by Lexi Whitlow
Their father, Clark Osmond, Sr., sits at the head of the table and goes down the row, from the eldest to the youngest, telling each boy which note he flubbed, which dance move he missed, where he dropped the beat. It’s painful to watch, but the kids take it like birdshot off a steel plate. They note the criticism, thank their father, and promise to double-down in rehearsals and on stage.
Nobody asks me what I think.
Later, back at my hotel, I breath out the entire surreal day to Gates in wave after wave of dramatic retelling on the phone. He listens like a seasoned therapist.
“I thought I had it bad,” I say. “These people run their children like a German train schedule. The precision and perfection expected has got to be soul-crushing.”
“Sounds like BUD/S with kids,” Gates quips. “Maybe I should do some Navy recruiting in Branson.”
“They’ll probably all grow up to be serial killers,” I say. “Or they’ll be just like their parents. I’m not sure which is worse.”
“Just don’t let them get to you,” Gates says. “This is a job, and the first one your father has trusted you with, so make the most of it. Then come back to me, because I miss you something awful.”
The rest of my week goes much like the first day. It’s grueling, without leaving much time to get to know anything substantial about the individual boys themselves. As the week turns into ten days, and I get to spend some off-time with them, I manage to observe that Jude, the youngest, is more sensitive than the rest. I catch him swallowing back tears a couple times when his father barks at him.
Jay, the next youngest, is a scribbler who draws cartoons, writing things down in a notebook. He’s the least outgoing of all of them, but also the most observant. He rarely makes a mistake, and he seems to be able to predict when one of his brothers has missed something, showing them before their father catches it.
Jeff, the middle child, is inscrutable. He smiles a lot and does his part, but there’s more going on inside his head than he’s willing to let on. Grayson is the trickster, teasing his siblings playfully, while often playing the role of protector to his younger brothers by stepping out and distracting his father when one of them screws up. He’s brave.
Clark is the one I vote most likely to become a serial killer. He’s fully indoctrinated. He smiles on cue and plays his part perfectly. He also revels in pointing out his brother’s failings to them, as if he’s taken on his father’s role in absentia. He’s the least likable one of the bunch, and the one my father will probably love, but thankfully I believe he’s a little too old to get selected for the role my father has in mind.
When my flight takes off, headed back to LA, I’ve never been so glad to leave a place. I’ve missed Gates terribly, despite the fact that we speak on the phone every day. It’s more than that, though. I feel as if I’ve somehow participated in the abuse of these kids and may have a role in further damaging of one of them before it’s all said and done. The whole experience leaves me feeling sick to my stomach.
I find myself thinking about children on the way home.
If I ever have a child of my own, they’ll never be subjected to anything like that.
* * *
I close my PowerPoint presentation, shutting the cover on my laptop. My father’s steely gaze lingers on the empty screen ahead. I feel like one of the Osmond kids, waiting for the blistering critique I know is about to come down.
My father turns to Blair, who he invited to sit in on my report.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Blair sits back thinking, trying to calculate in his brain what he believes my father wants to hear. Finally, he speaks.
“I like the older one, Clark, but I think he’s too old for the job. By the time we get in production, the next strongest one—Grayson—probably will be too. It’s going to be one of the younger ones.”
My father nods. He turns to me.
“What about you?” he asks.
Wait? What? Where is the stinging rebuke? Where is the brutal take down of how I’ve fouled up the only real assignment he’s ever given me?
I shake my head. “I can’t say,” I admit. “They all have their merits. But honestly, I don’t have an opinion.”
I won’t be the one who sends a child to the gallows.
My father folds his hands under his chin like Simon Legree, contemplating mayhem.
“It’s the little one,” he says. “He’ll be almost twelve by the time we start filming. He’s talented, and versatile. But he’s also got more range of facial expression than the rest. He’s the only one who really looks like a child in the eyes. The rest of them look… shell-shocked.”
Good lord. My father saw that? Maybe he’s more observant than I give him credit for.
“Tell me about their parents?” he asks me. “What will they be like to work with?”
I tell my father what my experience of them was; consummate professionals, perfectionists, rigid, disciplined. And cold as ice.
“Fascinating,” he replies, an eyebrow arching high, a shade of amusement creeping into the corners of his eyes.
“You did well, Winter,” he says. “You did very well. The photos are top notch. You captured everything I wanted to see, and then some. You’ve learned your trade.”
I don’t even know what to say. Once more, I feel my guts churn. I’m starting to think my father is on medication—or something. Maybe he’s losing his mind. Maybe it’s early onset Alzheimer’s. Maybe he has a brain tumor.
He puts his palms down on the desk and leans forward.
“You liked Jude the best,” he says. “I can tell by the photos. You spent more time on him, with him. You selected him. Well done.”
I’m sure I need to throw up now.
Chapter 14
Gates
It’s been busy. I’ve spent the last two nights shooting late into the night on the film, and last night I was at Emerson’s, a trendy, VIP-only nightclub in Hollywood, with Dylan making sure everyone who is anyone saw us together, even posing a moment for the paparazzi’s cameras as we left, well after two in the morning.
I ignored the paps questions. “Who was the red head?” I can’t ignore the fact that I hate playing this part. Dylan’s a sweet girl, and a good sport, but even she’s getting tired of the games.
“I’ll be so glad when we’re done with this film and I can go back to Nashville,” she said as we drove away from the club. “This stuff is nuts.”
Winter and I haven’t been able to see one another since Laguna. I’m sick of the hiding, the lying, all of it. We’re three weeks into filming, with three left to go. It’s too late for Addison to fire me. It would cost him too much and set production back months. I’m ready to come out and just take whatever grief Addison has to give. I’m going to tell Winter tomorrow night, when we’re finally together. I’m hoping I can convince her it’s in both our best interests to be honest with everyone.
I take Dylan back to her apartment after the club. Returning to the car after walking her in, I see another vehicle idling down the block with two people sitting in it, in the dark. When I pull off, headed to my place, the car pulls in behind me, keeping its distance.
I’m being tailed.
My publicist warned me I’d picked up a few stalkers; fans or haters who follow me to the gym, to the grocery store, then post candid shots of me and details of my movements to social media. I haven’t really noticed anyone who I could say definitively is stalking me, because everyone in this city has a smartphone and uses them constantly. That said, following me through the city at three in the morning, absolutely qualifies as creepy behavior.
I buzz in the gate at my building, making sure it closes behind me with no one following. Upstairs in my apartment, I keep the lights down and move to the window. The car has pulled up outside the building and is parked on the street.
Not cool.
If they’re still there in an hour, they’re going to get a piece of me they never anticipated.
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After I’ve showered, I check again, and sure enough the car is still there. My stalkers aren’t smart or creative. Their beat-up Honda sticks out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. I wonder what it is they think they’re going to see?
I pop my key into my sock so I can get back inside when I’m through with these two. Then I go out the fire escape on the back side of the building, coming out on the side street so I can approach from the shadows. I pause when I get near, surveying the car’s occupants from fifteen feet away. They’re kicked back in reclined seats. They may be asleep. I wait to see if there’s any movement, and seeing none, I go for it.
I have the passenger’s side door open in the blink of an eye, and the occupant on the ground on his knees a second later, long before his companion realizes what’s happening. I realize they’re not stalkers as soon as I’m inside the car, as there’s more long-lens camera gear on the floor than I’ve seen since I watched that documentary on Princess Diana.
“What the—!?” the driver exclaims as I roughly haul him out of the car, dragging him over the console, dumping him on the sidewalk beside his partner.
“I’ll tell you what the,” I growl, looming over them. “What the, you just got creeped. You’re lucky I don’t have PTSD and a houseful of guns, or your brains would be all over the windshield of that rust-bucket.”
Both men look up at me, wide-eyed, terrified.
“What the fuck are you doing, following me around in the middle of the night. Parking outside my place?”
One guy stammers out something about just doing his job.
“It’s a shitty job,” I shoot back. “There are better ways to make a living. You ever come back here again, I’ll light your ass up with phosphorus so bright your skin will peel off before your brain registers the burn. Tell your friends to leave me the fuck alone too, or they’ll get the same.”
I throw the car keys at them and stalk off into the darkness, disappearing into the shadows before either of them knows what hit them.
Before I’m even up the stairs I hear the car engine turn over, then the peel of burning rubber as they beat a hasty retreat back to whatever hole they crawled out of.
That was fun. Like old times. In and out like clockwork; mission accomplished.
* * *
I halfway expect to see headlines accusing me of assaulting two paparazzi when I wake up in the morning, but I guess I made enough of an impression to keep those two quiet. Plus, they got no pictures, so it’s their word against mine.
Winter is due by mid-day. We’ve got a plan to spend the weekend here, holed up together with no interruptions. The last few weeks without her have sucked mightily. I’m looking forward to just wrapping her up in my arms, among other things.
That last idea gets quashed quick when I open the door and see her. She’s got dark circles under her eyes, her skin is pale, and she looks positively tanked.
“I’m sick,” she says. “I should just go home. I don’t want you to catch this.”
“Oh, baby.” I pull her inside and close the door, then lay her down on the couch with a blanket. “You should have stayed in bed,” I say. “But I’m glad you’re here so I can take care of you.”
I make her a cup of ginger tea to calm her stomach.
“I’ve been sick for a week,” Winter says. “Every time I think I’m getting better, it comes back. I was better yesterday, and I thought it would be okay, but this morning I got up and puked my guts out.”
“That’s a long time to be sick.”
“Maybe more like ten days.”
“Shit, Winter. Have you seen a doctor?”
“No. It just keeps coming and going. So I don’t know what’s going on…” Her voice trails off, and she looks up at me. Something about her looks different. There’s no other way to describe it.
No one gets a stomach virus for ten days.
I sit down on the edge of the couch, placing the back of my hand on her forehead like my mom used to do when I was ill. She’s not feverish. She’s not chilled, either.
“Any other symptoms?” I ask. “Stuffy head? Sore throat?”
I’m really hoping for the flu.
Winter pouts, shaking her head. “No. Just throwing up. Nausea. Really, really thirsty.”
Okay then. This complicates things.
She’s been on the pill this whole time, hasn’t she? I’ve seen her with a pack of birth control in the studio.
I’m even more certain she’s pregnant by later afternoon, when her nausea passes, and she perks up, asking me what’s for dinner.
“I’m starving,” she says. “Maybe this bug is finally starting to pass. I feel like I could eat a horse.”
Instead of a horse, I’ve planned on lasagna. I pop the pan into the oven to bake, then pour myself a glass of whiskey, hoping it gives me the fortitude I need to open a subject I know Winter doesn’t want broached. It’s got to happen though, especially in light of this new development.
“I want to come out,” I say. “Stop lying about us. Stop playing games for the press. Tell your father we’re seeing each other. I just don’t think I can keep it up much longer.”
Winter sits down on a stool at the counter. She goes quiet. “No,” she says. “We can’t.”
“We can,” I say. “And we should. What’s the worst that can happen? Eh? I get fired? So what? He gets pissed at you? He’ll come around.”
“He’ll do more than just get pissed at me. He’ll cut me off entirely,” Winter says. “And he may sue you.”
“I want to be with you,” I insist. “I always want to be with you.”
She frowns, her brows knitting adorably. “We’ll get there,” she says. “But there’s no need to poke the dragon. Let’s just wait it out. That’s when the movie releases.”
“That’s a year from now,” I say. “I can’t. Especially if…” I bite my lip, hesitating. “Especially if you’re pregnant.”
Her eyes go wide. Her face blanches. “What?!” she exclaims. Then the sense of what I’ve said dawns on her. “Oh… no…”
“You need to take a test,” I say. “I could be wrong, but if you say it’s been ten days…”
She squinches her eyes closed tight, dropping her forehead low. “God, I’m such an idiot,” she moans.
“You’re not an idiot,” I say, coming around to her, wrapping my arms around her. “We were careful.”
Winter lifts her head. “Yeah, well, I should have thought it through. It’s not like I wasn’t warned by the universe.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
She tells me about the scare she had the first time we slept together, three years ago.
I don’t know why, but I find the story kind of amusing. It serves her right for bolting on me, leaving only a note and a fond memory.
“Your father may not react so badly if he knows your pregnant. Maybe he wants grandchildren?” I offer, trying to be optimistic.
Winter laughs off this notion, assuring me her father will be even more livid if she’s pregnant, unmarried, and I’m the father.
“Then screw him,” I state. “Him and his bullshit. Let’s just get married and tell him about it after the fact. We can do the deal his way, post it on Instagram. Tweet wedding pix from Vegas. Marry me, Winter. This weekend.”
“You’re fucking with me.” She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“I’m not.”
I wish I had a ring, so she could see just how serious I am.
Chapter 15
Winter
The positive pregnancy test from the bodega sits on the table between us. My stomach lurches when I look at it.
“I love you,” Gates says. “I really do. I probably shouldn’t have waited ‘til figuring out you’re pregnant to say it, but so be it. I love you and I want to marry you.”
The lasagna is in the oven, and the scent of tomatoes and bubbling cheese fills the whole apartment. I’ve got a metallic aftertaste from the ginger tea on my to
ngue, and a deafening ringing in my ears.
What did he just say?
A powerful wave of nausea vaults up from my belly. I can’t keep it down. I bolt to the bathroom but don’t quite make it—getting sick on myself and the floor, as well as the toilet seat before I’m on my knees, head down and dry-heaving into the bowl. A moment later Gates is beside me, pulling my hair away, rubbing my back.
“I’m so sorry,” I cry, tears running down my face while I wretch.
