by Stacey Kade
Mainly because I’ve stayed away from asshole mode around Katie. It hasn’t been necessary, and I don’t want her to think of me like that. I’m trying to be the better person she sees when she looks at me.
“You care about her,” she adds, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
Careful. “It’s not … it’s more complicated than what you’re thinking,” I say, shifting my legs to stretch out. “The three of us were close.”
Most people don’t get it; it’s not just work when you’re together for sixteen hours a day, six days a week. The set becomes your home, and everyone there your family. Some of them even closer than your actual family. In my case, virtually anyone associated with Starlight would be closer to me than my own blood-relatives. But Callie and Chase in particular—though in very different ways.
I’ve missed my family, though I hadn’t realized how much until now.
“You, Chase, and Calista,” Katie says with doubt. “Two people you haven’t spoken to in years.”
“That’s because I messed up that night with the accident.”
“You said something you regret,” Katie recites. “Then Callie got into the car with Chase…”
I nod. Mostly. Technically, it wasn’t something I said so much as something I did. It makes me cringe thinking about it, and the fact that I’m hiding it from Katie only makes me feel worse. But I’m enough of a selfish jerk not to reveal the absolute depths of my fucked-up-ness to the girl I’m going to marry. I’m not sure she would understand. Cowardice is not something that fits into her worldview.
Besides, it’s not like it matters now. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Because I would never be in that same situation again.
“But before that happened,” I say, “we were solid, the three of us. And you can see why we might have needed something like that.” I jerk my thumb in the direction of where we left Lori behind. “You think Lori’s bad, you should meet my dad.”
“I’d like to,” she says softly.
“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. My parents aren’t like yours.” Katie doesn’t get it. She speaks to both of her parents on a regular basis. And her brothers and sister. They call just to talk to each other. Like, for fun.
My dad may or may not show up to the wedding and that would be bad enough. Even then, he might only come if he’s concerned the media will make a big deal out of him not being there.
“Well, my family is yours now, too, right?” She wraps her arm around mine and snuggles close.
I try to relax into the seat and Katie, but all I can think about is Calista and what she’s going through, trapped in that car with Lori, in that house for the next two weeks.
Frustration makes me grit my teeth. If she would just stand up for herself …
But you knew she wouldn’t when you made that call to Lori.
So I’m as much to blame as Callie is. More so, maybe. Because I didn’t let it stop me.
“So, I, uh, have a little confession to make,” Katie says, distracting me from my thoughts. She’s not quite meeting my gaze. “Speaking of family.”
My heart lurches as my brain spins a thousand scenarios involving the words “family” and “confession.”
I sit upright. “Wait, are you telling me … are you…” My gaze drops to her waist, where the belt of her coat is knotted, and I feel vaguely ill, my skin instantly clammy and the air too hot.
We can’t even agree on where to live or what the next year is going to look like …
“What?” She looks up at me, follows my gaze. Her eyes go big. “No! No.” She sputters out a laugh.
I slump back in my seat, my eyes shut, trying to get my breathing back in line.
“You don’t have to look quite so relieved,” she says dryly, but her smile wobbles around the edges. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?”
“No,” I say quickly because I know that’s the correct answer.
“When the time is right.”
“Right,” I agree. And I do. I mean, I think I want that. To be a father. To be a better father than my own, and to be fair, a rotting tree stump could probably pull that off.
But something about the idea still makes me feel unsteady and closed in. We’ve talked about it before, Katie and I, in a vague, someday sense. And I know to her, at thirty-one, her someday is probably a lot closer than my more distant vision.
It never bothered me before, but today, it makes me feel itchy and trapped.
Probably just because I wasn’t expecting it, and tomorrow I’m starting the biggest undertaking of my professional life. Pressure on top of pressure. My stress has stress.
“So what is it, then?” I ask, taking her hand in mine, trying to make up for it.
“Okay, so you know we sent out the ‘save the date’ cards a couple of weeks ago,” she says, and I get the distinct feeling she’s hedging.
“Yeah.”
“And you gave me the list of people you wanted them to go to…” She bites her lip.
I fight the urge to tell her that I don’t care if the cards were late or if somebody was somehow missed. None of that crap has really registered with me. As long as it makes her happy. “It’s okay, they’ll get invitations and if they can’t make it, no big deal.”
“Okay, except the thing is I added someone, and I know you’re going to be angry, but he’s your dad and—”
I go still. “You invited my father.”
“I sent a save the date card, and he called me.” She furrows her brow. “I’m not even sure how he got my number. But he wants us to meet for dinner.”
“No.”
“He really wants to talk to you. To catch up, he said, and to get to know me. You know, your wife-to-be?” She tilts her head up to smile at me.
“That’s what he said.” It’s not a question because I know he would say just about anything to get what he wanted.
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“He’s lying.”
She pulls away to face me. “Eric, I know you guys have issues, not that you’ll talk about—”
“He wants something else. He does not give a shit about you or me.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t.”
“I’ve known the man my whole life,” I say through clenched teeth.
She shakes her head. “But how much of that had to do with work?”
All of it. Because that’s all he cares about. But that’s not the point.
“Besides, that was a long time ago,” she points out. “And you’ve done so much, come so far since—”
“In spite of him, not because,” I say. “‘The best revenge is a life well-lived,’ remember?”
That’s what she said to me that night in the ER, a year and a half ago, when I was having my hand stitched. I was more fucked up than I’d like to admit, so everything came pouring out to the cute and sympathetic veterinarian who had come with me to make sure I was okay. It was a low point. I finally figured it out when I was in the back of an Uber, messed up out of my mind, with a softly whimpering teacup Yorkie in my lap: I had no one else to call. No one to come help me. All of my “friends” were too wasted or just didn’t give a shit about anything but the next score, the next party.
Things weren’t getting better—continuing to be the dumbass, spoiled brat my father thought I was didn’t feel like a win anymore. It had cost me too much.
Plus, I was tired of being lost. All the reckless shit that had once made my heart pound—how far can I go?—now seemed old and worn out. I’d been living at the bottom of a bottle, or in the dust at the bottom of a baggie, just because I could. At first it was because it felt good—and because it irritated my father to no end to hear tales of his wastrel son and to be forced to clean up my messes to preserve his own reputation. Now, it was more out of habit and a lack of knowing what else to do. I wasn’t even living at home anymore.
But that night, I could see all of that behavior for what it was—a tantrum. Me,
proving to my dad that he was right, and there was nothing he could do to make me fall in line. If I couldn’t meet his approval, I sure as hell would have no problem earning his continuous disapproval.
The issue with that approach, as Katie pointed out once I’d overshared all of this under the harsh florescent lights of the ER cubicle, was that ruining my life to spite him was still ruining my life.
The kindness of a pretty stranger in the middle of the night sometimes works miracles. Well, not immediately, but the next morning when I woke up with a throbbing hand and head and Bitsy curled up on my pillows, I couldn’t stop that conversation from circling in my brain.
Katie called me that day, and the next. Checking on Bitsy. And me. She came to my condo, brought me cookies, and examined the stitches on my hand. Taught me a few obedience tricks to keep Bitsy out from underfoot and away from danger, which Bitsy mostly ignored.
Katie was nice … and normal. Like, scarily normal. Her parents weren’t even divorced. We kept talking, texting. She, it seemed, was someone who wanted to save me, make me better. And I, for the first time, wanted to be saved.
But now, sometimes I wonder if it’s less about saving me and more about changing me into a version she likes better. To her, I’m not sure there’s a difference. Her ideal Eric is someone she thinks I can be, whether or not it’s who I want to be. At what point does it stop being saving and start being unrealistic expectations?
“I thought you wanted me to put all of this behind me. Move to Michigan, forget all this shit.” I gesture toward the windows, the motion encompassing all of L.A., including my father.
She’s quiet. “I do think a fresh start would help, more than you realize,” she says eventually. “But that doesn’t mean you should completely cut off your family, whether you’re here or there. You’ve changed. Is it so impossible that he has too? Besides, I’m sure he’s proud of what you’re trying to do.”
A few months after that night in the ER, I started trying to pull my life together. I auditioned for jobs that I would have turned my nose up at before. Making my own money, independent of my rapidly emptying trust fund, was the first step. It had to be.
It took me the better part of a year to get that work and income trickling in again and then to settle on what I wanted to do with it. Mostly because what I wanted was something I was afraid to want.
Calista was right. I always said I wouldn’t ever be a producer like my dad. I never wanted anything in common with him. Now, though, I’m hoping it’s not the occupation so much as the personality deficit that was the problem. But I still have my doubts.
“My father doesn’t do paternal pride,” I say. “Trust me.” Maybe he did once. When I was little. I remember visiting him on set for Spy Wear. Everyone deferred to him, said hello to me. He was like a superhero, greeting the waiting crowds. And when I asked, he took me on a tour of the set, seemingly pleased by my interest.
Katie makes an exasperated noise. “My point, Eric, is that if you’re so determined to stay and work in the same industry where your father is a leader, it’s stupid to let those old wounds fester and—”
“So I either make up with my dad or move to Michigan, that’s what you’re saying?” I demand.
“No!” Spots of color appear high on her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m saying I want you to be happy. I want you to be whole. And when we get married, I want us to start our new life together on the right foot. And that means our families, too. Family is important.”
Katie is a born fixer, whether it’s people or animals. All she can see are ways to try to make things better. How can anyone resist that? She has been a force for good in my life, and she asks for so little in return. I should, at least, be grateful that it’s not my mom she’s trying to wrangle.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But please don’t expect a tear-filled reunion with hugs and firm, manly claps on the back, okay?”
“I won’t. Promise.” She hesitates for a second. “But here’s the thing…”
I raise my eyebrows. “There’s another thing?”
“I know you’re going to be busy with filming the next couple of weeks, but I figured the sooner, the better…”
I fill in the blanks. “Tonight?” I demand, sitting up straight, ignoring the protest of the muscles in my back. “You told him we’d have dinner tonight?”
“I thought it was worth a shot,” she says.
“Oh come on, Katie.” I slump, resting my head on the back of the seat. “I just got home, and I slept in a shitty motel last night. Seriously, the mattress was more metal than material, probably obtained from the nearest prison dumpster, and I think the mold in the shower was sentient.”
“You are such a delicate flower,” she teases. She is, after all, the girl who enjoys camping. Like, outside. Intentionally. Her whole family does it. So far I’ve managed to be busy every time it’s been suggested.
“Damn right. But you wouldn’t say that if you saw the roaches I slept with last night. I think one of them asked for my number.” I lean in and kiss Katie because I can. This is nice. No angst, no drama. Other than my dad, but there’s no getting around that.
Still, the dull throb of guilt is present, thinking of Calista. I wonder if she’s doing okay, or if she’s already regretting her choice.
But it was, in fact, her choice to go with Lori. I didn’t engineer that.
“A good meal and deep emotional catharsis will go a long way to making you feel better, don’t you think?” Katie grins at me.
I groan in surrender, rubbing my eyes. “Fine.”
“It won’t be that bad,” she says.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes.
“Don’t worry, I have the rest of our lives to make it up to you,” she says, curling into my side.
“Yeah.” But for some reason, those words aren’t as comforting as they usually are.
* * *
I haven’t been to The Palm since I was a little kid. And that was the downtown location, rather than the newer one in Beverly Hills. But as soon as we walk in, I remember why it was one of my favorite places to eat. It smells amazing, and the cartoons and caricatures on the wall draw my eye. I always wanted to be up there. I even asked to go here for my tenth birthday, thinking that might have some sway with the whole getting my likeness on the wall. Look, I was ten, my dad was a famous producer, and his caricature was up there. Plus, I was technically a working actor at that point and had a vague idea of the celebrity that job entailed. So it kind of made sense at the time.
I’m guessing all of that is probably why my dad chose this restaurant for tonight.
Sorry, Dad, nostalgia isn’t going to cut it. Though I am surprised he remembered.
The host greets us by name, ignoring my bruised cheek like a true professional, and leads us to a booth.
I probably should have spent the afternoon catching up on sleep; my temper is always on a hair trigger when I’m tired, and my dad only tests my limits further.
Instead, I got caught up reviewing everything for this week, going over emails, answering questions, responding to Vincent’s increasingly caustic comments and notes. He’s a great director and he’ll do a good job, but holy shit, the man is a pain in the ass. I’m beginning to wonder if I didn’t steal him from my dad so much as my dad willingly surrendered him.
“This place is great,” Katie whispers to me as we walk to the back of the restaurant. “But did you see the prices? I looked them up online.” Her eyes wide, she mouths, Oh my God.
You can take the Katie out of the Midwest, but …
I smirk. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Dad’s picking up the tab, I’m sure.” Mainly because that is in keeping with his magnanimous and generous persona, and regardless of what he thinks of Katie—he damn well better not upset her—he will want her to like him. If possible, even, to like him enough to side against me. It’s messed up, but I’ve seen it happen.
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And speaking of …
My father is already at the table and seated. It takes me aback slightly, to see him here, in my reality, with Katie next to me, my hand on her lower back. It’s like two worlds colliding. Dad and I haven’t been in the same room for almost three years.
He’s wearing one of his dark, custom-tailored suits, the neck of his dress shirt open, no tie. California casual. I can almost guarantee he’s not wearing socks with his shoes.
He stands as we approach—I’m right about the sock thing, pale, hairy ankles sticking out—but as he steps forward to greet us, he passes under one of the spotlight-type fixtures, and his hair seems whiter and thinner. In fact, overall, he just seems … smaller. It takes me a second to do the math: he’ll be seventy this year. And for the first time in my recollection, he looks his age.
“Eric,” he says in that familiar clipped tone. His gaze skates over my battered face, and I brace myself, waiting. “It’s good to see you.”
It’s very hard not to raise my eyebrows at that, but conscious of Katie at my side and the high hopes she has for this meeting, I manage to maintain, I hope, a neutral expression. “Dad.”
He shakes my hand and squeezes my elbow with his free hand. Ah, the Stone version of a warm embrace.
“And this must be Dr. Katie,” he says, turning his attention to her. “I’ve done some checking on you, and you have a lot of very happy clientele, some of whom are very dear friends.”
“Oh,” she says, flustered but clearly pleased. “Thank you.” Before I can warn her, she leans in to hug him, just as he goes for another handshake.
“Sorry! I’m sorry,” she says as she tries to back-step. Her family members hug, for no reason sometimes, like when they pass each other in the kitchen.
“Forgot to warn you,” I say. “Dad hasn’t quite mastered the warm-and-fuzzy end of the emotional spectrum.”
“Eric,” he warns, but it’s in this fake, jovial, we’re-all-family-here voice, and I roll my eyes.
“It’s lovely to meet you, my dear,” he says, kissing her cheek and capturing her hand to lead her to the table.