by Gigi Blume
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Lydia and tequila were a bad combo. Lydia and tequila plus Mexican night clubs were a recipe for disaster. I spent one Spring Break in Ensenada a few years back. The way some girls were going on, I felt a tinge of shame for all my fellow gringos. I could only imagine the kinds of conversations the bartenders shared with one another. Estupidos would be one of the milder descriptions used to describe the border-hopping party seekers.
“Just be careful,” I warned.
The noise Holly and Lydia made didn’t seem to bother Jane at all. I envied how she could sit at the kitchen table and type away on her laptop as if no one else were in the room. I couldn’t even make a sandwich without being annoyed by the Girls Gone Wild preview in my living room. Even the clicking of Jane’s fingers over her keyboard grated on my pounding headache. I decided to take my B.L.T. into my room and just shut everyone out.
“What are you doing?” Holly asked, glancing at Jane.
“Oh, just some creative writing.”
“My sister’s a writer,” said Lydia, sounding bored.
Jane looked up for the first time since I arrived. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Lydia shrugged as if Jane had said I didn’t know you had red shoes.
“Yeah.”
“How is it we’ve never met her?” asked Holly. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her.”
Lydia pulled a bikini top from the Trader Joe's bag she kept by the couch and put it on over her clothes.
“She doesn’t live in California,” she said, checking out her own boobs under the bikini top. “She’s got her own thing going on at Harvard.”
Harvard?
Everyone stared at her incredulously. She had a sister at Harvard? We all spoke with overlapping questions.
“You have a sister at Harvard?”
“How did we not know this?”
“Is she related to you?”
Lydia laughed. Her free, irreverent laugh that was so Lydia.
“Of course she’s related to me. She’s my sister.”
“One of you could be adopted,” I offered. Or somehow the smart gene ran out before it got to Lydia. I was just assuming her sister was older, here.
“Why would you think that?” she asked innocently.
I motioned up and down her body, still holding the mayo knife. She looked down over her body, which was clad only in emoji pajama shorts and a barely there cotton cami, covered by the recent addition of a bikini top. She flipped her head back up, the messy bun flopping on her head. “What?”
Holly, Jane, and I exchanged a look.
“Nothing,” I said, returning to my sandwich building.
“What kinds of things does your sister write?” asked Jane.
“Well,” answered Lydia with a sigh, “her dream is to write for SNL, but her stuff is too angsty. She sent me a video of her undergraduate program doing one of her plays, and it was weird. She said it was a think piece. I couldn’t make it through the second act.”
Of course, anything that required thinking turned Lydia off. In a way, I admired her for that. She just didn’t care enough to use her bandwidth on anything not related to fun. She was carefree. If an arrogant movie star had given her an earth-jolting kiss last night, she wouldn’t be dwelling on it like I was. She’d probably just laugh and brag about it on Snapchat.
I let the conversation between my three friends fade as I took my sandwich and potato chips into my room, shutting the chatter out of my ears so I could pay attention to the monologue in my head. Will Darcy kissed me last night. And I didn’t hate it. My lips tingled at the memory.
I should have hated it. I should have fled for the hills. But when his imposing form hovered over me, taking my head in his elegant hands, I let the nearness of him capture me, and I melted into the kiss. The ground reeled, taking my insides for a ride. I’d never been kissed like that. He was definitely an expert kisser. But it felt real. The way he cradled my head, running a thumb over my jawline. The way his breath hitched, and his entire body committed itself to mine. It felt real. But it couldn’t have been. I was there. He was there. And he wanted what he couldn’t have like a bratty kid on the playground. Hey Beth, how does it feel to be the toy du jour? Pretty crappy with a side of fist-bumping glee. My sensical side buttoned it up while my inner jezebel went for high fives. Traitors.
I sat on my bed eating my B.L.T. with the offending letter taunting me to finish reading it. I gave it my best mad dog stare down with each bite of bacon, lettuce, and tomato goodness. Each crunch of kettle chip crumbling under my teeth was an exclamation point.
I won’t read you. Crunch.
You’re nothing but junk mail. Crunch.
But the letter stared back at me like a mobster with a Brooklyn accent.
You lookin’ at me? You can’t handle the truth.
Me: Oh yeah?
Letter: Yeah.
I don’t know why I gave it a Brooklyn accent. It just seemed appropriate.
I set my empty plate on my side table and snatched the gangster letter in my fist. I could handle the truth. I totally could. They were words on a page. Nothing more. And after Will admitted his shameful participation in Bing and Jane’s breakup, those words were empty ramblings. I perused to where I had left off.
I stand by my decision to protect my friend.
Arrogant Herod.
Now for the other accusation you charged me with. A far more serious offense, if it were true. I don’t know how much Jorge told you about his history with my family, but I will try to give you a brief sketch. Jorge’s dad and my own father had a close working relationship. Greg Wickham was my godfather. Practically family. I remember when Jorge first came to live with him. His mother had died and all of a sudden, Greg had a son. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was happy to have another kid my age at Fourth of July picnics and pool parties. We’d hide and get into all sorts of mischief when we were young. Boy stuff. But then Greg died, and Jorge came to live with us. He became a brother I never had. I know that sounds lame, but that’s how I saw it. But there was always something off with him, like he wanted the world to feel sorry for him. So, he’d do stuff to get attention. At first, it was pretending to have a sore throat all the time or a belly ache. Then it turned into self-harm and petty theft. I get it. He didn’t have his parents. He was hurting. But my father did everything he could to make him feel welcome. When we grew up, Jorge became rebellious. He’d often leave for weeks at a time without telling anyone where he was going. I suspected drugs.
When my father passed away, Jorge inherited a small production house. None of us knew about it. It’s a long story, but basically, my stepmom took my dad for almost all his cash. No prenup. The production house was a fledgling project she didn't know about. It was all he could offer Jorge. But Jorge didn’t want it. Said it was an insult. He wanted money. So I made a deal with him. I bought the company with some of the earnings I had made from my first feature film. The rest of the money came from investors. Catherine De Bourgh is one of them. I paid Jorge a generous sum, and he took off. I didn’t see him for two years. But then he came back. Strapped for cash. Demanding more. He didn’t understand Dad lost everything in the divorce. He died penniless. The only thing he could leave for my sister and me was the house. Even that was in danger of foreclosing had I not had some success with my movies. The responsibility of caring for my home and my sister was left on my shoulders. I’m not complaining. I’d do it again. But I had nothing of my father’s left to offer Jorge.
I set the letter on my lap, trying to piece together Jorge’s story to compare it to Will’s. There were some parallels, but from completely polarizing points of view. Which one was an accurate depiction of the true facts? My head spun. I didn’t know what to think.
I was startled from my thoughts by the abrupt bang of my bedroom door. The thunderous entrance of Lydia and Holly flung it open. Had I forgotten to lock it?
&nbs
p; “Just borrowing a suitcase. Okay?” Lydia was already rummaging through my closet. Holly offered me a silly grin as if to say crazy Lydia and then ran to my dresser when she noticed my collection of Fan Pop dolls.
“You have the limited edition Elphaba doll?” she exclaimed. “Wicked. Ha! No pun intended.”
She laughed at her little quip, turning over the dolls to read the edition number on the bottom. I did have an impressive collection. Jane wandered in and sat on my bed, watching the girls go through my belongings. No biggie. The party was now in my room. Lucky me.
“Can I borrow your sequined mini skirt?” Lydia was going through my dresser now.
“That was a costume from my twelve year old tap recital,” I replied.
She just shrugged and continued to search my drawers. Holly helped her.
“What are you reading?” Jane nodded to the letter on my lap, which I snatched up and held to my chest, so she couldn’t take a peek.
“Nothing,” I said, so not sounding suspicious. “Just some notes I made for myself. Acting notes.”
Her eyes narrowed. She was on to me.
“Carry on,” she said. “Don’t let us interrupt you.”
She slid off my bed and knelt on the floor to help Lydia with the suitcase. The girls pulled globs of clothes from the black trash bag Lydia kept in the corner of my room, along with tattered boxes filled with Lord knows what. This was the sum of her existence. A couple of trash bags and some boxes. But she was fine with this arrangement for the time being.
While the girls busied themselves with the job of selecting what items to pile in the suitcase, the letter burned into my palms. What was the truth? I could handle the truth. I couldn’t resist the pull of it. My eyes instinctively drew themselves to the letters on the page. I wiggled onto my side to turn my back on my friends and continued to read in silence.
One day, I found Jorge ransacking the house. He’d shoved some items in boxes. I really didn’t know what he took exactly—some valuable stuff, I guess. Some of Dad’s books and knickknacks from the study. I confronted him, and that’s when he lost it. He threw every insult imaginable in my direction. It had to be drugs. Why else would someone lash out like that on family? When he left that day, I thought I’d never see him again. It was both heartbreaking and a relief. It’s extremely difficult when someone you care for becomes someone you no longer recognize. But that’s what addiction does to people. I couldn’t let that touch my little sister. Unfortunately, I was too late.
I settled into my pillows, both enthralled at what I was to discover next and disappointed in my morbid curiosity. This was all too strange. Jorge didn’t seem like a drug addict to me. He was a hot surfer. Hot surfers don’t do drugs. Do they?
After the course of a few months, I noticed a long thread of text messages from Jorge on Georgia’s phone. Most of them stupid small talk like an exchange of photos of what they ate for lunch. Sometimes, he’d ask her about her day, what she learned in school that day, what she bought at the mall. For about three seconds, I felt sorry she was growing up without her adopted brother. Then the texts got into personal territory. “Send me a picture of yourself.” She’d send a pouty snapshot of her face. “What are you wearing?” She’d reply with poop emoji. A tight coil wrenched in my gut. He was preying on her. Then a few texts later, he’d say how much he enjoyed seeing her at a friend’s party. At the beach. At the coffee house she studied at most afternoons. All that time I wasn’t present in her life because I was working long hours on set. Sometimes out of the country. I blamed myself. If I’d only been there. So I took away her phone and made sure she came straight home from school. When I couldn’t pick her up, I’d send a car. She hated that. Hated being the movie star’s sister. In retrospect, I realize I could have handled it better. I didn’t know how to deal with a teenager.
I put impossible restrictions on her freedom. Forbade her to go to parties or out with friends. I think it made her a little rebellious. All I wanted was to protect her, but my efforts seemed to push her away. I told myself I didn’t care if she hated me. As long as she was safe. And she was. For a time.
One night, I was up late, long after she was supposed to be asleep. I was on the other side of the house, and I wouldn’t have heard anything if it weren’t for Lady. Her ears perked up, and she started growling in the direction of the bedrooms. I followed her up the stairs, and that’s when I heard voices. When I forced open the door, I saw a sight I will never unsee. Jorge had my sister pinned down. The expression of fear on her face was conviction enough that his advances weren’t welcome. She was sixteen.
“Shut the front door!” I didn’t realize I had said that aloud until three heads swooshed in my direction, everyone with various degrees of shock in their eyes.
“Beth, what the?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve never heard you cuss before.”
I shoved the letter under my comforter and turned my head to acknowledge them. I smiled on one side of my mouth, dismissing their concern.
“I didn’t cuss.”
Lydia nodded vehemently. “Knowing you, that was close enough.”
Jane came to sit on the edge of my bed and looked at me in the eyes. She put a soft hand on my arm.
“What’s wrong?”
She knew I wasn’t reading show notes.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered, nodding in the other girl’s direction. She understood. I couldn’t say anything in front of Holly and Lydia. They didn’t take anything seriously. But Jane gave me a reassuring smile and quietly left the room. I glanced over at Holly and Lydia, happily oblivious to the world’s woes while they threw various clothing into piles. They made a huge mess of my room. I told myself it was only a reflection of my life at the moment. Just piles of stuff everywhere. No real direction. No plan.
In a last-ditch effort to read the rest of the letter in peace, I took a stroll down to the community pool and claimed one of many unoccupied lounge chairs. The gated-in area was perfect for a reprieve from the noise in my apartment. The breeze made little ripples in the pool water which glistened with the orange glow from the setting sun. Soon, it would be too chilly to sit there without a sweater, but only one page remained of the thick stack of papers Will gave me. I didn’t think I’d care to read this far, but now I was invested in learning all he had to say. I couldn't escape it now, no matter how crazy his story was. I didn’t want to believe him. I couldn’t imagine Jorge doing those things. But Will’s account of things was too horrific to be made up. He wouldn’t involve his sister in the story if it weren’t true.
Thankfully, I caught him before anything happened, but because of that, and the trail of text messages they’d been exchanging, the authorities shrugged it off. They didn’t believe her. He got off scot-free. But my sister didn’t recover so easily. She became more and more distant. Counseling did little, and she became rebellious.
Beth, I’m only telling you these things so you will know the truth about Jorge. Whatever he said about me and my family could only be half-truths at best.
Very few people know about what my sister went through. Could you imagine what it would do to her if the media got hold of this story? Keeping it hidden was the last thing I could do. I failed her. But I hope I can at least keep you from being one of Jorge’s victims.
I know he must have given you some sob story. Maybe even told you I had something to do with his failure in the business. But the truth is Jorge is extremely unreliable and difficult to work with. If he can’t get a job in Hollywood, he has no one to blame but himself. The only reason Stella took him on at the Gardiner was to honor my father’s memory. She knows how much Dad loved him.
I sincerely hope he is a changed man. From what I’ve seen, he appears to be sober now. Maybe I should deal with my trust issues. But I’ve been burned by a lot of people in my life, and I can never forgive Jorge for what he did to my sister. I’ve told you before that I hold grudges. Now you know one of the reasons why.
I shook my head, trying to un-jumble it all. I hope I can at least keep you from being one of Jorge’s victims? Melodramatic much? Still, if Will’s story were true, and he wasn’t embellishing it at all, those were some mighty bad things Jorge was guilty of.
I understand if you’re having a hard time believing all this. We haven’t been stellar communicators, you and I. Fitz is one of the few people who knows the details of what happened. He had given Georgia piano lessons while these events took place and was with me at Lucas Lodge the other night when I got a phone call from my sister telling me Jorge paid her a visit at our house. I’m sure Fitz would be happy to answer any questions you may have.
Perhaps, this will give you some idea where I'm coming from and why I act upon my instincts in the way I’ve done recently. You and I still have to work together once the show opens. My desire is that we come to an understanding and can at least bury the hatchet until we part ways. Not for my sake, but for the sake of the show.
Sincerely,
Will
I let the words sink in for a long time. It was a lot to take in, and I wasn’t sure how to process it. I didn’t know what to think. I swore to loathe Will for all eternity. How I wished to go back to those simple times. I reminisced fondly of the good ol’ days when Will was just a common jerk. Now, I felt sorry for the man, which was incredibly inconvenient. I was still angry about the whole Bing and Jane thing.
I went back to the first page and read the letter again with the knowledge I now had. I had a better sense of him, where his motives came from. On my third reading, I could almost read between the lines, running over every detail. I scanned the letter over and over until it was too dark to read. I reclined my head and gazed at the night sky. The palm treetops swayed in the soft breeze against the smoggy backdrop above. The rustle of palm fronds caressed in lulling, gentle waves while the roar of engines and swooshing of tires against pavement provided a counter rhythm. The tumult of my thoughts fell in line with the ambient sounds of Los Angeles apartment living. Every now and then, voices and clanging dishes would carry on the wind from beyond someone’s window. Iron bars would cast dancing shadows over the pool whenever headlights shone in passing. Sounds of footfall and sundry conversation whizzed by when families and couples took the path from the parking lot to their units. A dog would bark. Someone was watching TV. A guy spoke on the phone obnoxiously loud in Spanish. I must have been there for a couple hours when I decided it was time to go back inside.
