Protecting Her Pride

by Jade Webb

  I make my way back to the couch and grab my phone. I type out a quick text to Drizzle. Can you call me? Something happened today and I’m kinda freaked out.

  A few moments later, a response comes back. Sry babe. In the studio laying out some sick tracks and can’t talk.

  I’m surprised to find myself not even minimally annoyed that I know he’s lying. From my phone call to him a mere twenty minutes ago, I could tell he was at some club. But if I’m being honest with myself, the relationship I have with Drizzle is more a crutch than anything. I keep him around to ward off the loneliness. It’s a pathetic attempt at filling some of the hollow parts inside of me that, in the safety of the darkness of my room late at night, I can admit I know will never be whole again. And the saddest part is, I don’t even care anymore how pathetic it all sounds. I’ve grown too apathetic to care about much beyond my next drink.

  Don’t bother. I’m going to bed. I quickly shoot out the text, too annoyed to bother anymore.

  This time, it takes him less than ten seconds to type out a reply. You wearing something sexy?

  I groan in frustration at his response and choose to ignore him in favor of my bed, a half empty bottle of Ciroc, and a queue of CSI lined up on my Netflix. When I reach my empty room, I turn on all the lights and double check the bathroom before rushing into the bed and drawing the sheets up to my chin. I know the last thing I should be doing is watching a TV show about creepy criminals and getting drunk in bed, but even as terrible as it sounds, it still beats the alternative: actually acknowledging that in this big house—with over six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a wine cellar, media room, and two Jacuzzis—I am completely and utterly alone. So I take a long swallow, letting the vodka burn a trail down my throat, then another and another until I feel my eyes close and the empty bottle fall to the floor at my side.

  2

  Daphni

  The sun pouring through my windows quickly pulls me out of my bizarre Ciroc and CSI-fueled dream of hunting down a human-sized spider serial killer that targets blonde Asian women. I tug the blankets over my head in a futile attempt to catch a few more moments of sleep, only to let out a frustrated groan when my phone dings with a new text message a second later. Sleep is overrated, anyways. Especially when I know that I’m going to wake up with a massive headache that feels like it’s piercing my actual brain. I guess half a handle of vodka will do that to you.

  Groaning, I throw off the sheets and turn to grab my phone. It’s a text from Melissa. Did you speak with Jerry yet?

  I let out a curse and toss my phone to the side. No, of course I hadn’t spoken with Jerry yet. I’m terrified to do it, and I can easily think of a thousand other things I would rather do instead, like get a root canal, or wear Crocs in public.

  But I also know that I do not want to have another night like last night. My usual remedy of getting blitzed before bed had only worked for a few hours. I had shot straight awake around three in the morning, convinced I’d heard footsteps. Then at three fifteen, I swore I heard someone breathing. At three seventeen, I decided I was going to get murdered at any moment, so I’d thrown on some lip gloss hoping that at the very least, I’d look cute when they leaked shots of my slaughtered body to the press. After that, I had just lain in bed, the covers up to my chin and my body tense, as I dissected every small noise I heard, wondering if this would be the moment I’d be hacked to death.

  It was probably my fault, since I’d fallen asleep to CSI episodes. Dumb move. I have a new album to prep for, magazine interviews to sit for, and red carpets to attend. I need my attention on my career, not on some psycho freak. And if that means I need to grovel at Jerry’s doorstep, then that is what I’ll do.

  I take my time showering and stand a solid five minutes under the spray of the water. I know it’s a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable, but I’m desperate. As I step out of the shower and into my walk-in closet, I survey my wardrobe options. I don’t think I really have an “I’m an asshole, please forgive me and make sure I don’t get sliced into thirty pieces and eaten” outfit, so I settle on tight black skinny jeans, a loose, light grey sweater that dips into a deep V in the back, and black booties. I let my bright pink hair down, resting to just below my shoulders, and grab a pair of dark sunglasses to finish the outfit.

  I look in the large, floor-length mirror in my closet and take a deep breath. “It’s time to put on your big girl pants, Daphni. Just get this freaking over with,” I tell my reflection. The pep talk does its trick and with a determined nod, I head out the door with my bag and keys in tow.

  Robert (or was it Richard?), one of the bodyguards in rotation from the agency I’d hired, is waiting downstairs. His eyes are glued to the screen on his phone, and he doesn’t look up until I clear my throat. To his credit, he shoots me a guilty look as he quickly shoves his phone into his pocket.

  “I’m heading out. I’ll be back in about an hour,” I tell him.

  He starts to stand, and I wave my hand at him. “I’m going alone. You can just wait here. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  He nods passively and sits back down, pulling his phone out again. I grit my teeth in annoyance and without another word, I head to the garage. Today I want to be inconspicuous, so I grab the keys to the black Prius. Once inside, I carefully back out my car, drive down my long driveway, and out the iron gate.

  I don’t bother plugging in Jerry’s address into my GPS. His house was my second home and for a long time, the only place that actually felt like home, too. For over forty years, he’s lived in the same house: a simple bungalow with a beautiful garden in the back that was carefully tended for by Annette. It had been too long since I’d last been there, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to go back. There are too many memories. The worst kind of memories: the happy ones that remind me I used to be a girl who laughed with all her body, and loved with all her heart—a girl with people who loved me in return. It's the happy memories that haunt me the most.

  But then I remember last night, and being paralyzed by fear as my brain weaved together all the creaks and groans of the night, composing the soundtrack to my impending and unavoidable death, and I force myself to admit that I can’t spend the next few months of my life like that. So I swallow my pride and hop onto the 101 headed east toward Pasadena.

  With each mile closer to Jerry’s house, the memories and the guilt grow stronger. It's been a whole year since I’d last seen Jerry. We definitely did not part on good terms. I had been drunk when I’d seen him last. I had fired him after he had heard Drizzle call me a bitch and promptly punched Drizzle in the nose. I had only been dating Drizzle, better known as Seth Moskowitz, for six weeks at that point. He was a zero-talent “rapper,” but his dad owned a record label and he bankrolled his son’s career. He was tall and lean and covered in tattoos. He kept his hair long, typically in a man-bun at the nape of his neck, and always wore a long, gold chain. He was a walking cliché and came with a blinking red warning sign that that flashed “RUN AWAY!” He was a mistake waiting to happen, and every inch of my self-sabotaging body wanted him. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that having me on his arm would boost his “career,” so like two tornados, we collided, destroying everything in our path.

  After he punched Drizzle, I had gone ballistic. Even though he had kept me safe, consoled me after disappointments and failures, treated me like his own daughter, I had still picked Drizzle over him. I fired him, threw him out, and told Melissa to send him a $500,000 check to make sure he wouldn’t talk to the press. He never cashed the check, and he never spoke to the press.

  I hit the steering wheel in annoyance. I hated how I destroyed all the good things in my life. Why did I make such stupid decisions? Why had I chosen Drizzle over Jerry? Someone who I knew loved and cared for me?

  My thoughts instantly turn to a conversation I had last week with Gabby. She was worried about me, I could tell. She was always worried about me. I was supposed to be the bigger sister, worry about her. I had made a
joke to distract her, and instead of laughing along, she had looked at me and asked, “Why do you always push away the people who love you?”

  Why do I always push away the people who love me? What was wrong with me? I was a realist. I knew Drizzle was not “the one.” He was kind of an idiot, actually. But he was hot, rich, and always ready for a good time. He was nothing more than another one of my addictions: a convenient distraction.

  God, that is so pathetic. This is exactly why I hate being alone: it forces me to finally confront the ugly truths about myself and acknowledge that I had very few, if any, redeeming qualities. The only qualities people were interested in anyway were the ones that made them money. Because if you look more than skin deep—beyond the sultry voice, the perky tits, and the firm ass that requires at least an hour in the gym each day—it is clear as fucking day that I’m damaged goods. Sure, I have a good pedigree, being the daughter of a billionaire and a pop star with millions of fans. But truthfully, I am nothing more than a bird in a gilded cage. The most pathetic part, though, is that I had lost all desire to escape my cage. No, that would require actually giving a damn, and I had not done that for a long time.

  Thankfully, I spot my exit coming up and it pulls me out of my depressing train of thought. As I veer off the highway and find my way on the side streets of Pasadena, I begin to feel a swirl of nervous knots tighten in my stomach. I make two more turns, the path to Jerry’s home ingrained in my DNA, before pulling to the side of the road outside of the small, blue bungalow that had been a staple in my life since I was sixteen.

  I turn the car off and stare across the street as a flood of memories rush over me. My body, sprawled on the plush, green grass, as I watch the clouds. Helping Annette, Jerry’s wife, plant the row of tulips in the front lawn. Coming over for dinner after Jerry would lie and tell my mother he was taking me to a club appearance, to give me a break from the nonstop performances and appearances my mother and manager arranged.

  I muster up my courage and tell myself that even if he kicks me to the curb, I am going to apologize and let him hear how sorry I am, how often I think back to that night, how much I regret how callously I’d kicked him out of my life. I want him to know how much I regret it all. How sometimes it feels like I am watching myself from afar, and while I want to scream at the top of my lungs to stop myself from making all these terrible decisions, no sound comes out, and I am forced to watch as I make yet another terrible choice that inevitably hurts someone I love. I am a runaway train set for collision and I do enough damage to myself without having to worry about a stalker who wants me dead.

  After I sit for a few long minutes watching my hands grip the steering wheel, I take one long deep breath and jump out of my car. My bag in hand, I cross across the street and jog up the steps until I reach the cheery, yellow door. Steeling myself, I lift my hand to the door and knock.

  3

  Daphni

  Each second I wait for the door to open feels like a millennium. I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my pants and take deep breaths, convincing myself not to run. Not that I think I could at this point: my feet feel like a thousand pounds, grounded to the concrete beneath me.

  I hear footsteps padding to the door, then the undeniable creaking of the door slowly opening.

  A nervous smile instantly jumps on my face as I see Annette, Jerry’s wife, open the door. I can read the surprise in her expression as the corners of her blue eyes crinkle and a large, welcoming smile stretches over her face. “Daphni!” she exclaims as she steps onto the stoop, her inviting arms flung out wide.

  I wrap my arms around her and she squeezes me tightly. I cling onto her, desperate to feel again the loving warmth and acceptance her hugs always offered. She pulls back, her concerned eyes on me, when she feels my body shake against her. Keeping her hands on my arms, she looks up at me.

  “Baby girl, I am so happy to see you. We heard about your momma and were so sad. Did you get the card we sent?”

  I nod, too afraid to speak and reveal the shakiness in my voice. When I was younger, I had always let myself fall apart with Annette because I knew she could help me put the pieces together. As the years trailed on, and my path of destruction grew too overwhelming, I had come to realize that there were just too many broken pieces to ever put me back together again. So I stopped letting myself fall apart and instead, collected all the broken pieces together and shoved them to a place far away, where I would never have to look at them. It was a terrible coping strategy, but it was working for now.

  “Thank you, Annette,” I tell her after taking a minute to regain my composure.

  Annette gingerly takes the sunglasses off my face and cups my cheeks in her hands. Her blue eyes lock on mine, offering me her reassuring strength. “I am so happy to see you,” she repeats, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me at her earnest words.

  I nod and pray that she doesn’t notice the tears building in my eyes. I don’t deserve this kind of love. I don’t deserve for her to hug me like this. I don’t deserve for her to welcome me back with open arms. I don’t deserve any of this, and yet when she offers it, I take it. Because even though I know I’m not deserving, I need it so badly.

  With a quick wink, she slips her hand in mine and leads me into the living room. She sits me down on the familiar floral couch.

  “I want to hear everything, Daphni. But I know someone who will be so excited to see you, so you just sit tight,” she orders before quickly shuttling into the kitchen. A second later, I hear the door to the backyard slam closed. I cross and uncross my legs as I will my body to stop shuddering. Even the nerves I’d felt before accepting my first Grammy award had not compared to this. Then again, I had been wasted that night. Today I didn’t have the benefit of vodka to steady my racing heart.

  A few moments later, I hear the door slam closed again and the loud footsteps of work boots on the tiled kitchen floor. I forcefully drag my eyes up to the door frame to the kitchen and see Jerry, clad in a T-shirt and dirty jeans, with a concerned look on his face. I suddenly feel so small, so exposed under his assessment. Like Melissa, Jerry had always been able to read me like an open book.

  “Daphni,” he says, his voice a comforting reminder of the man who’d been like a father to me. Rich and deep, his voice could send men half his age running for the hills when he would discover them in my room, hovering over my body as I lay like a zombie, too buzzed or high to know what was going on. That same voice would keep me company on long plane rides, telling me the lamest jokes or the most thrilling stories from his time in the Marines. That voice was my home.

  I bite my lip and look up at him, doing my best to smile but knowing that if I move a muscle on my face, I will completely crumble apart.

  He steps toward me and sinks down on the couch beside me. His large arm swings around me, looping over my shoulder and pulling me against him. At his touch, I tightly wrap my arms around him and curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt as my body shakes and the tears start to spill uncontrollably. I haven’t cried in years, especially not this ridiculous, ugly crying that sends sobs racking through my body. He doesn’t say a word but quietly rubs my back, knowing exactly what I need. My sobs are muffled in his shirt and after a few minutes, I feel my breath start to steady and I slowly pull out of his embrace.

  I see Annette watching us from the doorway, her own eyes glistening as Jerry uses his thumb to wipe the remaining tears from my face.

  “I am so glad to see you, Daphni,” he says. I feel another tear fall down my cheek as guilt pricks my insides. I don’t deserve to be loved like this. I feel like a fraud. And when Annette perches on the arm of the couch behind me and places her comforting hands on my shoulders, I let her. I’m greedy for their affection, even though I know I don’t deserve it.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face Jerry beside me. “Jerry, I don’t know how I could ever apologize to you for everything that I did.”

  Jerry holds up his hands, stopping me. “Daph
ni, it’s okay.”

  I shake my head and continue. “No, it’s not. You were the closest thing to a father I ever had, and I threw that all away. I am so sorry. And I know I don’t deserve to even ask you, but I need you. I’m scared, and you’re the only one I trust to help me.”

  Concern and confusion wash over his face at my words. “What are you talking about?”

  I take in a deep, steadying breath. “For about six months now, I’ve been receiving these creepy letters. Like ‘cutting letters from magazines and talking about how they want to make me theirs’ creepy. And I guess we just ignored them, but then last week, someone broke into my house and stole…some things, then sent them back to me with another, even creepier letter saying that he is going to take me.”

  The whole story comes out in a rushed breath. I purposely leave out the part where the author describes how he wants to kill me slowly and dissect my body piece by piece. A small, delusional part of me believes that if I don’t talk about it, then it isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, then it’s no more than a creepy letter from an overly obsessed fan with boundary issues. That I can stomach much easier than a psycho killer who wants to cut me into tiny pieces.

  Annette gasps and I see Jerry’s features harden. Jerry is a military man through and through: not much fazes him. His whole life was somewhat of a mystery to me. He didn’t talk much about what he did after leaving the Marines, only mentioning that he had some “private security contracts” overseas. I had always imagined him as a James Bond-type agent, and rather than scare me, the idea of him as an international assassin comforted me, made me feel safe in his care. While I was lucky to receive the kind and sweet parts of him, I was fully aware there was a lethal side to him, especially when it came to those he loved.