by Stacey Kade
“Uh-huh,” she says, sounding unconvinced.
And she’s right to be skeptical. Everything I said was the truth. It’s just only a fraction of the emotional devastation from that night.
I should have known from the second I walked out of my condo that night, dressed to kill, that it was all going to go wrong.
Chase, who’d come to pick me up, got out of the car, his mouth hanging open for a second in shock, before he managed to whistle. “Whose mind are you trying to blow tonight?”
I grinned at him. “All of them?” The gold mini-dress was slinky and smooth, making me feel slinky and smooth. The hem ended a good seven inches above my knee and my heels made my legs look even longer.
When I climbed into Chase’s car, oh-so-carefully because in that short of a dress, flashing happens as easily as breathing, he just shook his head at me.
“Poor Eric,” he muttered.
“This is not about him,” I said quickly, face heating. And it wasn’t. This was about me feeling good about myself. That being said, if he decided to weep with envy for his poor choices upon seeing me, I was fine with that.
The party was already well under way by the time we arrived, the valets scrambling to keep up with the arriving cars. Despite having attended plenty of parties in the last year, this one triggered a wave of nerves. Because it was Eric. Because he was here. Because I wanted, at the very least, for him to see me and recognize that I wasn’t a kid anymore.
And I got what I wanted; it just didn’t work out quite like I planned. But that’s the past—ancient history, in fact—and it’s not worth dwelling on. Not anymore.
“All right, let’s pick up at the top of the scene,” Eric calls out, his voice echoing. I can hear the uncertainty beneath the hardened edge of determination, but I’m hoping no one else can. “We’ll finish this out and wrap for the day.”
Next to me, Jude smiles in approval. I knew I liked her.
For a second, everyone goes still. “Where’s Vincent?” someone asks.
I dart forward, leaving Jude behind. “Back to my first mark?” I ask, which is dumb. Because I only have one, given that I’m on the freaking floor the whole time. But it’s the only question that springs to mind, and it, at least, does the job of deferring to him as the person in charge.
Eric gives me a curt nod. “Vincent quit,” he says, raising his voice so everyone can hear him. “I’m taking over for now.”
As I settle into place on the floor—the makeup person, Josie, rushing forward to dab me with powder—everyone else slowly returns to their marks. Sure, they’re whispering and sending sidelong glances toward Eric, who is behind the monitors, but they’re doing what they’re supposed to do.
Eric takes his place at his first mark and nods at the cameraman. “Everybody ready?” Eric shouts.
He gets a variety of positive responses, including a couple of whoops and a few thumbs up.
“All right.” Eric takes a deep breath. “Action!”
* * *
“Long day, sweet pea?” Wade asks when I collapse into the front seat of his old Lincoln hours later, after we’ve finally wrapped.
“Yeah.” It took a little longer with Eric finding his way—and with taking a longer lunch break, thanks to Jude regaling everyone with tales about her early days in television—but once we got a rhythm going, it was a lot easier without Vincent screaming at us.
Wade makes a noncommittal sound of agreement or sympathy as he pulls onto the road. “Well, your mom has something special planned in celebration.”
Suddenly my exhaustion fades, replaced by a spike of fear. “Special how? What does that mean? Celebrating what?”
He just smiles at me. “I don’t know all the details. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Normally, I would have spent the hour-long commute home reviewing my lines for tomorrow—we’re shooting in an empty condo in Eric’s building, apparently, one that will serve as Evie’s home—or even dozing because long shooting days are exhausting, which I’d kind of forgotten, but now, all I can do is spin through various scenarios that would qualify as good news in my mother’s mind. About half of them flat out suck by my standards.
Trying to push Wade for more information is pointless, so I check my phone again. No panicked messages from Zinn, who would likely be the first one to throw a red flag.
I text her. What’s going on?
But there’s no response.
When we pull into the driveway a very long eighty-three minutes later—thank you effing traffic—I’m a bundle of nerves.
The house looks the same from the outside. The Realtor’s sign is still there, and no “SOLD” banner has been added, thank God. I don’t see any strange cars parked nearby, and only the normal number of lights are on. So it’s not like that time when I was ten and she tried to host a party for casting agents and “Hollywood insiders,” whatever that means, and only the really sleazy types showed up.
Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I follow Wade into the house through the side door.
The scent of garlic is heavy in the air, and it makes my mouth water instantly.
That is the unmistakable smell of her famous lasagna, which means either someone landed a job or someone died. But since I’m already working, and my grandparents are both gone, I’m not sure how to interpret this gesture.
“You’re home! Welcome back!” my mom says as soon as we enter the kitchen. She rushes over to me and squeezes me tight, and it’s as if the argument in my room yesterday never happened.
“We have the best news,” she says, and it’s only then that I see Zinnia standing in the back of the room toward the pantry, her arms folded over her middle. Bruises stand out in violent greens and yellows on her elbows; she has no padding to protect herself when she knocks into things.
“Tell them, Zinnia!” Lori commands.
“I got a callback on the daughter role for the show about the woman who is the head of the Secret Service,” she says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“I’m telling you the audition was a total cattle call. Thousands of girls,” Mom says in disgust, waving her hand dismissively. “But they knew quality when they saw it and chose our Zinn!”
“Congratulations, Zinnia,” I make myself say.
She nods, and I’ve never seen anyone look more miserable at the prospect of possible success.
Wade squeezes her shoulders as he passes in her direction. “So happy for you, baby.” Then he wanders out into the hall, and a few seconds later, I hear the TV in the great room click on to ESPN.
“Now, Zinnia, I’ll have your smoothie ready in a minute. Dahlia, Poppy, let’s go! Salads are on the table.” Along with the smallest micro-slivers of lasagna. For them, not Zinnia.
Ah, yes, I remember this part of the celebration particularly well. Wade would eat what he could, but most of it would go to waste because the food prepared in honor of your accomplishment is not something you’re actually allowed to eat.
When I was kid, I never thought to question it. But now?
“Mom, Zinn can have some lasagna. She needs the calories,” I say, as Poppy and Dahlia take their seats at the table. “She looks like she’s about to dry up and blow away.”
Poppy glances up from her book, watching warily, and Zinn shoots me an alarmed look, shaking her head at me. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” Zinn says quickly, and it breaks my heart. How did I miss this happening under my nose?
Well, maybe because I wasn’t living here, and then when I was, I was more concerned with my own problems.
Lori tsks at me as she pulls the tray of garlic knots from the oven and puts it on the stovetop, next to the glass pan of lasagna. “Bite your tongue, Calista Rae. Zinnia has just the physique they’re looking for, obviously. We’re not taking any chances between now and next week.”
“If I’m working, why does she need to?” I ask, fearing I already know the answer.
“I want to work, Mommy,” Dahlia chirp
s, tilting her head to the side and batting her eyelashes.
“You are, baby,” Lori says, turning away from the oven to run her fingers over Dahlia’s curls. “And you’re doing such a good job!” Dahlia preens under the attention. It seems possible that she is one-hundred percent Lori’s creation. An immaculate conception.
Mom turns away from Dahlia to give me a disapproving glance. “See, Dahlia understands.”
“She’s six, Lori.”
“You’re not having any lasagna either. I’ll make a smoothie for you, too. We can’t risk undoing any of the hard work Tim’s managed to accomplish.”
Seriously?
I step around Lori, grabbing a plate from the stack next to the stove and then a spatula from the drawer. With less care than necessary, I carve out a sloppy hunk of steaming lasagna.
“Calista!” My mom sounds horrified. “Stop!”
“Did I tell you I got an A on my Biology test this week, Mom?” Poppy asks loudly, trying desperately to either break the tension or shift the attention to herself. Poor Poppy. If anyone has to be wondering if they’re adopted, it’s her. But I appreciate the attempt to help, if that’s what it is.
“That’s great, Pops,” I say. I slap the lasagna onto the plate. It’s too hot and all the layers slide apart, but I don’t care. As I grab a fork from the drawer, I catch a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye and look up in time to see Zinnia vanishing from the kitchen.
Lori grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”
“I’m eating,” I say, pulling away and plopping down at my seat across from Poppy. And Zinnia would eat, too. I’d make sure of it.
“I thought we were past this, Calista,” Lori says, her voice frosty. “This is selfish and thoughtless behavior. Your career is not just yours. You know that.”
But that’s not going to work on me tonight. To make that point, I cut a bite away from the enormous piece of lasagna. A puff of steam rises up from the slice; I can’t afford to be mumbling my lines tomorrow with a burned tongue, even to prove my point to Lori, so I put my fork down. For the moment. “Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask. “Lecture me about selfish behavior? Why didn’t you tell the truth about what’s happening with Wade?”
I sense more than see her sudden stillness behind me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says primly.
But then she addresses my sisters. “Poppy and Dahlia, take your plates out to the living room with Daddy. Tell him I said you could watch the Disney channel for research.”
That’s all it takes for Dahlia to scramble down from her chair, but Poppy is slower to follow.
Behind those thick lenses, her gaze darts to me, and I nod. She’s a good kid.
“Make sure you study their delivery,” Lori calls after them.
“He wasn’t ever a CEO, the money wasn’t from his company,” I say as soon as we’re alone. “Not unless you count some kind of disability claim.” Even saying the words out loud now feels surreal, like the familiar world is tilting to a new angle beneath my feet. Our financial position is not what I thought it was, hasn’t been, for literally years.
But that money had to come from somewhere, and I’m afraid I know exactly where.
“Oh, Calista, you always were such a stickler for details,” Lori says with exasperation. “You of all people know that sometimes rough edges need to be … smoothed over.”
“By lying? To me?” I demand. She doesn’t respond. “What’s happening with the house, Mom?”
“I told you, it’s time for us to—”
I twist around in my chair to face her. “How long until the bank kicks us out?” I ask, surprised at how calmly the words emerge when my insides are hot and roiling with barely contained fury.
She spins away from the stove, grabbing my shoulders hard and shaking me. “Stop,” she spits at me. “You’re not going to ruin your sister’s celebration dinner with all this negativity.”
I jerk away from her, wincing at the dull ache in my right arm. “How is this negativity when it’s just the truth?”
“I have a plan, Calista. This is none of your business,” she says, with a haughty tilt to her head. “I’m handling it.” She picks up the tray of garlic knots and begins transferring them to a basket.
“None of my business?” I stare at her in disbelief. “If it’s my money and my career that are funding this desperate hope for financial redemption, then it is definitely my business.”
“The judge gave me control over your money—”
“That’s over,” I point out.
“And besides, you’re not the only earner now,” she says. “Zinn—”
“Is a kid and has no desire to do this, except that she feels like she has to,” I say. “Because of you.”
She holds her hands up. “I’m not discussing this with you, Calista. Not until you can show me the respect I deserve.” She storms out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear her bedroom door slam. Tomorrow would probably be another migraine day.
I slump in my chair, mind spinning to catch up.
My whole life, Lori’s made me feel guilty for my existence, for trying to have any control over my life. When I messed up—and granted, I messed up big—she ranted for weeks in martyred tones about my selfishness in firing her, how I should have known better, how I couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions and here was more proof … drugs, addiction, arrested! And I believed her, that I couldn’t and shouldn’t be in charge of myself.
But now it seems like maybe she hasn’t done much better, despite her supposed expertise. All of their money—and I suspect some of mine—went to maintaining this house, this lifestyle, thanks to Lori’s philosophy of living the life you believe you should have instead of the one you can afford. What kind of planning is that?
I’m not denying that I made mistakes. Clearly. But maybe Eric is right, and some of those mistakes were because I was on my own for the first time, with little to no experience in that arena. Mistakes happen the first time you do anything, particularly if you’re a sheltered eighteen-year-old without any real idea of consequences. Because up until that point, my mom was always there to guide, steer, control. But surrendering that control to her again isn’t going to fix anything.
We’re past that point. I am past that point.
Lack of experience doesn’t have to equal perpetual failure, no matter how much my mother would prefer that to be the case. It’s just a learning curve to be conquered.
The only question is where to start. How do you take back something you never really had in the first place? It feels overwhelming. I can’t just storm out. I can’t leave my sisters like that. Banks don’t foreclose for the fun of it. My family will be out of a place to live, likely soon. Maybe that’s not my responsibility, but I’m not sure I can stand by and watch that happen to Zinnia, Poppy and Dahlia.
I remember what it was like to be poor and scared. To worry about making enough for Lori to pay the rent and keep the lights on. She used to try to make it fun: eating by candlelight and playing Hide and Seek—but mostly Hide—when the landlord came knocking. And when I was young, it was fun because I didn’t get what was really happening. But I don’t want that for my sisters, who are old enough to figure it out—especially Zinnia and Poppy.
I don’t understand what happened to the Lori who used to buy me a Coke—not even diet—with the change from the cup holder and drive me through the expensive houses in the Hollywood Hills to pick “ours.” She would talk about all the wonderful things we were going to see and do and buy as soon as the next check came in. I miss that version of my mom, even for as difficult as our lives were back then. We were in it together.
The woman who comes after me with calipers, harps about my weight and my choices, and reminds me of my worst mistakes to keep me in line—I don’t know who she is.
Maybe it’s time I stop looking for the old Lori, the one I haven’t seen since before Starlight, and start looking at the one who’s her
e now.
I pick up my fork with the bite of lasagna on the end of it. The pasta and cheese have cooled enough, it seems, not to burn my mouth. So I eat it, even though Lori isn’t here to see my defiance. Because my defiance isn’t about her, or it shouldn’t be. It’s about me—that’s maybe the first thing, recognizing that.
So, baby steps, then. One thing at a time. That, I’m pretty sure, I can do.
14
ERIC
You’re good enough.
I’m in my “home office” at my condo—basically an empty bedroom—with script pages for tomorrow spread out all over the desk’s otherwise-pristine glass surface. I haven’t used it for much until this last year. I’m not using it for much now, either. Calista’s words from earlier today are playing over and over in my head, destroying my concentration. It’s only the second time someone has ever said that to me—and both times it was Calista. Today, under slightly better circumstances than the previous.
I’ve wondered how much of that night Calista actually remembers. Plenty, apparently. It was probably wishful thinking on my part that she would somehow forget that moment. I’m not sure why that particular portion of the evening is more excruciating than the rest—in terms of low points, there are much lower, even that same night—but that is the one that sticks with me.
I knew I was in trouble the second I saw her in that gold dress.
I didn’t clock her identity at first. I was riding a pleasantly warm chemical high, and my dad’s house was full of people. Her hair was mostly up, trailing just a few blond curls over one shoulder. Plus that dress … it barely reached the top of her thighs, bent over as she was at the pool table, lining up her shot. A few inches shorter and the dress would have been a shirt.
Not that I was complaining. A hot girl with legs for miles at my party, leaning over my pool table and handling her stick like a pro? Fine by me.
The soft curve of her inner thigh was easily visible, and I was already imagining my hand gliding along that smooth skin to the warmth between her legs, stroking, coercing that heat to grow hotter, wetter. Just for me.
