this long anyway.

Trinity slams the phone down and looks right at me. “They’re ready for you.”

“No cupcakes?” It falls out of my mouth before I have a chance to tuck the thing deep under my tongue.

Her face wrinkles.

“Sorry. I’m—I should go in.”

JK meets me a few paces outside of her doorway, smiling, her eyes squinting. That’s exactly what she did last time too. It’s only been three months since I was here, walking toward JK’s tight grin and stepping into a roomful of dead-eyed, dark suits. It was my first transgression, but nothing about it feels truly forgiven. I know they’re all waiting for me to put my other pump square in the middle of the shit pile once more, and their collective doubt will be realized. No more waiting, suits, because here we go again—me being summoned to the office, again, for some mysterious reason. Again.

All right. So that this doesn’t become Chekhov’s gun, here are the three things you need to know about what we’ll call The Mistake:

I want to pray or vomit. I can’t figure out which will actually help. Instead, I clear my mind and step lively toward JK’s giant snow-globe office (seriously, everything is dusted in white). She opens her arms, waving me in like a banking jetliner. As I clear the corner, I see that no one from legal is there. I let my deep breath out, slow and quiet. However, the stranger seated by the window—this gives me pause. Shit. Maybe they found out about the honor-killing story. I’ve been working on it in ultra-stealth mode for months. It’s going to be my golden ticket, my way out of here. Of course, now it will be literally my way out of here. Not golden at all. More like gray, or whatever color goes with insubordination. I’m not technically supposed to be doing this story. But how did they find me out? These people here are barely journalists; there’s not a newshound in the bunch. Unless the mailroom guys—my guys—fucked up, and this is what it looks like right before the bus rolls over you.

“Hey, superstar. Glad you could join us,” Susie says, as if I had a choice. Her voice is a little shaky, odd. All curly, auburn hair and outsized Clark Kent glasses, Susie is always steady. This right now is the opposite of steady, the opposite of Susie. She’s practically warbling. I plant my feet and slide into ready mode. I just decided, this minute, I’m choosing fight over flight. The only thing I don’t like is that my back is to the door, not the wall.

I hear JK’s voice coming up alongside me. “Yes, come on in, Best. Very excited to have you here.”

Stranger Woman, her skin like tempered dark chocolate, barely moves. Only her eyes angle toward me. Already, she’s not impressed. She remains seated, even though JK and Susie are standing.

“Make yourself at home,” JK says. She gestures to the chair next to the woman. I want to say something strong, unfazed: No, thanks, I’m good here. But it’s tense enough. I walk over to the white leather seat to the woman’s right, leaving enough space between us for our mutual disapproval to rest. “Best Lightburn, meet Joan Marx,” JK says. Her grin is a little too wide, eyes glassy, like she just took a toke.

Finally the woman moves. She stands up, her slim pigeon’s body bends at the middle, a smooth, shallow bow toward me. Her hair is in micro-braids and her makeup is too much. She’s dressed like the plainclothes detectives I see at the all-hours diner near my brownstone, but instead of a wrinkled silk tie to finish the look, she sports a large broach on her left lapel. It’s silver and shiny with raised, colored jewels. The control panel, I presume.

I float my hand out to shake hers. The grip is fine, but her hands are clammy.

Strike one.

JK sidles up next to me and touches my arm, gives it a light squeeze—more a soft pulsing—call it whatever, it’s her trademark nurture move, something she perfected in twenty-eight years of running magazines filled with disparate, desperate (and often disordered) personalities. It works; my heart rate is slowing. Her moves always work on me: the arm pulsing, the wink, the random clothing compliment in the hallway, and the masterful combo of all three. It makes Janice “James” Kessler seem approachable (but she’s not) and makes you feel considered (but you’re not).

Susie, still skittish, interrupts the tired magic trick and I get my arm back. “I’m actually a little nervous,” she says. “Maybe we should start. Sooner we do, sooner I can get that martini.” We all chuckle and mutter things, light, easy, like it’s being recorded for background noise on a movie. Stranger Woman is back in her seat, waxen and stiff. Before anyone has a chance to wipe the tight, cheap smirks from our faces, Susie takes a dramatic breath. “Okay. So, here’s the quick and dirty on our wonderful friend Joan here: She is the former deputy editor at Sports World Magazine and before that she was at New York News. And before that, she put in a tour of duty in local network news for a few years. And now here she is, ready to join our team, and we are absolutely thrilled to have her.”

I nod in her general direction. JK catches me and her smile dims.

Susie moves through a series of quick, weird tics, the last of which is rubbing the top of her pen. It’s annoying and awkward, like everything else about this meeting. If she removes her glasses next and buries them on top of her head, I might as well lean back, expose my neck, give them full access to my carotid artery. Maybe they’ll let their New Black One do the honors and have the first cut, although I can’t imagine JK being down with bloodstain patterns all over this whiteness. Master move, getting another black woman to do me, though. Who knew JK was so artful?

Another deep breath. “As you know, Best, I love this magazine. It’s the child I never had.” Susie pauses, looking down at her bouncing knee. “I’m immensely proud of it, and this experience—that’s the best word for it, really—it’s one for which I remain eternally grateful.”

Wait. This is a resignation letter. She’s leaving. Susie’s leaving and Robot Joan is taking her place. I didn’t realize it at first, but I’m shaking my head now as it clicks together. Talk about being clueless. Ten minutes ago, I was positive this meeting was going to be my last day at James. I was sure that The Mistake had somehow resurrected itself and was going to finally bite me in the ass. I had every detail planned too: whom I’d call first (Kendra, then my dad), where we’d go to drink right after (Seeks Same bar, the cornerest booth), and what my parting words would be to the entire edit floor of James magazine (something from either Jay Z or Biggie—this part was totally game time, but it involved the word fuck).

But this time, this whole thing, it isn’t even about me. Actually, now I’m pissed. I almost shit my pants, and for what? An intro to Robot Joan? At this point, either tell me how this changes my world here or break out those martinis you mentioned. Make a move, because I’m on deadline. The vagina waits for no one.

“Oh, Susie,” JK blurts out. “This is so bittersweet, I know.” She turns her head toward me. JK looks legitimately sad. “As you may have already guessed, Susie is leaving us, leaving the company; back to the world of transformative long reads and spellbinding stories in hardcover. We’ll be making the official announcement later, but we wanted to let some senior staff in on the news first. And I know you and Susie have such a wonderful relationship, Best, but I’m sure you’d agree that we’re all going to miss her.”

I should say something. That was my cue.

“Well, I am really surprised and also really excited for you, Suze.” I turn my chair away from Robot Joan. Of course, it squeaks. “You’ve been my mama bird here for so long. JK’s right: We’re all going to really miss you, miss your spirit, miss your New York crazy anecdotes, and all that warm wisdom you share with us every day. And I’m going to miss our talks—I’ll treasure them.”

I hit all the right notes. Tears are pooling at the base of Susie’s eyes. And JK’s face is flushed. They exchange warm looks. The sincerity of it all curbs the weirdness that has been muscling through the room since I stepped in. I steal a glance at Joan. She’s still in greetings-people-of-Earth mode.

Oh shit. She looked right at me. I must be smiling because she is trying to do the same now, but hers is crooked.

Clearly, this android is last year’s model.

Temptation is high tonight. I want to call Grant. All it would take is an easy tap on his little photo—the one I took of him sleeping in my bed—and it’d be ringing. He would answer too. But I can’t call him. He needs the space. And honestly, I want to talk about me, not him or the progress of his mental state. I want to tell him about Susie’s good-bye party. It was maudlin and tacky, but he always liked Susie Davis-Wright and especially my renditions of her wild Did I ever tell you about the time stories, complete with a spot-on impression of her delicate, lady-baby voice. He’d want to know that she escaped the nuthouse. Though I probably should stay away from talk of cuckoo’s nests.

Mainly, I want to tell him about the Robot, with her tacky pinstripe man-suits she seems to fancy and those loose braids and nonexistent hairline. And I want to laugh at her, with him. I want him to help me plot out exactly how to destroy her, before she does me. I want us to come up with vile rumors—just egregious shit—to spread about her. Grant would be so game for all of it. His mastery of subversive passive-aggression and other dark arts have left me in awe of him countless times. But before we could even get to all the Robot fun, we’d have to trudge through the other woolly parts, the part about him getting better, about when he thinks he might come back to New York. We’d have to get through the us part, which would end up being a wrestling match, with Grant left bloodied and further bruised.

After the accident, I saw a family therapist here and there. Dr. Monfries was able to ferret through all my shit, through my anguish, and string together a theory. He said it was a pattern, my behavior—a glaring one. He even had some heavy, hyphenated word for it, though I never committed it to memory. Knowing what to call it didn’t matter much then anyway. It wasn’t quite manic, he said, and calling it a phase or acting out was dismissive. After the tragic disconnect (also Dr. M’s words), I’d have these desperate moments—urges, really—where I wanted and needed to be physically close to someone, preferably a stranger and male—any category, color or creed. It wasn’t always about sex. Sometimes it meant sitting close, like creepy-close to some man on the Metro or practically pressing myself up on him in an already-crammed elevator. The men never objected, but I knew how to pick them.

The sick and damaged part of this pattern came in when, on a dime, the thirst would vanish and all I wanted was to be left alone. That hardcore, don’t-touch-me-or-I’ll-scream level of left alone. I didn’t even want to overhear someone else breathing near me. And these men, poor pawns, would be so confused, so frightened and unsure of what to do with me, this spiraling girl now pushing them away with all the force she could gather. And by force, I mean I’ve slapped many faces, punched chests, scratched and kicked and pummeled wild and blind, a dervish of heartbroken, angry energy.

This pattern started a few weeks after the funerals and ended rather abruptly when I decided to move to New York. Dr. Monfries said it had a lot to do with my making a decision for change. I didn’t care why it ended. I was just relieved that it did.

None of it matters anyway. Grant probably had to turn over his cell phone weeks ago, and I’m damn sure not calling his uncle’s landline. This week has already squeezed my brain enough. I’m no glutton.

I should just go to Flavio’s showing. Fashion photographers are always a worthwhile distraction, and Kendra’s been talking about Flav’s big night for a solid month. Not going means having to endure her live-texting me the entire event—with her pretty pictures of all the pretty people. Flaking on this is not an option. If Kendra called the shots, I would be soaked in vodka or some other distilled beverage most nights. After everything with Grant, she made it her duty to keep me occupied and out of my low-lit living room. As she sees it, any evening I’m not stuck at the office working late (in super-stealth mode) on this honor killing, I need to be in some carved-out hole in the Meatpacking District with her, Flav and the fabulous bunch, a bar glass at my lips. But I don’t need that level of distraction. It’s wasted energy. I miss Grant—mostly in the middle of the night—but I’m not in danger of slipping under. I’ll survive. That’s what I do, apparently.

I’ve convinced myself that it’s somehow easier to not give Kendra the full truth. Sometimes it’s dumb stuff too, like telling her I’m still at the office instead of admitting that I just don’t want to go. But it’s the larger things, the lies of omission—those are the parts I feel shitty about. Kendra and I have been friends for five years, we speak or text at least fifteen times every day, but she doesn’t know about my brothers, about the accident—she thinks I’m this only child with a classic, small-town escape story. Kendra’s a born and bred New Yorker. When we first met at that coffee shop and she asked, “So what’s your story?” I had already tucked away my other life, that fractured life with two brothers and one vile night, its bitter residue streaked over everything. I had assumed a new existence. The previous five years were not just a blur; they had completely vaporized. Instead, I served up the cliché: I was just a blank page in a simple notebook, looking to make it in the Big Apple. The full truth is, Kendra really doesn’t know anything about me. She doesn’t know this despicable brute walking around as her best friend. And in my mind, it’s better that way.

The evil twin is going? Now I actually do have to come up with a good enough lure to get Tyson over here. Jesus. It all really does spin into a web.

I met Grant through Tyson. He was doing the makeup on Grant’s indie film. They got on well and Tyson said he knew we’d hit it off too. “I just like him for you, May,” Tyson said. Like him for you. As if he were a pair of shoes or shade of lipstick that works on me. Tyson always introduces me to the “chill ones.” Grant was definitely that.

When he swooped into Mo-Bay’s, late and winded, it was clear. Everything that Tyson had raved about was true. Grant was cool. He was funny and smart and fine as hell. That face, flawless. Radiant and expressive, beautiful and refined. There was this old-school mystique and glamour about him; it drew you in, compelled you, made you deeply curious to know more, it made you want to talk to him—and only him—the whole night. Oh, and of course, he’s Canadian—Vancouver—which is why Tyson said he’d bet his Beyoncé tickets that we’d click in the first place. And we did.

Tyson described him to me, down to the tiniest detail, weeks before our meet-cute at the restaurant.

“I’m going to say this, May,”—Tyson Turner likes to call his women friends May, or Sally May if they’re over forty—“and you need to hear me: Grant King’s skin is organic maple butter for the gods.”

Tyson also likes to lead with the quality of a person’s skin.

“Not a blemish, not a scratch. Then there’s that body: lean and cut-up like the best steak. I’m talking Kobe beef, honey. And you didn’t hear this from me, but homeboy is packing serious pipe too. That’s what those lesser bitches in wardrobe keep telling me, like I can do something about it.”

His body was pretty impressive; that’s true. And I’m not even into all that stuff. Make me laugh, don’t have back hair, smell freshly showered most days, and know the difference between it’s and its—listen, you’re halfway there with me, mister. The fit body-muscle thing was never make-or-break in my books. I’ve slept with the fatty, as well as the scrawny, the shorty, and the black Hulk before. Interchangeable, all of them. The short guy edges out by a nose, though, because he really puts his all into it, and does the most with the least. But then sex was never really high on my list of things. After a few close calls, my actual first time was in college, and it was gross. Not the bloody, fumbling, dispiriting part. I’m talking solely about the guy here—I’ll call him Darren, because his name was Darren. Darren Andre Wilson. He was one of six guys in my Women in Media class, and the only black one. Darren was earnest and he took his time trying to get in my pants. He liked me; I knew that for a fact, and it was the reason I enlisted him in Project Virginity-free. I needed to get it over with, and he was cute and kind and uncomplicated.

The actual moment I became a woman was decent enough. Darren wasn’t a jerk or incompetent. Where he really fucked up, though, was the narrow shit stain that he left on my sheets. I didn’t see it until I was about to crawl back in the bed after walking Darren partway down my dorm hallway. It must have been three in the morning when—whammo—skid mark staring me in the face. I dashed those soft, unsuspecting yellow gingham sheets in the garbage at the other end of the hall that instant, and slept on two bunched-up duvets on the floor next to my bed for the rest of the month. Couldn’t shake the smear. Darren dropped the class posthaste. Maybe it was the back-to-back Ds he got on his term papers. Maybe it was the nickname that started trailing him: Shitty Sheets. (What? I told one person.)

With Grant, things got going early—as in, that first night after we stumbled out of Mo-Bay’s. I didn’t even have much to drink that night. Neither did he. We were talking and laughing about everything as we walked, aimless. How much we missed ketchup chips and Harvey’s fries and Vachon pastries—Passion Flakie for me and for him, a tie between Jos Louis and Swiss Rolls. This wasn’t an accurate tie, I insisted, since the latter in his snack-cake list was basically a smaller, rolled-up version of the former. He told me about his enduring goal to bring Major League baller Fergie Jenkins’s autobiography to the big screen, and that when his wallet was jacked last year, he was in a near-dissociative state of panic wholly because his commemorative Fergie Jenkins stamp was in it. And I told him about my enduring crush on Michael J. Fox as well as my categorical reasons why Canada Post needs to hurry up and honor the man with a stamp too. Grant bet me that he could get a cab to stop for us extra-fast if he sidled up next to the dumpy blond woman standing on the corner nearby. He was right.

We slid into the car, across the warmed seats, sitting close enough that our heads gently knocked together a couple of times as we skimmed potholes. Then, while we were heading over the Brooklyn Bridge, it started. Hands and lips and gropes everywhere. By the time we got to my floor, we were on the floor, then the couch, on the counter, up against the fridge, bottom of the bed, in the shower. It was hot and sweaty and good. He stayed over. (Not my style.) I called in sick. (Also not my style.) We made breakfast together early that next morning and ate it sitting tucked beneath a pillow fort he made on the living-room floor. We lay there, tangled up like vines, and watched old game shows for hours. It felt good with Grant then. It felt normal. But it was never going to work. I’m not built for that.

When he called me the next week I was a little surprised. I was sure that he had only put my number in his phone because his Canadian insides would not allow him to treat me like some throwaway hookup. Appearances.

“Hey. It’s Grant.”

“Hey.”

“I know. I didn’t wait the customary—what?—ten days before calling, but I want to see you again. So, I’m calling today.”

I smiled, but slid the phone speaker away from my mouth. He’s an actor. They’re trained to pick up on even the slightest nuance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Do you want to come hang out?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. We’re doing this, we’re playing that game?”

“Not a game. I don’t know what you’re going to propose; I’m maintaining a holding pattern. Can’t fault a girl. You Hollywood types are freaky.”

“Right. There’s always the creep factor to consider. I get it. Me being a Hollywood type and everything, it’s probably not going to help with what I’m about to propose. I mean, it’s kind of far-out.”

“Why, are you about to propose propose?”

“Yo. Not that far-out. But it does involve a hotel.”

“A hotel.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a long story and it’s boring. Studio shit. Courtship for contract re-ups. My agent, Shawna, only told me about it two hours . . .