by JD Hawkins
“Go pick it up,” I say, firmly. “You bring it in here again and I’m gonna burn it.”
We stand, face-to-face for a few seconds, my dad’s expression flickering through various stages of anger, until the pull of the money and the realization I’m for real compels him outside. I watch him crouch and scan the road like some desperate stray, looking for any fallen wads, then slam the broken door behind him and jam a side table in front of it to keep it closed.
I wish I could say I expected better of him.
19
Ash
When the anger starts to clear, and the emotions around every thought and memory start to fade a little, I start wondering what Teo’s explanation would be. I start asking myself what could make him act like that, and I start struggling to find any pattern that fits.
And finally, against my better judgment, I start making excuses for him. I start to wonder if maybe meeting my dad brought up old issues with his own father, if maybe the party made him feel inferior, or insecure in some way, if perhaps my dad had touched a nerve… But then I remember the sight of him raising a fist, and it all resets to zero.
The pain of Teo leaving will linger—it lingered seven years before, and this time maybe it’ll be longer. A question without an answer. The imagination is the worst kind of monster, and without the ‘why,’ I know I’ll spend the rest of my life going through the infinite possibilities of what it could be. The answers I come up with will get even worse, even bigger, amplified with time, until it nearly tears me apart, until I start seeing these self-made conclusions in everything I do. But I’ll find my way through it. I have to. It’s the only way I’ll survive.
My body goes through the motions of driving to work, picking up coffee, several meetings with the crew and the writers, but in my mind I’m back in that alley outside Isabel’s show, listening to Teo tell me the truth would tear us apart, or at the beach that day, hearing him say that I don’t understand. Dying a little more each time I remember our last fight, reliving all the best and worst memories like a wound I can’t stop touching.
It’s only when lunchtime comes and I go with Jenny to the bar around the corner that I feel some sense of myself being in the present moment—though only because I finally tell her all about it, spitting it out like a bad taste I can’t get rid of.
“He was waiting for you outside?” she asks, once I’ve laid it all out in excruciating detail. “Like, stalker status?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. He said he just wanted a chance to explain”
Sensing the uncertainty in my voice, Jenny says, “You think he had a legitimate reason now?”
I shrug, feeling my eyes start to sting. “I don’t know…maybe. No…I don’t know.”
“You said nothing can justify what he did, right? I mean, I wasn’t there to see it myself, but you seemed pretty convinced afterward.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding solemnly, reaching for my second martini and discovering the glass is already empty.
“I’m so sorry I had a hand in this. I never should have pushed you to—”
I wave away her apology. “It’s not your fault, Jenny. And maybe it’s better this way. Now I know for sure. It just wasn’t meant to be.”
I feel my lower lip start to quiver and Jenny gestures frantically to the bartender, who hotfoots it over to our end of the bar to replace my martini.
Jenny looks at me sympathetically as I gulp it down, and then says, “What are you gonna do now?”
“What can I do? This is it. Can’t go back from this.”
“Do you think you can really leave it at that?” Jenny says. “Maybe I’m wrong, but you don’t really sound like it. And you still deserve some kind of answer from him, no?”
I take another long sip of my martini, allowing the alcohol to make my thoughts blurry—but they just come back even clearer.
“It’s not easy to let it go, I’m not saying that…but maybe it’s for the best.”
I stare down into my drink, unable to look at Jenny. I know she’ll be looking at me with pity, even more helpless to do anything about this than I am.
After a while she says, “Maybe you should take some time off work. Go be with yourself a while, or take a vacation somewhere.”
“The last thing I need right now is more time alone.”
“Ugh, I hate seeing you like this, Ash.”
“Try seeing it when you look in the mirror. Try feeling like this.”
Jenny reaches across and puts a hand on my arm.
“Fuck him, ok?” she says, with a little force in her voice now. “So he’s your childhood sweetheart who you really, really loved—fuck him. You’re twenty-five, incredibly talented, super smart, with a banging body—Teo can’t take that away from you. There’s probably a whole army of guys out there who’d put on their best cologne if they knew they’d see a girl like you that day.”
I lift my head limply and shoot Jenny a meek smile.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, still carrying momentum. “Everything I’m saying is a fact. Take it from me, ok? I could write the book on getting your heart broken. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince—most of the time when you kiss one, it just stares at you blankly and you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake.”
I laugh a little, putting my hand on hers to show I appreciate it.
“In your case,” she continues, “you kissed a prince who turned back into a frog. It happens.”
“I suppose.”
“No suppose about it,” Jenny says. “I mean, Christ, if you think breaking up is hard, try being single for four years. At this point I just go on dates to see how far the universe is willing to go—it’s got to be running out of ways to disappoint me at this point.”
“Come on,” I say, feeling at least good enough to offer my own sympathies now, “it’s not that bad.”
“No,” Jenny says adamantly, “it’s not. You know why it’s not that bad? Because I don’t mind being single. I know who I am, I know what I want. I’m a bookish thirty-year-old who’s extremely picky and who is confident enough to tell a guy he’s an asshole—and I’m happy with that. I don’t need a guy to feel good about myself, and I definitely don’t need to define myself by his flaws. You shouldn’t either. You’re stronger than that.”
“You know what?” I say, straightening up a little. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“I don’t know why I always end up like this,” I say, feeling like I’m having some kind of revelation. “But it’s like my whole life I’m being pushed and pulled in all these different directions. Like everybody has this way they want me to be, and I can never quite be good enough to match it. But why should I care what anyone else wants?”
“That’s it.”
“Whether it’s being told I should take on some really major job, or having my ideas at work crushed, or Teo disappointing me like this for the second time—it’s like I’m always having to understand everyone else, always having to accommodate them, and I never got a chance to just really be me, to focus on myself, you know?”
“Absolutely!”
“It’s like…I don’t know…sometimes I wish I could just tell the entire world to kiss my ass, you know?”
“Now that’s something I could drink to,” Jenny says, lifting her cocktail and putting it forward.
I take my martini and we clink, smiling and relaxed for the first time since yesterday.
Before I’ve taken the drink from my lips, though, my phone buzzes on the bar table. A message from Candace:
CLOTHES. CONDOMS. BURNER PHONE. BEVERLY HILLS FOUR SEASONS SUITE 237. NOW!!!!
I slam the phone down on the bar and close my eyes to breathe deeply, feeling a hardness at the center of my being, all of my frustrations catalyzing into a single, stubborn feeling.
“What?” Jenny says. “What’s wrong? Was it him?”
I shake my head and rub my temples. After three deep,
difficult breaths, I stuff my phone into my bag, slap a twenty on the bar top, and get off my stool to leave.
“Wait, Ash,” Jenny calls. “Where are you going?”
I stop, just long enough to look back at her and say, “I’m about to start telling the world to kiss my ass.”
I make my way to the hotel feeling ready to burn the world down. Several martinis and the breakup mixing inside of me to produce a kind of motivational jet fuel, a blind determination that—no matter the consequences—I’m going to start being honest, I’m going to start taking control.
I march into the hotel feeling seven feet tall, shoulders back and chin up, unsure of what’s going to happen, but sure of myself at the very least. The receptionist calls up to the suite and gets the ok for me to go up. Then I march into the elevator car, stab the button for the second floor, and brace myself for a confrontation.
When I get to the hotel room I knock loudly on the door which is slightly ajar.
“Ash?! Jesus Christ, finally,” I hear Candace cry haughtily from the other side.
I push the door open and step inside. The suite is a mess, as I expected. Once again the pungent smell of make-up, sex, and alcohol hits the back of my throat like tear gas. The door to the bathroom is open, and I can see Carlos preening in the mirror, a bath towel around his waist. Candace is sitting at the breakfast table, typing something out on her phone.
She laughs at something on the screen and then, without looking up, orders, “Put the stuff on the bed and leave. That will be all.”
I don’t move, glaring at her until she senses my lack of movement. She notices that I’m not carrying anything but my bag.
After looking at me with indignant confusion, she looks around as if there’s somebody else to confirm what she suspects.
“Where’s the stuff?” she says. “The clothes, the phone, the condoms?”
“I didn’t bring them,” I say calmly.
“Well, where are they? Aren’t you going to get them? Do you need cash?”
“No.”
Candace is staring at me like I just stepped off a spaceship now, even the Botox unable to hide how much she’s struggling to understand.
“Excuse me?” she says, face twisted with perplexity.
“Hey,” Carlos says, stamping out of the bathroom to step in front of me, his palm already out anxiously. “You got that phone? I got to make some calls, cover my tracks—I think my wife’s started searching my messages.”
I turn to him and say, “I didn’t bring the phone, I didn’t bring the clothes,” and turning back to Candace, “and I definitely didn’t bring you condoms.”
Carlos mirrors Candace’s confusion now. He glances back at her, searching for an explanation, but finds only an equally clueless glare.
“Well what the fuck are you doing here then?” he says, suddenly frustrated. “Go get them!”
“Get them yourself,” I parry, forcefully. “I’m not your personal assistant, or your errand girl. I’m a producer on the show—and it’s about time you start treating me with the respect that commands.”
Candace and Carlos exchange a quick, menacing look, as if checking to make sure they’ve got each other’s backs, before looking back at me.
“Outgrowing your boots there a little, don’t you think, sweetie? You might be a producer, but I’m still your boss, remember?” Candace hisses.
“In name only,” I reply quickly. “When was the last time you coordinated a shooting schedule? Or edited a segment? You don’t even turn up to the writers’ meetings. The only time you seem to care about the show is when you’re crushing my ideas or begging me to fix problems you can’t handle.”
Candace laughs as she stands up, crossing the room to stand beside Carlos.
“So that’s what this is about—you’re upset because I won’t allow you to use Hollywood Night as a showcase for your little pet projects. Because I won’t let you turn it into some dull, hipster-baiting garbage. Because you’re dumb enough to believe our audience wants more than entertainment, and I’m smart enough to realize they’re morons.”
“No,” I say, pausing to take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. “It’s not just that, it’s this whole thing. This ridiculous situation you think you can just get away with over and over again. The emergency texts ordering me to random hotels in the city, getting everyone to pretend that they don’t know what’s going on. Hitting on my boyfriend so that you can make Carlos feel jealous. It’s insane! And I’m sick of covering for you.”
“Now hold up,” Carlos says, in a tone that makes it sound like he wants to take control of the situation, “that’s no way to talk to—”
“And you’re just as bad!” I interrupt. “With your constant hissy fits over your hair or your shirt colors and tantrums over lighting. Do you know how long it takes me to edit your segments because you don’t care enough to do something in one take? Or how difficult it is to write a script that doesn’t have long words you’ll complain about in it? You’re both the most egotistical, selfish, lazy people I’ve ever met—let alone had to work with.”
They look at each other for a little longer this time, as if telepathically exchanging ideas about how to respond to this.
Candace turns back to me, her expression droll.
“And?” she says, dismissively.
“And I’m sick of it! I’m sick of doing all the work, getting none of the credit and no support or freedom despite it—and I’m especially sick of the fact that I also have to cover up this gross affair. I don’t want any part of this.”
“Wait a minute,” Carlos says, suddenly. “Is this a blackmail attempt? You saying you’ll go to the media if you don’t get more freedom at work?”
I sigh heavily and shake my head.
“I’m not interested in blackmailing you.”
Candace groans and rolls her eyes.
“Then what, exactly, is the point of this obnoxious display? Why come all the way here just to stamp your little feet and scream a little, huh?”
“I came to tell you I’m not covering for you guys anymore. You’re on your own.”
“I see,” Candace says, nodding confidently. “But the thing is, sweetie, I’m still your boss. That means when I tell you to do something—you do it.”
I fold my arms and smile grimly at her.
“Or what?”
“Do you think you’re indispensable? You think I won’t fire you? Right here, right now.”
“I’d love to see you try to run Hollywood Night without me,” I say, feeling both exhilarated and terrified of what I’m saying. “You couldn’t put a single segment together if I wasn’t there.”
Candace’s face is hard and impervious, a face that only mean, spiteful things could come from.
“I suppose we’ll just have to see, then, won’t we?” she says. “Consider this your two weeks’ notice, Ash. You’re fired. Good rid.”
I freeze, even as Carlos shoots an alarmed look at Candace, though he isn’t brave enough to say anything. I knew it was coming, flirted with it even, but to actually hear it, to be forced to think about what it means now, overwhelms me in the immediate aftermath. But I feel something other than panic and devastation right now—something I never expected: Freedom. An utter lightness of my entire being.
And it feels fucking amazing.
“Fine,” I say with a coy smile of my own, then turn on my heel and head for the door.
I leave, whipping the hotel door shut behind me with a satisfying slam, then stride toward the elevator feeling like the whole building is about to come crashing down around me. Liberated, terrified, euphoric.
My new life is about to begin.
20
Teo
It’s torture, losing her. Like wolves tearing at my heart every second of the day, like the world turning flimsy and distant, monochrome and meaningless. As if the rest of my life is just going through the motions, a perfunctory imitation of what everything should have been, could have be
en. No amount of slammed punching bags, commiseration chats with Kayla and Ginger, runs with my dog or bouts of intoxication are going to fix these dark clouds inside me.
I throw myself into my work, my art—the only thing I feel like I have any control over anymore. It’s late evening, and I’m hunched over the toned leg of a dancer, finishing up an elaborate rose with detailed thorns running down her thigh. Through the open curtain I can half see Kayla at the front desk, checking schedules. Ginger comes back in after giving some final advice to a guy he’s just finished a tattoo on, sitting on the tattoo chair next to me to try his hand at sweet-talking the girl—which I’m semi-grateful for, considering the girl’s been hitting on me for the past two hours, and doesn’t seem any closer to taking the hint.
“So let me guess,” Ginger says, putting some of that good old southern musicality into his voice, “you’re a dancer?”
The girl laughs a little.
“Don’t move,” I warn her, too close to finishing to slow down.
“Yeah, I am. Burlesque,” she says, though I can hear she’s looking at me as she says it. “You wanna come to a show? I can get you guys on the list.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Ginger says.
“How about you?” the girl says in my direction.
“Aw, forget about him,” Ginger says, “he ain’t no fun these days.”
“Why’s that?” the girl says, through a smile.
“Let me finish this, would you?” I growl, without looking up.
Ginger’s about to say something, but we’re distracted for a moment by somebody coming into the shop. A tall, scrawny kid with plenty of tattoos and gaged-out ears beneath a wide-brim baseball cap. I turn back to my work and Ginger laughs.
“God,” he says, “this kid don’t quit.”
“Who is he?” the girl says, glancing over.
“Comes in twice a day to see Kayla. You’d think he would get it by now. I mean, it’s not like she ain’t blunt enough with him.”
As sure as he says it, we all notice the slightly raised voices. Kayla laughs, though it sounds more like she’s forcing it in order to navigate being put on the spot by this guy. I stare at them for a few moments, but the kid doesn’t notice, too focused on Kayla, and I turn back to the tattoo—desperate to finish it now.
