by Stacey Kade
Without an education, I’m not trained for anything else, and if I can’t work as an actress, how am I going to survive? How is my family going to survive?
Rawley leans forward. “What do you think your loyalty will buy you other than a footnote on some digital embarrassment that will be forgotten before it’s even released?”
I shake my head. “Eric’s doing a good job. He’s working really hard, and it’s obvious to anyone that he knows what he’s doing. You should be proud of him. He clearly learned a lot from you.”
Distaste mixed with another not-quite-identifiable emotion flickers across his face and then vanishes.
It takes me a second to pin down what I saw.
Fear. Uneasiness.
“You don’t want him to do a good job,” I say slowly.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says with a false, hearty laugh. “I just don’t want him to embarrass himself. And me.” But he’s glaring at me.
I ignore his response. “Why? Because you’re afraid he’ll eventually overshadow you?” Eric knows everyone in Hollywood; he’s charming when he puts his mind to it. He’s never chosen to use those connections for anything other than a good party, but if he did, he’d be a force to contend with. Rawley is still cranking out hit shows, but his audience is getting older, and he’s tied to all the traditional means of storytelling while the industry changes around him toward more of what Eric is trying to do with Fly Girl.
It’s just a guess, little more than a stab in the dark, based on what I know about the two of them.
But Rawley’s face flushes a deep red beneath his tan.
Apparently my aim is true, even in the dark.
My mother makes a quiet, pained noise and stands abruptly, pulling me up by the wrist with her. My hip collides with the armrest, almost knocking the chair to the floor. “Thank you so much, Mr. Stone. We are so excited about your offer.”
He nods grudgingly, his chin jutting forward, as if he’s just barely holding back a retraction of his offer.
“Come on, Calista. We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Stone’s time.” She tugs me toward the door, and the motion sends an ache through my damaged shoulder.
“Lori,” I protest.
“Ms. Beckett,” Rawley says, making both of us stop and turn to face him.
“Take the offer or don’t,” he says, each word an icy bullet. “But I guarantee you this will be the last offer of any substance you’ll receive in this town.”
“We look forward to working with you,” my mom says with a smile, as if he’s not overtly threatening me. Us.
She leads me out of the office, releasing me only after we’re outside again.
Without another word, she climbs into the front seat of the car, Wade waiting patiently at the wheel.
Rubbing at my shoulder, I pull open the door to the backseat reluctantly. She’s going to yell. Or worse, cry.
But to my surprise and unease, she remains silent as Wade pulls out of the parking space and off the studio lot.
“Rawley Stone doesn’t want me for that role or any other,” I say into the quiet over the soft murmur of Wade’s talk radio. “He doesn’t even like me.” I exhale sharply. “He’s just using us to ruin Eric. That’s it. We’re pawns to him. Something to use and get rid of when and how he sees fit. You get that, right?”
I’m not expecting a response, so it takes me aback when she says, “Well-paid pawns who can use the exposure.”
I stare at her, at the back of her perfectly straightened and colored blond hair. “Maybe,” I say after a moment.
“Do you know what a recurring role on a Rawley Stone show means? A comeback. It means you’re stable and steady enough to be employed, and others will—”
“I’m not going to let him use me to hurt Eric—”
Lori gives a disbelieving laugh. “What has Eric Stone done to earn that loyalty, Calista? Use you when he needs you and then push you away? Call you when he needs to feel better about himself, and break your heart in the process?” Her gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. “Oh, yes, I know all about it.”
I shift in the seat uncomfortably. She’s not wrong. “He’s changed.” And I believe that, but it sounds weak out loud.
Lori sighs. “I am trying to get us back on track, Calista. But I need you to work with me on this. Your choices don’t affect just you,” she says. But it’s not in the high-pitched, panicky tone that she usually uses. She sounds tired and angry.
Frustration, built up over years, explodes in my chest, driving out words that I have never spoken before. “And why are you all my responsibility? Why is my life more yours than it is mine? I know rehab was expensive, I know that having me ruined your life, but how long am I going to pay for those things?” Tears sting my eyes. “How big does the check have to be? How many years of my life do you own for that?”
She stiffens. “Calista, we have all sacrificed for you to become—”
“I never asked you to!” I lean forward in my seat, against the shoulder belt digging into my neck. My heart pounds in a frantic rhythm. “I told you, I don’t even know if I want this anymore. I’m not even sure I ever did.”
Lori swivels in her seat, her mouth agape. “You used to beg me, beg me, to take you to auditions.”
“When I was five and it was fun! I was playing dress-up, pretending. I never wanted to be your cash cow.”
“I’ve given my whole life for you to achieve what I never could,” she says, slipping down into her seat and facing forward. “And you’re not even grateful.”
I shake my head, my teeth clenched, until I can force my jaw open enough to speak. “Not when you do it because it’s what you want. I want to make my own choices, try to find a life that makes me happy. Don’t you understand that?” By the end, my tone almost sounds pleading, and I hate that.
She holds up her hands. “Fine, Calista, don’t take the job. And we’ll all suffer the consequences.” My mother, the martyr.
The last of my patience evaporates, and I choke on a frustrated laugh.
“You want to talk about consequences? Where’s my money, Mom? I know I didn’t spend it, even with rehab. What do you think a lawyer would say about that?”
She sucks in a breath.
“You think I’m selfish, only making choices for myself? Fine. Now you can be free of me and my selfish whims. You can do what you want. Maybe even get a job where you earn the money instead of relying on me.” The words land like a slap.
“Calista,” Wade says sharply.
“I’m not doing it,” I say, folding my shaking hands in my lap. “I’m not going to give Rawley Stone what he wants.”
Neither of them respond to that, and the rest of the car ride home is in uncomfortable silence.
At home, my mom hurries into the house, leaving Wade and me to follow more slowly.
“She’s embarrassed,” he says quietly as I scoop up my backpack and we head toward the door. “She knows she screwed up, borrowing from you, not planning well enough.”
Stealing. He means stealing, I remind myself.
“She doesn’t know how to fix it. But she’s trying, Calista. This Rawley guy’s job, I guess, could really make a difference.”
The frustration I felt in the car increases, making it harder to breathe. “I understand that,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “But her solution for fixing it is me. It’s always me.”
“She doesn’t know how to do anything else,” he points out. “Your career is yours, but her career is you.”
I know what it’s like to be faced with the idea of being out of the only job you know how to do, but it feels like I’m screaming for air here. Like I’m drowning, and my mother is standing on top of me so she can breathe. So Wade and my sisters can breathe. How can she not see that?
“I talked with her last night. The house is going to be foreclosed on in a few months if we can’t sell it or come to an arrangement with the bank,” he says in that slow drawl. “I’m sure we’ll be f
ine, even if we’re living in an apartment somewhere. But you know your mother.”
Yes, I do. And my mother is all about appearances. It would kill her to be downgraded in life that far.
And so what? Maybe that would be good for her.
That’s what I want to say. But what about my sisters? And then there’s the issue of where I’m supposed to go. After my big speech about living for myself, it seems incredibly hypocritical to keep living with my mom and Wade, wherever they end up, relying on them to keep a roof over my head. But with little money and only one semester paid for at Blake College, I am at loose ends, with no plan.
Unless I follow the one my mother has in mind.
The slow-boiling panic in me picks up speed and force.
“Just think about it,” Wade says, leaving me behind at the threshold into the house.
I stand there for a long moment, on the outside. The warm air ruffles my hair and tickles against my skin. I really have missed it here. Would it be so horrible to stay?
But the idea of working for Rawley makes my stomach churn. Especially when I imagine telling Eric.
But I can see his face the moment I tell him: the surprise followed by a flash of hurt and then that determined blankness. He won’t be angry. He won’t yell or accuse me. He’ll just shut down and pull away. It’ll be like seeing him at a distance, even when we’re in the same room. And there will be no coming back from it because he’ll see it as choosing his father over him, as so many people have done in so many ways. And he’ll be right.
I will lose the only person who ever made me feel like I was good enough just being me. That I didn’t need to be more, thinner or prettier or just better in some indefinable way. I will lose the last part of my Starlight family, a trio that on some days felt—and continues to feel—more real than the one I’m related to by blood.
I wrap my arms around my middle, holding myself tight, like I might break apart otherwise.
I can’t do that.
When I finally cross into the kitchen, my mom is there fussing over Zinn, who has an ice pack pressed against her forehead.
“What happened?” I ask, my own problems forgotten as I rush in, shutting the door behind me.
My mother doesn’t respond, ignoring me as if I’m not there. The sound of SportsCenter drifts in faintly from the living room.
“I fell at school today,” Zinn says with a grimace, lowering the pack so I can see the purple bump rising above her eyebrow.
“Fell? How?” I ask. Zinn is not the clumsy type. “Did someone push you?”
She doesn’t say anything at first, darting a glance at my mom. “The nurse says I fainted,” she mutters.
Because she’s not eating enough. Damnit.
“You’ll be fine,” my mom says to her. “Your dad said the doctors don’t think you have a concussion. The goose egg should be mostly gone by the time you have callbacks next week, and whatever’s left we can cover with makeup.” She pats Zinn’s shoulder reassuringly.
Realization washes over me in a cold rush. Zinn is determined to live up to my mom’s expectations. Because she feels like she has to.
And my mom is going to let her. If I don’t fall in line, Lori’s going to use Zinn (and Poppy and Dahlia) to take my place. Or she’s going to try, anyway.
“Come on, sweetie, let’s get you upstairs. I think I’ve got something that will help take that swelling down even faster,” Lori says to Zinn.
“Mom,” I say, my voice cracking and crumbling under the pressure. “You can’t. Don’t do this. She doesn’t want it.”
She ignores me and hustles Zinn out of the room. At the doorway, Zinn gives me a look over her shoulder, half-imploring, half-resigned.
Spots dance in my vision, and I can’t breathe.
I cross the kitchen on shaky legs and yank open the back door, trying to suck in enough air to make this dizzy feeling go away.
But it remains, even with the breeze against my face and the open night sky above me.
What am I going to do? What am I going to do? The question is on a relentless loop in my brain, just repeating over and over again like one of those emergency flash flood warnings.
To save Zinn and my family, I have to say yes to Rawley’s offer. To save myself—to have any part of me left—I need to say no.
My stomach churns up acid into the back of my throat, and I swallow hard.
I can’t … I need to get out of here.
The drive to escape forces my feet forward, and I start walking, past the car, down toward the end of the driveway. Our house is all lit up, looking warm and homey from the outside. A home we will lose.
I blink back tears. I can’t be here right now. But I don’t have anywhere else to go.
Helping isn’t the same thing as controlling. Eric’s weary voice sounds in my head again, the words playing back from earlier today, and it sets off a deep and powerful ache in my chest.
I hope, I pray, he’s right. And that I’m right about him. I need to be. I need him.
With fumbling fingers, I pull my phone from my pocket and press his number.
Eric answers on the second ring. “Calista?” he asks, sounding cautious and somewhat surprised.
“Hi.” Just hearing his voice makes my eyes well up and spill over with tears. I take a deep breath. “I need help.” Possibly the hardest words I’ve ever had to say.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” His voice sharpens.
I turn to stare back at the house from the foot of the driveway. “I’m home, for now. Things have gotten … more complicated.” A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob escapes me.
“What happened?” he asks, and I can hear the dark anger in his voice. He suspects it’s Lori. No, he knows it’s Lori.
I take a deep breath and tell him. Everything, from Rawley’s offer to Zinn’s injury and my fears about what it means, both now and for her future.
He doesn’t say anything, and the silence, but for faint rustling indicating movement on his end, unnerves me.
Wiping under my eyes, I try to control my breathing. “I need to get out of here. But I don’t have anywhere to go.” The admission costs me, a price that I cannot afford if he runs, if he can’t be the person I believe he is. “I just … I’m afraid I’m going to give in, and I don’t want to.”
Hearing the words aloud makes the entire situation—my entire life—real. More real than I can handle at the moment. I crouch at the foot of the driveway, my backpack sliding down my bad arm, my knees against my chest, tilting the phone away from my mouth, away from the anguish and panic I’m trying to muffle but is somehow escaping in these loud, barking cries.
“Stay right where you are,” Eric orders, his voice distant for a moment. Then he’s back closer. “I’m sending a car. I’m having them bring you to my place.”
It takes me a second to get enough of my breath back to speak. “Thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt you and Katie.” Thinking of them, of her next to him in bed or on the couch, listening to this panicked and tear-filled conversation and shaking her head with pity, makes me flinch.
He sighs. “It’s fine. She’s not here. We ended things.”
Shock makes me forget everything else momentarily. “What?”
“It’s a long story,” he says, each word threaded with an odd tension. It doesn’t sound exactly like sadness or even disappointment. I’m not sure what it is. “I’ll tell you more later.”
It clicks, then. “So you’re at your condo.” I’d pictured letting myself into his empty home with a spare key from the doorman or a neighbor.
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Is that okay?”
Yes. I want to say it, but I’m afraid of how it will come out—desperate, hopeful, longing, too much of all of those things.
“Of course, it’s okay,” I say, striving for a normal tone. “It’s your place.” And he’s being a good friend, taking me in.
Eric stays on the phone with me until the car arrives
, which is quickly enough that he must be a good customer or he offered an enormous tip.
I climb into the car—a shiny black sedan—shut the door behind me, and sink into the leather backseat with relief. But as the sedan pulls away, leaving my house and my family behind, it feels like I’m making an irrevocable choice, forging a new path. And that sends a nervous or possibly excited shiver over my skin. Because I’m not sure what the destination is or what might happen along the way.
20
ERIC
I’m waiting in the open doorway to my apartment when Calista steps out of the elevator onto my floor.
She doesn’t realize I’m there at first, so I have a few seconds to observe her. Her shoulders are hunched forward protectively, and her gaze is fixed on the carpet, as if its pattern holds whatever answers she’s seeking.
It crushes something inside me to see her looking so sad.
I almost speak up right then—a joke, a sarcastic comment, anything to divert her, to make her laugh or roll her eyes—but as soon as I open my mouth, she takes a deep breath and straightens herself up, lifting her chin with a determined expression.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Hey,” she says, slowing for a moment.
“Just wanted to make sure you got here okay,” I say, which is a lame excuse for what amounts to eagerness. Eagerness to help, to make her feel better. To make her not regret trusting me.
I frown as she approaches. “That’s all you brought?” I ask, nodding at the backpack over her shoulder.
“It’s all I had with me. Clothes from earlier today, wallet, passport. I couldn’t go back in there. Not tonight.” She shakes her head.
When I step back to let her in, she smiles up at me. Her eyes, normally a very clear blue, are so red and watery they look painful. “I don’t know how things got so messed up,” she says. “How we got so messed up.”
“Callie.” Her name escapes, fueled by the ache in my chest. It hurts me that she’s hurting like this. I’m going to kill my dad.
I expected nothing less from her mother and my father, though the lengths they’re both willing to go is definitely an unpleasant surprise. And something I’m going to have to deal with. I shove down the impulse for destruction temporarily—it’s my natural state, to destroy things. Shouldn’t be too hard to come back to it. But for the moment, I want to make sure Calista is okay.