“Always,” he says with gratifying speed. “If I haven’t mentioned it lately, I love you, and I’m always on your side. I meant what I said about supporting your decisions rather than making them for you. I’m on this.”
“Thanks, Dad.” For the first time in a long time, the sentiment is heartfelt.
…
The morning following the funeral, social media posts concerning the event have gained almost as much notice as the video. My publicist is working overtime to field calls on both. Neither Kendall nor I are being given a break, but I’m sick to my stomach to see she’s being dealt the bigger blow. I’m ashamed of the pedestal women are putting me on, cutting me slack when I’m the one who dragged Kendall—unintentionally—into this media freak show.
It’s killing me to keep my distance from her. My fingers itch to dial her number or text her to say I’m sorry for bringing her deepest fear down on her. I’m thankful she’s got her parents while at the same time mad as hell I’m not the one there to shoulder her pain. She asked me to stay away, and I’m abiding by the request, but she didn’t ask me to keep my thoughts about her to myself.
Hence, Plan B. Will Kendall watch? If she does, will anything I say change her mind? I don’t know. All I know is I’ve got to give this my best shot. She deserves nothing less.
Sitting on a comfortable couch on the set of Access Live, I watch a tech adjust studio lights while a makeup artist does last-minute touch-ups to ready Kit for the camera. Thanks to my dad’s connections, she was more than happy to set up an interview today. Although she’s been as congenial as always, I know she’s not going to pull any punches once the camera starts rolling. She’s got me in the hot seat, she’s done her homework, and if there’s dirt to dish she’s going to make sure Access Live gets the first and biggest shovelful.
Makeup finished, Kit looks up and gives me a smile. “We ready?” she asks to the room in general. The segment producer responds in the affirmative, and seconds later we’re rolling. She does a short intro spiel and then lobs me a softball question about how it feels to be part of last week’s number one most viewed music video.
I tell her I learned the news midway through a photo shoot in San Francisco, when Laney called me screaming a bunch of stuff they’d have to bleep if I quoted her word for word, but she was really excited and very cool to share the credit with me. I’m pleased people liked the video and stoked for Laney, because her first single is amazing, but it’s just the start. The rest of the album is going to blow peoples’ minds.
“Can we look forward to seeing you in more videos with our newest America Rocks winner?” Kit asks. Her smile and twinkling eyes invite me to divulge things we both know I’m not at liberty to discuss.
“You’ll have to wait to see,” I say with a smile.
“Vaughn, we’re terrible at waiting. After receiving that good news in San Francisco I understand you traveled to a small town in Wisconsin.” Kit tips her head slightly, and adds, “Was that for a new video by any chance?”
Obviously no, and she’s well aware, but this is her way of leading into the real reason for this interview. I imagine when the segment airs, this is where they’ll flash one of the internet pictures of Kendall and me embracing. “My visit to Lake Geneva was personal,” I respond. “I went to support my friend Kendall, who lost a close friend after a long battle with injuries following an accident.”
Kit nods, her normally perky expression serious. “Your friend Kendall Hewitt, who was driving while intoxicated when she crashed the vehicle and inflicted severe brain trauma that ultimately killed her passenger, Mason White.”
I nod. “She made a terrible mistake at seventeen, and it had tragic consequences. It’s an all too common mistake, statistically speaking. According to the most recent reports from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, over a third of fatal motor vehicle crashes among people aged sixteen to twenty involve alcohol, and that statistic doesn’t change much for drivers over the age of twenty. Ever heard the saying ‘There but for the grace of God go I?’”
“Of course.”
“Nobody got much of God’s grace that night when two teens climbed into a car after attending prom, but Kendall’s spent every day since then ensuring nobody else makes the same mistake while she’s around. Including me.”
Kit leans forward. “She stopped you from driving under the influence? That’s an interesting statement, especially considering I recently viewed a video that appears to show you in a drunken exchange with a woman many speculate to be Ms. Hewitt, after losing control of your vehicle.”
And this is where they’ll cut to the YouTube video. I own up to my mistakes, no sugarcoating. I explain our story, to the extent I can. My lawyer has weighed in on things like how I can’t say Becca stole my car while intoxicated and almost killed me without risking a defamation lawsuit. Plus she contacted me, genuinely distraught, and assured me she didn’t release the video. Her friend did, in a sick way of supporting Becca over our “breakup.” So instead, I explain that an unidentified person or persons helped themselves to my car and took a joyride down my driveway, nearly hitting me before losing control, stalling in a hedge, and abandoning it—which sounds like a load of crap, but it’s the best I can do. I explain how Kendall risked her life to prevent me from getting run down. How she confiscated my keys when I tried to get behind the wheel to move my car. How by doing that, she reminded me there is no situation where it’s okay to drive under the influence. I finish by saying, “I can’t know why fate put her in my path that night, but I’m forever thankful to Kendall for being there.”
“She was your guardian angel,” Kit says.
I couldn’t have asked for a better response. “Absolutely. And it goes beyond me. She’s fought hard to find meaning and purpose for her life. She volunteered during college. After graduating, she accepted a position working with traumatized youth. She finds ways to quietly contribute every day.”
I pause for breath and then stare at the camera. “What she didn’t do was seek any of this current attention. She’s a private person. She didn’t ask me to attend her friend’s funeral. I made that decision on my own.”
“Why?” Kit asks.
“Because when someone you care about is going through a rough time, it’s hard to keep your distance. But if I’d realized my presence would put her in a spotlight I knew she didn’t want, I would have tried harder to stay away. Not because I think she should hide her past or be ashamed of the woman she is today, but because I try to respect her wishes. I admire her, I’m really proud of her, and…well, I love her.”
The segment director and production assistant practically high-five over my on-air confession. Kit flashes a smile so wide it’s blinding. “Oh my goodness. Is Vaughn Shaughnessy off the market?” she asks.
I can’t muster up a smile of my own, because my response is completely serious. “I’m hers for the taking, but the ball’s in her court.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kendall
“You look miserable.”
“I am miserable,” I say to my mom. I’m curled up on the couch, watching cooking shows on mute because the hosts are way too cheery for me today. I like to see the food, though. Not that I’ve got much of an appetite.
“Don’t move,” Mom says.
“No problem.” I’ve been in this position for most of the morning. It’s bad enough I can’t shake the look of hurt on Vaughn’s face when I told him good-bye, but then last night I discovered my social media accounts blowing up. More than one old friend had posted pictures of Vaughn and me at the funeral along with horrible, hurtful captions. The kinds of things I wanted to keep secret. I can’t get the pictures and narrations out of my head. Can’t believe my peers could be so cruel.
Before going to sleep, I turned off all notifications and seriously thought about closing my accounts, but then it occurred to me that by running away, I’d be letting the haters win. I’d be letting them run me off. I’ve already
suffered consequences I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and it’s them, not me, at fault this time.
If there was any lingering doubt in my mind about belonging in my hometown or anywhere near it, it’s gone. I don’t want any part of small-minded people and assholes with nothing better to do than talk crap behind someone’s back. I tossed and turned in bed for hours, hiding under the covers like that would make it all go away.
It won’t.
I have no idea if the internet is still buzzing with gossip about us. I can’t bring myself to look. I can’t bear to know if the publicity about my past has hurt Vaughn’s chances with America Rocks, but I don’t have to consult any screens to know it hasn’t helped. This proves what I—and his dad—feared. Being around me isn’t good for his career. That’s the gist of the stories spreading all over the place like I’m not a real person with real feelings.
I wipe at my eyes, thinking back to our good-bye when one second I was telling myself to resist him and the next I was telling myself to pull him closer. To never let him go. All relationships are tethered to pasts, and dealing with a difficult one is a lot easier with someone by your side.
By my side is a hazardous place for someone like him, though.
“Here we go,” Mom says, holding a wooden tray with iron handles in her hands. She sets it down on the coffee table. “Two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, marshmallows, and chocolate chip cookie straws.”
“My favorite,” I say with gratitude.
“It’s always on hand, and I think today is a perfect day to indulge.” She places a straw and a giant marshmallow into one of the cups and passes it to me. “It’s okay to be upset, sweetheart, but maybe this will help a little.”
I take the mug in both hands and sniff the bittersweet scent. “It does. Thanks.”
Mom lifts her drink. “The people who matter, honey, know the person you are and would defend you until their last breath if asked.”
“I know.”
“And intelligent people know to take what they read on social media with a grain of salt.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes. How anyone would think it’s okay to give an ounce of respect to the kinds of comments being shared is ridiculous.”
Comments claiming I brought Vaughn Shaughnessy to my ex-boyfriend’s funeral to show everyone I’m hot shit, living in Cali, sleeping my way to the career I always talked about. There are people calling me a drunk and worse. Comments warning Vaughn to drop me before I hurt him, too.
My mug shakes in my hands.
Mom steadies me with a gentle touch and helps me put the cup back on the tray.
I sniffle for the thousandth time. “It’s hard to ignore all the horrible things people are saying.”
“But not impossible. Tune it out with the things you know are true in your heart, and if that doesn’t work repeat after me…”
I sink back into the couch. “One step and deep breath at a time,” we say together.
“This is another opportunity, you know,” Mom says.
“For?”
“For showing what you’re made of. For setting an example and using the mistakes you’ve made to help others. You’ve got a platform, too, and when you rise from this shitstorm like I know you will, admiration, not animosity, will follow you.”
A breathless laugh escapes my tight throat. My mom never uses bad words, which means she is super serious and there is no room for argument.
Not that I want to. My past is out there now, and all I can control is how I let it affect me. I straighten. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I usually am.” Mom playfully bumps my shoulder.
I hear a door open followed by loud footsteps, Dad’s fancy black loafers tapping the floor. “Hello?” he calls out.
“Hey, honey,” Mom calls back.
Dad enters the family room with his briefcase in one hand and a pie box in the other.
“What are you doing home so early?” Mom asks.
“Don’t get upset,” he says, his attention on me, “but I got word there were a couple of reporters lingering out front. I got rid of them and also had a craving for harvest apple pie.”
“What?” My entire body shakes. I look toward the window.
“Hey,” Dad says. “Eyes on me.”
I’m about to hyperventilate. Or have a heart attack. Maybe both. I wave my T-shirt away from my stomach. Is it hot in here?
“Kendall.”
I swallow the emotion lodged in my throat then find my dad’s fierce blue eyes. “They’re gone and won’t be coming back. I made sure of it,” he says. “You’re safe.”
It’s like déjà vu. He said similar words after the accident. And he was right. He’s got my back, like always. I breathe a small sigh of relief as he gets comfortable on the couch. Mom goes to the kitchen, I’m guessing for plates, napkins, and forks.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a little rough.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Dad opens the box to my favorite pie. “You made amends for your actions years ago, and again with Mason a few days ago. And you handled yourself with dignity at the funeral. You’re strong enough to deal with anything that comes your way.”
“I second that,” Mom says, returning and dishing us each a piece of pie.
We’re quiet for a minute while I absorb my parents’ support. I have paid for my mistakes. I’ve suffered, learned to make the best of my situation and believe in myself again.
My dad clears his throat, and then says, “So, I got an interesting call today from—”
“Dad,” I interrupt. My timing isn’t perfect, but his pep talk is the impetus I needed to tell him how I feel. After everything he’s done for me, I owe him the truth. “I don’t want to go to law school.” The weight dragging my shoulders down floats up to the ceiling like a helium balloon poked with a pin. The pressure of pretending it’s what I wanted drifts away with the scent of apples, butter, and cinnamon.
Mom blesses me with a tiny but proud smile. Dad stares at me like I’ve confessed to murder. It’s true in a way. I’ve killed his dream of having me join his firm.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. This isn’t a surprise to my mom, but it is to him. I’ve never so much as mentioned having any doubts. My bad. He’s my father and I know deep down he wants what’s best for me. Especially today, with all the scrutiny I’m dealing with. No way can he possibly object. Right?
“Now or ever?” he asks.
I press my hands into the couch cushion while forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “Ever. I’m sorry.”
“Is this because of Vaughn?” he asks, his voice tight.
“No. Not at all. I’ve had my doubts for a while, and it took this summer to make me realize my dream job isn’t an attorney. It’s working with young people who are grappling with various challenges and emotional hardships. I know a thing or two about guilt and pain and self-loathing, and I love working at Art in Progress. Their goal is to use art as therapy and offer a safe place for kids to share their troubles with others, and in so doing, heal. I’ve been offered a full-time position there.”
Dad runs a hand down his dress pants. “You can help people as an attorney, too, you know.”
“I know. But it’s not the same. And I’d like to start now rather than three years from now.”
“You want to stay in California.”
“Yes.”
“Not because of the boy.”
I almost scoff. He’s definitely not a boy. “No, not because of Vaughn. I want to do this for me, Dad. I need to do this. I fell into a job that makes everything I’ve been through feel useful, and the thought of giving it up hurts.”
Mom takes my hand, squeezes.
Dad seems to be absorbing my announcement with a measure of reluctance, his jaw firm, his eyes narrowed. I guessed he wouldn’t be overjoyed by my decision, but I’d like his support, if not his approval. It’s time to appeal to the non-lawyer part of his brain.
He scrubs a hand over his cheek. “You know I won’t object to that. But I can’t help you the same way if—”
“I don’t need your help, Dad,” I interrupt. “I mean, I did today, but moving forward, you just said so yourself that I’ve got this. I may want your help sometimes, but the decision should come from me.”
“I worry—”
“You’ll worry no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I need to do this. I think this is the path I’m supposed to take.”
The room is silent for several beats.
“How about we defer for a year and revisit the possibility in the spring? It never hurts to have a backup plan in case you change your mind.”
“Okay.” I won’t change my mind, but if the compromise means I have his acceptance, I’ll take it.
Mom sighs with relief and digs into her pie. Before Dad takes a bite he says, “I’m proud of who you are, Kenny.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And no matter what, I love you.”
“Love you, too.” I take a bite of my food, relief flooding me. I’m so relieved I won’t be starting law school in the fall. “What was the interesting call you got today?” I ask, remembering I cut him off with my announcement.
“It was from Vaughn’s publicist.”
I choke. “What did she—or he—want?”
“She wanted to let me know they were handling things on their end and were very sorry for the attention Vaughn’s presence at the funeral created. She said she and her team were available should we need anything.”
“Wow,” I mutter.
“That’s so considerate,” Mom says.
“Before hanging up she told me Vaughn was doing an interview with Access Live today.”
“I love that program,” Mom says.
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