by JA Huss
“No,” she sighs. “I’m gonna go home and cook, I think.”
“Yeah?” I’m surprised. She’s never cooked for me before. In fact, she doesn’t do much of anything for me. So this is a good sign. I smile and play with her hair. “What will you make?”
“What do you like that I can make at home?” She turns a little so she can look me in the eye.
“Steaks?” I don’t give a fuck what she makes. She can serve me peanut butter and jelly for all I care. I just want her to be happy.
I don’t think she’s happy.
I’m not enough to make her happy.
“I can do steaks.”
“Good.” I get up and shove my dick back in my pants, then reach for her hand and bring her to her feet and then pull her shorts back up. “I can’t wait to come home.”
“What time will you be?” She looks up at me and her eyes have that lost look in them I’ve become used to.
God, she’s so vulnerable right now. Her request is almost a plea. I hate leaving her home alone. “Eight? Maybe?”
“Oh.” She’s disappointed. I can tell. But we work long hours when we’re filming. It costs money to pack things up and quit for the day. “OK. I’ll see you at eight.”
I hold her hand as we walk outside and then she gives me a little wave as she heads in the direction of the attendant responsible for her while she’s on the lot. She gets in the golf cart and pulls a pair of sunglasses on. But I catch it.
A fingertip slides up under her glasses to wipe her eye. Like she’s crying.
The golf cart takes off and I’m just about to go after her when I hear them calling for me.
She just needs time. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. Time heals things.
I guess that’s true. Time healed her after the first incident. But it’s different now. She was a child. Children are resilient. That’s what they say, anyway. Children bounce back.
“Mr. Asher?”
My assistant is right up next to me now. “Yeah, coming.”
I know Grace is still sad about how things ended back in Nebraska and it makes me feel helpless. Because there’s no dollar amount that can fix this for her. There’s no gift, no vacation, no promise that can fix this.
It’s up to her now. All I can do is make sure no one else interferes with her recovery. And so far, that’s going great. Buzz backed off. No other new sources have turned up.
So why do I feel so sure that something’s coming?
“Mr. Asher?” my assistant asks again as I stare at the disappearing golf cart.
“Right.” I turn away and follow him back inside.
Chapter Ninety-Three - Grace
#NotGoodEnoughToBeAStupidWhore
“GRACE?” he whispers in my ear. “You awake, sweets?”
This must be our new thing.
“Grace? You want to come have lunch with me again today? Only this time we’ll really eat?”
“No,” I mumble from under the covers.
“Are you sure? I’d love it if you came to the set today.”
“No,” I say again with more conviction.
“OK. Well, dinner last night was delicious. Will you cook tonight? Or should I bring something home?”
“God, I don’t know. It’s not even time for breakfast yet.”
He’s silent for a few moments. I’m being a bitch, I know this. I want him to call me on it. To tell me to stop my moping. But they didn’t do that back when I was a teen and no one is going to do that now.
They tiptoe around me. Even Vaughn. No one knows what to do with me, so they figure I should be allowed to do whatever I want, I guess.
Well, I want to be a bitch. Because I’m angry about something. I’m not even sure what it is. I’m just angry.
Asher is still talking but I tune him out.
I’m trying to figure out what’s got me so pissed off and I just can’t seem to get a hold of it. I get another kiss and I make an effort and throw the covers back. “Sorry,” I say as he walks away. “I’m grumpy.”
He stops and takes a deep breath. But he doesn’t turn back. “I’ll see you tonight, OK?”
I nod but say nothing.
And he leaves.
Good going, Grace. I guess you got what you wanted. I throw the covers back over my head and try to go back to sleep. I lie there for thirty minutes until I give up and reach under my pillow for my phone to find Bebe’s face. I press it and wait for it to ring.
“Hola, bitch,” she says in her chirpy Bebe tone. “What’s shakin’ bacon?”
This makes me smile immediately. She’s so stupid. “Your tits, as usual. Those giant knockers are gonna take your eye out one of these days.”
“Totally. But I got them strapped in at the moment.”
“You at work?”
“Yup. Did you know that sweaty guys in a gym, who beat each other up for a living in a ring they call a cage, are hot as fucking hell?”
I smile wider. “So, Steve’s two-hour parking limit is up, I take it?”
“So up. Dude, he was talking about kids. Do you believe that shit? I am not mother material. I mean, seriously. Anyone who knows me knows I am not mother material. I’m fun party material. I want no ties for at least ten more years. I’m all about enjoying your youth while you have it.”
“Did he cry?” I laugh. Bebe has been known to make men cry. Hell, Vaughn is even afraid of her.
“Almost. Pffft. Wimp. So what’s up with you, chica? Living la vida loca?”
Fucking Bebe. I miss her so damn much. “Eh. I’m at home in bed. Vaughn is working. So… eh. I’m at home in bed.”
“What’s wrong?”
I hesitate. Because even though a few minutes ago I was trying to pretend that I didn’t know what was wrong, I know what’s wrong. “I feel like… going home.”
“You are home.”
I take a deep breath. “No. My home.”
The silence hurts. It really does. But I suppose my words hurt Bebe even more.
“Why?” she finally asks. “I mean, after all these years. Why now?”
“I don’t know. It’s a bad idea?”
“Such a bad idea.”
I knew it.
“But,” she adds after a few seconds, “if you need to go, Grace, then you should go.”
“I have a private jet. Well, I mean, I have one available to me. As Mrs. Asher. I’m coming right now.”
“Now? But I’m at work.”
God, I love my adopted sister. She just naturally assumes we’d do this together. “That’s OK, Bebe. I can go alone. Really. It’s not a big deal. In fact, I want to go alone.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. How about I call you later and maybe we can have dinner?”
“OK.”
She sounds hesitant, so I say goodbye and quickly hang up before she can ask any more questions. I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want her to feel obligated.
I stare at my phone for a few seconds to get up my nerve. When Vaughn gave me this phone the day after we came home from the hospital, it had all his contacts in it already. His agent. Big Hollywood producers and movie stars. Restaurants he frequents. And the flight coordinator.
I press that tab now and tell them I want to go to Denver. It’s a three-hour drive up to the town I grew up in from Denver, but I can use the thinking time. Plus, I don’t want those people to know I’m coming. I don’t know why, but I don’t want them to know I’m coming. And if I take a jet up to that little airstrip, they will know.
Once the arrangements are made, I get up and take a shower and get dressed. I skip breakfast—they always serve food on the jet—and then I climb into the Audi Vaughn says is mine, and drive out to the airport.
By the time I get there, it’s fueled, the captain is on board, and the only thing missing is me. Vaughn didn’t call and ask me what the hell I’m doing, so I can only assume they didn’t inform him of my plans.
I breathe a huge sigh
of relief at that because he’d have all kinds of questions. And I’m not ready to answer those questions.
I really just want some space. I need some space to put things together.
I spend the next few hours staring off into said space. Just thinking.
Thinking about too many things, if I’m honest. About the kidnapping. Both times. About Vaughn. About my leg. It’s better, almost one hundred percent better, but it was very painful. You know, in movies and books they always make it look like getting shot in the leg is no big deal. Well, it was a big fucking deal. My scar is four inches long. It took me three weeks before I could walk without a crutch, and then it took weeks more of physical therapy to get rid of the limp.
The first time I was taken, I came back with no injuries. I mean, he injured me plenty during those eight months. But there was no medical attention required. I didn’t need fixing. I was fine.
This time it’s different. This time everyone knew I was damaged and that I needed attention. And believe me, I got a lot of attention. I almost prefer no attention. In fact, I know I’d prefer no attention.
I like to blend in.
I like to lie low.
I like to be still, and quiet and—
Wait. No, that’s not right.
Grace—or the old Grace, at least—likes to talk. She likes to tweet, and Facebook, and chat. That was my whole social life before… before this happened.
How did I get so confused?
The captain comes on over the intercom and announces that we’ll be landing in ten minutes. I never took my seatbelt off, so his spiel is wasted on me.
I don’t even know why I want to go home to see those people. I guess it’s just killing me to know that I have real blood relatives but I have no connection to them at all.
I sigh and push all those melancholy thoughts away as we descend. And when the wheels touch down, I’m resolved to see this through. No matter what.
“We have a car ready for you, Mrs. Asher. It will pull up into arrivals in ten minutes and should be waiting for you by the time you get outside.”
I nod absently as I chew on my fingernail. Why am I doing this?
I wish I knew. I’m not myself these days. I know that. But it’s like I have this momentum and I don’t know how to stop… whatever direction it is I’m heading.
The plane taxis for another minute and then we stop. I sit quietly as the staff opens things up and then the attendant turns and smiles at me. She has very red lipstick and a tight bun. “You’re all set, Mrs. Asher.”
I hate that they call me that, but I use it myself when I need to get things done. Like taking my husband’s jet for the day.
“Thank you,” I sing back in a cheerful voice. She beams a smile at me like maybe I’m not the damaged freak everyone thinks I am.
You know, it’s funny—I take a few steps off the plane and the wind and cold overtake my thoughts for a second. It’s November in Colorado and I forgot my coat—it’s so easy for me to smile and be fake. I did it so much back when I was a teen. It’s like acting. And that’s what’s funny. Because I married an actor.
Is it this easy for him to hide his true feelings?
I continue with my smile as I walk across the tarmac and go inside the small, but bustling, terminal. The place is abuzz with people. Mostly rich business travelers. None of them pay me any attention as I walk straight across and out the doors to the pickup line.
And stop dead. So I can smile for real. “What are you doing here, bitch?”
Bebe is wrapped up in a stylish red wool coat with a black belt that makes her waist look tiny and her boobs look enormous. She’s got on dark sunglasses and her long, almost-black hair is waving gently around her face in the wind. Bebe looks like a movie star. She slips her sunglasses down her nose and gives me a smirk. “Do you really think I’m going to let you go see those awful people alone?”
I cross the distance between us and she pulls me in for a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you so much. I just need to take one more look at them, y know?”
“I know, chica.” And then she pushes me back. “You don’t even limp!”
“I know, thanks to you. I hear you called in for a progress report twice a week.”
“Well,” she says as she puts her arm around me and leads me towards a black car, “it was the least I could do. I wanted to be with you for every second of your recovery.”
“You were, Bebe. You were. I saw your face everywhere as I struggled. I love your fucking face.”
“Right back at you, bitch. Now get in,” she says, opening the passenger side of her black Porsche Macan. “I’ll drive and you talk. Oh,” she says just as my door closes. She jogs around the front of the car and gets in before she picks up her sentence again. “I mapped out all the Starbucks from here to Holyoke!”
“They don’t have Starbucks in eastern Colorado, Bebes.”
“I know,” she pouts. “It’s like the apocalypse already happened out there.”
People make fun of small towns. And I guess they deserve it for being so backwards and slow. But I never minded them. It was nice to be in a place with no traffic and no crime.
Well, I guess that’s not true. My whole family was murdered in our home, so obviously every town has crime.
I still wonder why that freak fixated on me. Why me? I’m not ugly by any means. I’m cute. I have my beautiful moments. But why me?
Bebe chats all the way into Parker to pick up coffee, we use the drive-through, and then we get back on the freeway that will take us out into no-man’s-land. It’s a long drive up. Probably boring for most people. But it’s been a while since I saw hay baled up neat and lining fields. And the farther away from Denver we go, the more I feel the tug of home. Whole flocks of turkeys wander around the side of the roads. Herds of antelope stare at us as we pass. Snow begins to fall as we make our way north. And before I know it, Bebe stops talking and we drive into town.
It’s quaint, I’ll give it that. It’s well-kept and colorful with the fall decorations. The downtown is small, just a block really. But it’s bustling with busy people.
No one looks at us and yet… everyone looks at us. I mean, a Porsche SUV is not something you see every day in Holyoke. Luckily it only takes us about thirty seconds to drive through town and then we turn east. I look over at Bebe.
“You want to see the farm, right?”
I nod. She knows me so well. And the fact that she knows how to get there without asking me for directions… well, that’s something too. It’s a maze of dirt roads and dead ends. And every field of winter wheat or fallow ground looks like the next. But sure as shit, she finds the house.
Bebe pulls her e-brake as soon as we stop but she doesn’t turn off the engine. “I’m not going inside.”
I look over at her and she turns her head to meet my gaze.
“I don’t want to go inside,” she repeats.
I swallow down my fear and open my door. I step out into the muddy driveway and close the door quietly behind me and then take a few tentative steps towards my home.
I still own it. Which is why it’s still standing, I suppose. No one farms this land. The barns are all empty and the only sound is the slight hum from Bebe’s car and the wind whistling through the trees.
My courage builds as I take a few more steps and then I’m just walking up to the front stoop. The windows aren’t broken. There’s no graffiti on the white siding that covers the exterior. The curtains are all closed.
It almost looks like someone lives here.
I reach for the door handle and…
“Don’t do it, Grace,” Bebe calls out. “Don’t go in. It’s locked, I bet. We’ll have to break a window. And that will open it all up again. Just leave it alone.”
I turn back to her. She’s half in and half out of the car. One foot on the ground. The wind is blowing her hair sideways and a chill runs up my spine.
I rub my arms and hug myself to stave off the cold. “I n
eed a coat,” I call back.
“There’s no coats in there, Grace. We had it cleaned out, remember? There’s nothing in there.”
I look back at the door, at my hand still reaching for the handle. “What if… I open that door and they’re still in there?”
“They’re not in there, Grace.” She’s right up beside me now. “They’re not in there.”
“I know that. But can’t a girl hold onto a little hope?”
“That’s not hope, Kinsella. That’s denial.” I look over at her and she shrugs. “Truth.” And then she hops down off the stoop and picks up a rock and climbs back up. “But if you really want to go inside, I’ll help you. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’ll—”
Her words are cut off as a car comes slowly down the gravel driveway. A maroon sedan covered in a layer of dust and dirt.
“Who’s that?” I ask. But I already know. “Aunt Rachel.”
The car parks next to Bebe’s and idles there. I stare into the eyes of a living blood relative for the first time in ten years and my heart goes wild with fear. Her hair is hidden by a wool hat, but even through the window I can see a few straggly strands of gray peeking out. She was pretty when I was a kid. At least, that’s how I remember her. She and my mom used to look alike, but the woman I see through the glass does not look like the mother I have in my memories.
Maybe it’s the frown?
I only let myself remember my mother as happy. Because my last memory of her was the horror that took place the night she was killed.
Aunt Rachel leaves the engine running and then opens the door of the car and places a hesitant foot outside. Just like Bebe did a few moments earlier. It’s like this place makes everyone pause before getting out. “What’re you doing here?” she yells over the wind.
I look at Bebe and she’s squinting her eyes at my aunt, but she stays silent.
“Visiting,” I call back from the stoop.
“You have no right to come back here and disrupt the quiet. No right.”
My eyebrows go up. “I own this farm.”
“I own this farm. This is my farm. I grew up on this farm. Your mama got it in the will and that’s how you got it. But this farm is mine.”