Exit Wounds

17 | mean girl

          Sadie joins me under the excuse of providing moral support. Even though I know part of it might be true, I suspect there's a hidden agenda buried underneath, and it's partially due to her professional responsibilities. She's also here to prevent and control potential scandals from breaking out and ruining both our lives, and it's understandable why she doesn't trust me to be out here on my own based on my track record. I doubt Adam will be nearby, as he's always been more my mother's lapdog, but we're not taking any chances.

          Sadie also keeps me company and I know we're both thinking the same thing: how cold and clinical it is to be kept waiting for my father to free his schedule just to accommodate me. We're greeted by an assistant, who asks us to wait in the living room of the blandest, grayest house in the neighborhood, and I'm paralyzed with fear over moving and ruining the architectural perfection of this place. It's nothing like him, or maybe it's nothing like the person I thought he was.

          It's depressingly funny, I think, how I've spent over half a decade of my life trying to attract the attention of and receive affection from older men while there was only one I've ever wanted to impress. I've attempted to make myself smaller, more palatable, more easily digestible by those men in hopes I'd ever be seen as an equal, but, in the process, I've steered so far from the little girl he raised and loved that I fear I won't ever be who he wants me to be.

          If he wants me to be Rebecca, I can't give him that. I can't keep shrinking myself and avoiding occupying too much space just because we can't coexist in our current states.

          When I first pressed charges against Adam, I sat in the dark by myself and wished my mother would see me for once in our lives. Now, following an entire week of reliving the worst chain of events of my life and being confronted with the wreckage I left in the wake of my departure, the sun is so bright it burns my eyes no matter where I look, and Sadie is sitting next to me, flipping through a gossip magazine she uses to point out everything she doesn't want me to be. Vapid, fake, a nervous wreck.

          The only accent wall in the living room is steel gray, the one thing that reminds me of home—New York, that is. I'm accustomed to the buildings and the perpetual fog, the busy skyline, and it's that single color that helps me find a footing and ground myself. It gives me an opportunity to brace myself for what I've somehow convinced myself I can potentially do, even if every single voice in my head wants me to believe otherwise. There are so many ways everything can go wrong and backfire, so many ways this can ruin my life and whatever is left of my strained relationship with him.

          Even Sadie has given up on trying to calm me down.

          The mimosas didn't help, and all the espressos I've been downing since brunch until now aren't doing much to cool my nerves. I'm as restless as a Pincher, my legs bouncing up and down and annoying the assistant to no end—she rolls her eyes whenever my sneakers squeak against the marble floor—and the buzzing in my ears grows louder and more violent by the second. As great as Sadie's work ethic is, having her point out every celebrity's rehab stunt thanks to a nervous meltdown right next to me is making me feel worse, like the worst thing I could do right now would be to throw up all over the expensive-looking tapestries.

         "Mr. Kane would like to see you now," the assistant finally declares, once it's obvious my body can't take the pressure of the walls closing in on me any longer. Sadie is the one to steady me when I stand up too fast and my vision blackens, my legs dangerously close to giving in to gravity. "His office is right down the hall. Should I . . . get you something to eat or drink? Something sugary?"

          "Yes," Sadie replies in my place. "We'll be on our way, but I'm certain Mr. Kane won't mind you interrupting our private conversation to ensure his daughter doesn't go into hypoglycemic shock right in front of him. Thank you, Sandy."

          The assistant scoffs. The plaque on her desk reads Samantha.

          My heart hurts. Realistically, I know it's a consequence of my nearly-permanent state of anxiety and this is its attempt at returning to a normal, healthy rate, but the beatings it's been taking lately are clear threats to its life. Even with Sadie's arm around me, I fear it won't ever be enough.

          Asking my father for help won't ever be enough. It's not enough to fix things or to repair my relationship with him, especially with my mind convincing me he'll think I'm just using him whenever it's convenient. And what for? For him to not even try to reach out a helping hand without me asking for it first? For him to continue breaking my heart, over and over again?

          As I sit next to him, the little courage I'd gathered vanishes. My throat dries up, and it's like Adam is standing right by us, menacingly, mockingly. His cologne is everywhere, his aftershave gets woven under my skin, and I want to fling myself into the sun, let it burn me alive. I am so haunted by this man it's pathetic, even after all these years, even after all the therapy.

          When does it stop? When do I stop seeing him everywhere? When do I stop feeling him everywhere?

          "Michelle said you wanted to talk," my father starts, accepting the plate of lemon and white chocolate cookies Samantha hands him before retreating into the living room. Sadie stands by the door like a guard dog, arms firmly crossed, and Samantha shudders under her glare—nothing new. "What's wrong? I thought you would've left by now."

          "There was a change of plans," Sadie chimes in. "Cookie, Harley."

          "Cookie," I mutter, bringing one to my lips and taking a tentative bite. They're so sweet they easily melt in my mouth. "Something came up."

          "Can I help?"

          I look at Sadie, silently begging her for help. She nods, chin raised, and I knew she wouldn't fail me, even if she doesn't agree. I need her to do this for me before I fully snap out of my hangover, adrenaline-induced haze.

          "As a matter of fact, you can. How good is your legal team and how willing are you to sign an NDA?"

⊹˚. ♡

there will be no further explanation. there will just be reputation. amen

i know this can simultaneously feel too sudden and too dragged on for too long, trust me. to think this book's events mostly take place in the span of one week is unbelievable to me, but i'm once again asking you guys to trust me on this one and, most importantly, trust the process. it's never an easy conversation to have with anyone, but harley was even less prepared to speak to michelle and only did it because she was under direct threat then. 

there was no NDA involved the first time she attempted to press charges against adam; there was just the threat of a counter suit and, unfortunately, babygirl was alone and terrified without anyone in her corner. whatever harley signed (the agreement mentioned in chapter nine, it was not an NDA and she can legally speak about it freely. she was simply coerced and intimidated into leaving and not saying a word mm'kay