by JD Hawkins
“You ain’t ever given advice worth taking.”
“Sure, sure…” he says, laughing again. “That’s why you’re out here thinking you’re something you’re not. Trying to build something, thinking about how high you can go—but that’s for other folk, folk like the Carters. People like us only got to ask one question: How low can you survive?”
“I’m surviving just fine.”
“Sure, sure…but time’s gonna come when you lose it all. And that girl’s gonna be the one to cause it, mark my words.”
I don’t answer, knowing that he can go all night like this. Around in circles as long as he has some alcohol in his hand and his body. It’s an old pattern, one I know too well. He keeps going until I get fed up and go silent, then he’ll say something to get me riled up, get my attention.
He gives it a couple of minutes, then says, “Prissy little rich girl like that, I’ll bet she don’t even suck dick properly.”
I stand up suddenly.
“That’s it, get your shit and get the fuck out of here!”
“Whoa, loverboy!” he says, standing up as well. “I only just got here. Ain’t even given you your present yet.”
I roll a hand roughly across my forehead, half crazy and half drained from his bullshit, knowing that anything I say or do, he’ll have something to come back at me with, something that’ll make everything worse, that’ll get me even more wound up. Interactions with my father end only two ways: With him drunk enough to pass out, or in blows.
He lifts the green sports bag and dumps it on the coffee table, grinning at me through his beard.
“You’re gonna love this,” he says, unzipping it quickly.
It’s cash. Thick wads of bills stuffed randomly in the bag, filling it to the top.
“What the fuck’s all this?” I say, looking at him accusingly.
“That’s my cut,” he says, pausing to nonchalantly pick at his teeth. “Didn’t think I’d stick four years without something good waiting for me at the end of it, did you?”
“I don’t want this shit in my house. I told you, take it and get the hell out of here. We’ll talk in a week.”
“Easy, easy…” he says, holding his palms up like I’m acting irrationally. “Some of that’s yours.”
He pats me on the shoulder and I shove his arm away.
“You heard me. Get out.”
He laughs easily.
“The only problem,” he continues, as if not hearing me, “is that it’s dirty. Need to run it through something. A legitimate business.”
“I’m not laundering your cash—I don’t even want it in my house.”
“Ten per cent. That’s more than fair.”
I fight back a wave of disgust. “I wouldn’t care if you gave me all of it. I don’t need the money. I’m not risking my business and everything I have to break the law as a fucking favor to my deadbeat dad. Now get out or I’ll call the cops.”
His eyes change again, and I can tell he’s about to raise his voice, I can tell we’re about to get into it, that this isn’t ending with him getting drunk and passing out.
“That bitch really did a number on you, son.”
I grab the sports bag and lift it, glaring at him.
“You’re done,” I say, then march to the broken door.
“Whoa! Careful with that!” he calls out behind me, leaping off the couch now to chase.
I open the limp door and toss the bag outside, a few wads spilling out onto the street.
“You fucking crazy?” he says, torn between saving the bag and being angry with me.
“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 loo
k 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?”