by Stacey Kade
I sit next to her before he tries it. I wouldn’t put it past him. The man is shameless when it comes to women younger than he is. My mother is just turning fifty this year, and each of his wives has been progressively younger. Hayley, the most recent one—and the current one, I think—is only twenty-six or twenty-seven. The path from second assistant to first assistant to wife is a well-worn one in the Rawley Stone Production offices.
The fact that Katie is engaged to me wouldn’t stop him either. My father has no compunction about being the living embodiment of a Hollywood cliché.
“I see you’re up to your old tricks again, Eric,” he says, jerking his chin at my face as he settles across the table from us. “To whom do I need to write a check this time?”
Next to me, Katie shifts uncomfortably, giving a polite laugh.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I say.
“Oh, calm down. I’m teasing.” He inclines his head toward Katie. “Eric never did have much of a sense of humor,” he says to her in a mock-whisper. “Always so sensitive.”
Yeah, because it’s funny to joke about paying to get me out of trouble when that’s actually happened and I’m working hard to make sure it never happens again. It is simultaneously insulting and revisionist history—he cut me off after the accident, anyway.
“I think Eric is very funny,” Katie says.
Oh, God. Don’t, Katie. I try to send the thought to her, but she is far too used to functional families; the silent message passes right over her head as she beams at me with a bright smile.
“You do, do you?” he asks Katie, full of amused condescension. He points his finger at me. “Better not let her get away. She might truly be one in a million. A billion.” He chortles at his own joke.
“Dad.”
“All right, all right.” He waves his hand at me. “I’ll stop. I’ve ordered a bottle of—”
“Water is fine,” I say.
He arches his eyebrows. “I knew you’d cleaned up your act. Hadn’t realized you decided to give up good taste as well.”
With effort, I keep my mouth shut. Because this is the game. Criticize me for being too excessive, and then critique my efforts to curb my habits. There is no way to win.
Beneath the table, Katie finds my hand and squeezes. “Well, it sounds lovely to me,” she chirps. I understand what she’s doing and why, but it still bugs me because even in this, he’s winning. He’s pulling her into this mess, forcing her to smooth edges that I don’t want smoothed.
“So, tell me about the wedding plans,” he says to Katie.
The two of them chat throughout the appetizer and salad courses about the location (Dad offers up the mansion for the ceremony even though we’ve already reserved a church), photographers (Dad knows just the guy), and reception food choice (you always need a good vegetarian option, according to my father).
“You are the wedding expert,” I mutter, as our main course is delivered.
“Eric!” Katie stares at me, aghast.
“It’s fine,” my dad says. “He’s quite right. I do have a lot of experience with weddings. Still working on getting the marriage part right.” He gives her a charming smile, one that I recognize as similar to those in my arsenal.
I can’t help studying him, wondering what he’s up to. I would like to believe what Katie said, that enough time has passed and we’ve both changed to the point where a friendly—or at least, neutral—meal is possible. But …
He clears his throat as soon as the server takes our dessert order. “It sounds like everything is well in-hand, Katherine.”
I wait for her to correct him—her name is not actually Katherine, but Katie.
She just smiles at him. “Thank you!”
“And Eric, I wanted to congratulate you on your new endeavors,” he says.
I stiffen, waiting for the hidden sting, the slap that follows the caress.
“Your little project is generating a lot of interest.”
Little project. I grit my teeth. Technically, yes, it is little, I remind myself. Small budget, web only. He’s not wrong. It’s just that he’s so condescendingly right. “Thank you,” I manage. I will not let him say I’m not at least trying to get along.
“I was teasing you about your taste before, but obviously, you haven’t lost it when it comes to work. Or women,” he adds with a wink, tipping his glass, salute-like, toward Katie.
I roll my eyes.
But Katie laughs.
“I knew my DNA would show through eventually,” he says.
Of course it’s all due to him. In truth, as much as I hate to admit it, some of it probably is. Not thanks to DNA, but the years he let me tag along to work and learn just by being there.
More like training by osmosis, rather than anything deliberate, but he won’t miss the opportunity to try to take credit.
I don’t have a response to that that isn’t shouting or walking out—neither of which would go over well with the woman sitting next to me—so I clamp my mouth shut.
“And speaking of DNA, I wanted to make you an offer.”
“Two tests for the price of one? Oh, come on, Dad, wasn’t this issue resolved a long time ago? You just said so yourself.” It feels good to let loose, just a little, to demonstrate the sharp edges of my tongue. Now that talent, I definitely inherited.
Next to me, Katie gives a strangled gasp.
My father barks out a forced laugh. “Always a wit, aren’t you, Eric?”
“Always,” I say with a tight smile.
“Fine, smartass,” he says, putting down his wineglass. “Here it is: I want you to come work for me.”
My mouth falls open. “I … you what?”
He smirks, another expression familiar from the mirror. “I want you to come work at RSP.” He holds his hand up as if staving off my protests. “You’ll have your own division. You can work on all this digital, web-only stuff. That is obviously the direction the world is heading.” A faint hint of distaste colors his tone. My dad is old school. Always television. Always network television. He started as a writer and worked his way up, the “traditional way, the right way.” It’s a speech I’ve heard countless times growing up, usually followed by the refrain, “You have no idea what hard work is, what it means to actually commit.”
“Think of the additional resources available to you,” my dad adds. “We have much deeper pockets. You’ll be able to explore a variety of projects and much faster. You can even keep the name, if you want.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’ll just have a tag naming it as a division of RSP.”
Eric Stone Productions is not a fancy name for a company and not particularly original—though I loved the logo, a rabbit’s ears just poking out of a flipped-up top hat—but it is mine. I didn’t want to go that route at first, but the truth is, if I’m going to try to capitalize on the whole Starlight connection at first, it only makes sense for people to know that it’s me behind the curtain. Success or failure.
Katie makes an interested noise and loops her arm through mine, pulling me toward her slightly. “If you really want to do this, Eric, that could help,” she says to me quietly, but not quietly enough. She’s saying “if” like we’re not a day away from filming. Like this business and my attempt to participate in it in a new way is a quirk I need to work through, and the sooner, the better.
“Why?” I ask my dad. I feel as if I’m being sold a pitch, and not just an innocent “if you’re interested” kind of deal.
“Why would I want to work with my son?” My dad asks this like it’s the most ludicrous question anyone could possibly conceive of.
“No,” I say, trying for patience. “Why would you want to work with the son you obviously disapprove of and went to great lengths to remove from your life—”
“I wasn’t trying to remove you from my life, I was trying to give you incentive to straighten up and fly right,” he says, his voice rising. “And may I point out that it worked?”
I stare at him.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s a generous offer, but I think maybe it’s something that he needs time to consider, Mr. Stone,” Katie interjects, squeezing my hand.
I shake loose, irritated. Katie, stop trying to fix things. This can’t be fixed.
“Please, Katherine, call me Rawley,” he says, but his tone is flat now.
Because I’ve caught him. I’m onto something.
It only takes me a few more seconds to latch onto what it is. I should have seen it immediately.
“What about Fly Girl?” I ask.
“What about it?” he responds.
Not good.
“What would happen to it? Production starts tomorrow,” I say.
“RSP will comp you for costs. Reimburse your investors.” He waves a hand dismissively.
“You want me to just cancel it?” I ask. “No way. Forget it. It’s taken way too much to get here.” And now that I’ve stepped out on this particular limb, I find myself reluctant to retreat to the safety of the trunk, particularly if the trunk is my dad in this metaphor.
It feels like failure, but even worse, failure without really trying.
But deep inside, there is a tiny part of me that wants to consider the possibility. I wouldn’t have to take the risk of falling flat on my face, of being that pathetic rich kid who thinks he’s actually talented when it’s just the power of his father behind any success he might have.
My dad makes an impatient noise. “Of course not. It would just be delayed.”
I wait because I can sense the shadow of the other shoe hanging above me, about to drop.
He sighs. “Eric, you know it’s a project far more suited to television. If RSP takes it on instead, imagine the scope. Think about what could be done with it.”
Not “what you could do with it” but “what could be done.” As in, absent me.
“And there it is,” I mutter. The tread of that hypothetical shoe is now pressing hard into my neck.
I lean against the padded booth back. Because if he rolls my company into his, my projects would go with it. It’s not about working for him or even his belief about the future of storytelling. Fly Girl would become his.
He ignores me. “You’ve done great work with the scripts, but think what it would be like with forty-two minutes of space instead of six?”
“Ten,” I say.
“You’d still get credit for development. We’ll list you as an EP. But the show will be glossier, more high-end.”
Translation: the exact opposite of the spirit of the book and the scripts as they are now. He means exposed flesh, spandex outfits, and fight scenes where people are thrown through walls. Because that’s the Rawley Stone trademark—hot, sexy action.
Fly Girl is a small production because it’s meant to be small. It’s a story about identity and love. Not tights and revenge sex. But Rawley’s version would probably sell and sell well. The dichotomy sits uneasily with me. And I hate myself for even considering the possibility. But the truth is, it would be helpful to have a success in the bag early on. If only it didn’t feel like I was selling my soul in this life and the next to get it.
“Of course we’d have to recast the leads with—”
“No.” The word is out of my mouth before I’ve even had time to realize I’m considering speaking. It feels almost like someone else said it.
“Oh, I know you’re attached to that troubled girl and her ridiculous mother, but do you honestly think anyone can see her as—”
I don’t bother to repeat myself; I put my napkin on the table and stand up. There are certain lines I won’t, can’t, cross. And okay, yeah, sometimes those lines aren’t quite as set in stone as I’d like them to be—no pun intended. But after everything I’ve done to Calista, dragging her here, only to have my father recast her role? That’s not going to happen. “We’re leaving now.”
Katie looks up at me, wide-eyed. Then she scoots out after me. “It was nice to meet you,” she murmurs to my father.
“Eric, damnit, don’t be stubborn,” he snaps. “You’re too personally involved, that’s never smart. You can’t see what you’re doing.”
“Uh-huh.” I step back to wait for Katie to stand and walk out in front of me. Miss Claud raised me right. “You know me, Dad, stubborn and stupid. Oh, and let’s not forget reckless. I’m not sure why you’re surprised.” I bare my teeth in a grin. Fury pumps through my veins. I can’t believe I let myself think for even a fraction of a second that this dinner was legit. I was right all along.
“You’re going to embarrass yourself,” my father says, tossing his napkin on the table and standing just as the server approaches with our desserts.
The server reads the tension and backs off.
“I’m trying to save you from that, Son, just like always,” Rawley says, sounding weary and put upon, just like an exasperated, caring father. Perhaps it’s not his writing and producing skills that should have won him such acclaim but his acting instead. This isn’t about me, this is about him. He thinks I’m going to swing and miss, and the humiliation will be visited on him.
Fuck him.
“I’m not sure why I bother anymore,” he says, shaking his head, more for Katie’s benefit than mine.
I shrug as I turn away. “Honestly? Me neither.”
11
CALISTA
It is shockingly easy to become an addict. Probably because no one, including me, ever sets out to end up that way. The addicts are always someone else. That stranger curled up and shaking on the street, the uncle with the bottle stashed in his favorite chair, the former celebrity who stumbles into the wrong house, thinking it’s his. It’s never you.
Everyone always thinks they’re in control … until they’re not. When I was in rehab, that was the common theme, especially among the first-timers.
With me, I never even considered the possibility that I was heading down a dangerous road. I wasn’t drinking to excess like Chase, or like my uncle Chris, my mother’s brother, who ended up drowning in his backyard pool. And it wasn’t like I was seeking out dealers on the street. At least not at first.
I didn’t have a problem. I was taking a doctor-assigned prescription. Yeah, maybe I was taking an extra pill or three to keep the pain at bay, but no big deal. They always write the instructions conservatively, so you don’t accidentally overdose. At least, that’s what I told myself when I was digging through my bag, frantic to find an Oxy that might have spilled out and caught in the folds of the lining.
It spirals so damn quickly.
One minute you’re trying to figure out how to talk the doctor into giving you another refill or buying pills online, and the next some shady guy at a party tells you he knows someone who can get you what you need. And you find yourself in a dim corner somewhere buying freaking heroin, because this shady guy and his friend promise that it’s better than Oxy, takes away the pain for longer. And it’s certainly cheaper.
I was lucky. Relatively. I was busted early by an undercover officer, only the third or fourth time I bought heroin on my own and before I emptied out my entire bank account in pursuit of getting high.
But it took me some time to see getting caught then as good fortune instead of bad. In the moment, it felt like I was still in control, still with plenty of room between me and the bottom. I wasn’t even shooting up yet.
And the moment I heard myself say those words aloud in rehab, in defense of my habit, it felt like I was falling down an endless tunnel, like Alice in Wonderland, my head where my feet should be, the world unrecognizable. I certainly didn’t recognize myself in that moment. Like it would have been okay, more acceptable, if I’d been caught with a needle in hand? Then I would have known I was in trouble? Because snorting it, yeah, that was so much more acceptable.
The truth was I’d been in trouble long before that moment, and if I hadn’t figured that out by then, odds were that I wouldn’t have seen it later, either.
“Arms out,” my mother instructs,
body-fat calipers in hand.
In my former bedroom, now Zinnia’s, I stand in the center of the room, wearing only a bra and boy shorts. The routine is as familiar to me as standing against the doorframe to have your height penciled in probably is to other kids.
Though, generally, I bet those other parents stopped measuring their children before the age of twenty-three.
We have to have a fresh baseline, Calista.
That’s what Mom had said at dinner, during which the five of us—Lori, my sisters and I—ate meager salads: one cup of greens, a sliver of chicken breast smaller than my thumb, and no dressing. I’m pretty sure if she even knew I was thinking about croutons—like the crispy garlic-flavored ones I used to have from the Blake campus salad bar—her head would have exploded. There is no bread in this house. Except for the warmed dinner roll on Wade’s plate. He got a petite filet, baked potato and a roll. The salad was just his appetizer.
My stomach growls at the thought of real food, and my mother glares at me, waggling the calipers in my direction. “That’s the sugar! Your body is craving it.”
But for the moment, the calipers are secondary. As is my apparent need for a sugar fix.
She examines my arms. And then my legs, between my toes, checking for track marks. She is more concerned about my other addiction. And that’s something else you learn in rehab: You will always be an addict, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve felt that warm rush of not caring, courtesy of whatever opioid you can get your hands on, flowing through your veins.
“I told you I’m sober. Clean. And you know I never used needles,” I say, trying to bite back the frustration. Of all the things to be grateful for, my pathological fear of shots, leftover from childhood, had saved me from myself. For now, at least.
Lori shakes her head. “They said if you relapsed, you’d probably fall farther, faster.” She pauses at the sight of the surgical scars on my right arm. She makes a small dismayed sound. “You’ve been using the scar cream, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” The scars have faded, but they, like that craving for chemical relief, will always be a part of me. “Good thing Evie doesn’t have a swimsuit scene.”
