Finding His Redemption

by Melanie A. Smith

  “You left home at sixteen because of his abuse, didn’t you?” I continue, trying to get us to the end of this line of questioning with my sanity intact.

  “Sure did,” he agrees just as peppily as before.

  “But,” I start, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat at what I have to say next, “your mom died giving birth to your sister. So he went it alone as a parent. That must have made it hard for him. Hard for everyone, really.”

  It’s a softer version of what they wanted me to say, but right now all I want is real emotion from West. Not the bullshit face he’s putting on to get through this, even though I don’t blame him for it.

  “It was hard. But you know, what’s done is done.” He shrugs.

  I suppress a sigh. This is going nowhere. “So, for your part, what are you apologizing for today, West?”

  “Well, I sure didn’t make it easy on him,” West replies, appearing thoughtful, but I know him better now. And right now I can completely smell the bullshit. “I was rebellious from a young age. He wanted me to go into a ‘serious’ career, not music. I started drinking and smoking at twelve. So, you know, any parent would be upset about that.”

  I have to give him credit. To someone who didn’t know him, it would sound genuine.

  “Sure. But he’s admitted to having behaved … poorly,” I say, stumbling for the right word. “He’s even had therapy and is supposedly a changed man. Kind of like you.”

  West’s gaze lands on mine sharply, a muscle in his jaw ticking. And I know instantly that the comparison gets to him.

  “I guess we’ll see,” is his only response.

  And I’m honestly impressed by his self-control.

  I nod in agreement. “I guess so. Because it’s time for a father-son reunion.”

  As soon as the cameras stop, West walks away from me.

  I watch his back retreat helplessly as Carter approaches.

  “That was not exactly what we were looking for,” Carter admonishes me.

  “I can’t out him on television, Carter.”

  “You mean you won’t,” Carter clarifies.

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I won’t. But it’s West’s past. If it’s coming from anyone, it has to come from him.”

  Carter considers me for a moment. “Fine. As long as we get the waterworks, I can’t say I care. But it would make for great ratings.”

  It’s all I can do not to punch him, but thankfully West rejoins us and I’m distracted out of my anger as one of the assistants explains how the next shot will go.

  And then, once more, it’s showtime.

  For the first time since the beginning, I can’t help feeling like it really is all just for show.

  With cameras trained on us, I reach up and knock.

  The door swings open too quickly for West’s dad to not have been standing there, waiting.

  “Kristoffer,” his dad gasps. And I can see real emotion on his face, at least.

  “Hi, Dad,” West offers dully.

  Bill Westberg launches forward, pulling West into a hug. My eyes go wide and I hold my breath, waiting for West to shove his father off of him.

  But while he’s stiff, I have to give West credit for allowing it much more than I’d expected. He does somewhat awkwardly pat his father on the back until he lets go.

  “Come in,” Bill offers, stepping back and allowing us over the threshold.

  The exterior cameras stop as they get us set up quickly in the living room, just inside the door past a small entryway. The house is sparsely decorated, with barely more than utilitarian furniture. In a word, it’s depressing. And maybe it’s just what I know, but being in the house gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  Thankfully with just a few minutes, a little makeup, and some lighting adjustments later have us rolling again. That much closer to getting the hell out of here.

  “So, you know why we’re here, Mr. Westberg,” I offer from the lone armchair.

  West sits on one end of the three-person couch, his father on the other.

  “Yes, but please, call me Bill,” he says warmly.

  I take him in fully for the first time. He looks so much like West, except his eyes are blue. And, of course, he’s a good twenty-five years older, with gray sprinkling through the dark brown of his hair, and fine lines at the edges of his eyes and lips when he smiles.

  I try my best to shove my own judgments aside and simply do my job.

  “Bill,” I respond. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your son?”

  “Twenty years,” he responds. “Twenty long years.”

  “And though it may go without saying, you two didn’t part on the best of terms,” I prompt.

  “No,” his dad agrees. “I was hard on Kris. I knew he was talented, but I wanted more for him than being a struggling artist.”

  “Except he wasn’t,” I point out before I can stop myself. “Not for long, anyway.”

  Bill shrugs lightly. “The odds weren’t in his favor. Surely you can understand that, as a parent, I had to be honest with him about that.”

  “That’s fair,” I agree. “But that wasn’t all the blowup was about, was it?”

  It’s as close as I’m willing to skate to the issue.

  Bill clears his throat. “No. I had … other issues. But I’ve gotten help,” he says, now turning to West, his eyes glistening. “Without your mom here, I lost my way. And I’m sorry, son. I hope you can forgive me.”

  My eyes flick to West, and I’m surprised to see the similar sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. West shakes his head, something I’m realizing is a habit, and not necessarily indicative of what he’s about to say.

  “I don’t know. Can you forgive me for being such a disappointment?” There’s a bitterness to his words that rings with truth.

  “Oh, Kris.” His dad says, a sob catching in his throat. “You were never a disappointment to me.”

  West blows out a breath and simply nods, wiping at his face as a tear starts to fall. Bill leans forward and offers a hug to West, who reluctantly allows it. Bill’s head is turned toward the camera, and there’s no mistaking the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  I glance back at Carter to find his eyes fixed on the pair, smiling happily. It makes me angry, but at least he’s getting what he wants. Hopefully that means this farce can come to a quick end.

  And it does. With a few more platitudes from me, a bit more fatherly blubbering from Bill, and the barest of responses from West, we wrap.

  West rises, visibly shaking, while the crew starts to move back outside for post.

  He makes to walk by me, out of the living room, but I reach a hand out and touch his arm. He pauses, looking down at me.

  “You okay?” I ask quietly.

  He shakes his head tightly. “Get everyone out. Now.”

  My eyes go wide, but I get Carter to hurry and within a couple of minutes, we’re headed out the door.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” West says, following me to the door. His expression brooks no questions, so I simply leave.

  The sound of the door closing behind me sends shivers down my spine. As much as I don’t want to leave West alone, I know that’s what he wants right now. So I join the production crew at the edge of the property again, standing in for camera adjustments. Thankfully, based on Carter’s comments, he’s as pleased as he seemed inside. The whole situation just makes me sick.

  When I hear the front door open and close behind me, I whirl toward it. West is walking down the steps, flexing his hand.

  My heart drops, knowing what he most likely just did. Not that I can blame him. If my father had done what his had, I’d have left home too. And if I’d been forced to “apologize” to him twenty years later? I’d punch him too. Probably more.

  Even more surprising, West makes it through the post interview perfectly, showing no hint how upset I know he must be.

  I’m left in awe of West. And of his father’s audacity. Because what kind of father — nay
, human being — abuses their own children and then thinks he can just move on? Because it was not just the occasional kind of verbal abuse we all endure growing up. It was physically, beating his children to the point of broken bones. Mentally, gaslighting them on all their forms of abuse to convince them it was all in their minds. Emotionally, by making them feel worthless. And, most horrifically, from ages too young to even fathom, abusing them sexually at length, often in front of each other as punishment.

  I don’t care what bullshit Bill Westberg spouted in that house. People that depraved don’t magically change. And I also don’t care what West said; I know he hasn’t forgiven his father. His years of drug abuse make sense now. Who wouldn’t want to forget all of that?

  But moreover, who could ever truly forgive someone who did that to them?

  Another concern follows me home: Will West forgive me for playing a part in today? Because I feel disgusted with myself.

  I also feel angry on West’s behalf. Not just at his father, but at Carter, Ford, Burke, and everyone else who wants to drag him through this travesty for the sake of entertainment and ticket sales. I don’t know why West is tolerating it, but the fact that he is doesn’t absolve me of my role in it.

  My only small comfort is that today’s shoot with his father was the last personal apology. The private fan event will be a cakewalk in comparison. I can only hope that, in the end, the apology tour is really worth it. But that’s West’s call, not mine. And based on his participation today, I can only assume he thinks it is.

  But then, he’s had his dignity stripped from him his whole life. Maybe he’s too used to it. Maybe I’m the odd one out for thinking he deserves better. Because he does. Underneath all of the drug use, the mistakes, there was someone hurting. Someone who is now trying to atone for … well, being human.

  I, like so many others, thought more about how he’d disappointed me rather than how life had disappointed him. And hopefully, like me, everyone else will see how very wrong they were.

  14

  With or Without You by U2

  * * *

  West

  “Let the insanity begin,” Ward declares magnanimously, spreading his arms wide. “I’ll just be backstage.”

  He winks and ducks offstage, not waiting for a response. I shake my head and walk out of the stage pit, up to the greeting area we’ve set up by the bar.

  Nils, the manager for the club, Baltia, meets me at the main table. Dude could be Ward’s long-lost twin brother with his tall, thin frame and blond hair. Minus Ward’s tattoos, though.

  “Need anything else?” he asks.

  “Nope. Frankie’s not gonna be here tonight?” I ask.

  Nils shakes his head. “Her and her husband are having a birthday party for their one-year-old first thing in the morning.”

  I laugh. Frankie Greco married with a kid. Stranger things have happened, I guess. “Well, say hi to her for me.”

  Nils nods. “Will do. It’s good to see you healthy, man.”

  I slug him playfully on the arm. “Thanks. It feels good to be healthy. And thanks for hosting this on such short notice.”

  He shrugs. “You know we’ve always got your back. Besides, you were one of Baltia’s first acts back when Frankie redid the place. It’s the least we can do.”

  I make to respond when I notice Maxi walk in, her assistant in tow. It’s been five days since I saw her at my dad’s house. And I’m no less conscious of what she knows about me. But somehow, I’m still glad to see her. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she’s more dressed up than I’ve ever seen her in a tight black strapless number and red heels, her hair still tumbling in waves over her shoulder, her lips painted red to match her shoes. Jesus fucking Christ, she’s hot.

  “Hey, Maxi,” I greet her as she approaches, shamelessly staring at her. I gesture to Nils. “This is Nils, Baltia’s manager.”

  Maxi’s assistant, Alexsis claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, Nils Larssen?!”

  I smirk, knowing Nils was once a runway model. So he’s probably just as used to the groupies as the acts he books are.

  She waves her hands in excitement. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks him.

  Maxi and I exchange a bewildered look.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” Nils says. “You are …?”

  “Alexsis Monaghan,” she squeals, then turns to Maxi. “Nils was an exchange student who stayed with us … oh my gosh, what was it? Fifteen years ago?”

  “Holy shit,” Nils gasps, his eyes now trailing over Alexsis. “Seventeen years ago. You were a baby. What, five years old? I’m surprised you even remember me. Now look at you.” And boy does he look at her.

  Not that I blame him. I hadn’t paid much attention because Maxi was there, but Alexsis is wearing a red halter dress that looks painted on her ample curves. She’s a little short for my taste. And a little blonde. But then, I guess I’m just a sucker for a brunette. My eyes flick to Maxi at the thought to find her staring at me, which makes me smirk. Which, in turn, makes her roll her eyes.

  I chuckle, coming back to reality.

  “Are you kidding? You were my first crush,” she tells him, batting her eyelashes.

  And now I roll my eyes. I catch Maxi’s eye and cock my head to the side, inviting her to step away with me. She nods and we slip away. Nils and Alexsis don’t even notice.

  “Well, that was cute,” Maxi says.

  I huff a laugh. “Small world, I guess.”

  “So, you ready for tonight?”

  I lift a shoulder. “As I’ll ever be. Ford’s sending a photographer. You’ll be documenting the awesomeness. Club’s providing muscle in case any of the fans get crazy.”

  “Or handsy,” Maxi mutters.

  I grin. “Not jealous, are you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please,” she scoffs.

  The normality of sparring with her calms me somehow.

  “Well, if you want an autograph too, all you have to do is say so,” I tease, stopping at the table and gesturing at the stack of photos waiting to be signed.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replies dryly.

  “You do that,” I reply with a wink. “You’re sticking around for the concert, right?”

  “Of course. Part of the job.” She shifts feet. “West?”

  “Maxi?”

  “Are you … upset with me? For Sunday?” She blushes bright red, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen my feisty little journalist so self-conscious.

  “No, Maxi. We were all just playing our parts. I appreciate that you tried not to blindside me, actually.”

  She nods but still looks unconvinced. “Okay. I just … I felt bad. It was just all … badness.”

  I snort. “Truer words never spoken. And water under the bridge. Let’s get a drink, shall we?”

  Maxi goes for the hard stuff, though for obvious reason I stick with seltzer water.

  Before I know it, it’s time for the meet and greet with the approximately five hundred fans selected. It sounds like a lot, but considering this place could comfortably hold twice that, it still feels intimate.

  And it feels fucking good to be signing autographs, taking pictures, and making the fans happy. None of them are even angry, mostly expressing their concern for me and that they’re glad the band is back together. Still, I do my best to play along and make apologies wherever they seem natural. It actually feels good.

  But what feels fucking phenomenal is getting on that stage and playing the shit out of our classics, plus a few of the new songs, and watching the crowd go nuts.

  And what feels way better than it probably should is spotting Maxi in that crowd, front and center. Smiling, despite herself. I may play to her a little more than I want to admit.

  When we play the last song of the night, my eyes flick up to find Ford, of all people, standing on the VIP balcony. I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight, but it sends tension rippling through me. Until I see him give me a dis
tinct thumbs up.

  Fuck.

  Well, all right then.

  That ends the set on a fucking fantastic note, and when we head backstage, even though it’s almost one o’clock, I’m feeling wide awake, riding the natural high of performing for a crowd.

  Nils, Alexsis, and Maxi appear as the roadies start breaking things down.

  “Great show, West,” Nils says, slapping me on the back. “Can’t wait for the tour.”

  “You and me both, dude,” I assure him.

  He and Alexsis slip away and Maxi steps up.

  “You can tell me you thought we were awesome,” I tease her with a wink.

  She huffs and crosses her arms. “You were okay.”

  I laugh. Damn, she’s stubborn. “I saw you out there. You were having fun, Maxi Marshall.”

  “Fine,” she admits. “I might have enjoyed it … a little.”

  “Have it your way,” I reply. A sudden thought sends a pang shooting through my chest. “Maxi?”

  “What, West?”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “No, when this is over, I mean.”

  Her eyes search my face. “But I’m so mean to you.”

  I smile at her. “I don’t think you’re mean. You just don’t take my shit. I like that.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “And I like how much you roll your eyes at me.”

  Maxi scoffs. “You’re so weird.”

  I chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe I just need someone to keep me on my toes. To tell me the truth when I need to hear it.”

  “Are you trying to get in my pants or something?” she asks accusatorily.

  Now I full-on laugh, holding my stomach and everything.

  “It’s not that funny,” she murmurs after a minute.

  I finally settle back down. “It is. Because there’s so much more to you than your pants, Maxi. So much more.”

  “Oh god, Alexsis was right.”

  I look at her curiously. “About what?”

  “It’s like boys on the playground. They tease you because they like you. You like me!” she gasps incredulously.