T E N
LOS ANGELES, CA
There are lawyers in Los Angeles that can make everything go away, every mistake, every indiscretion.
I know this because I've been there, but it was my complaint that was turned into a mean-spirited rumor, created with the sole purpose of ruining a promising young man's future and reputation.
I know this because these lawyers have actively acted against me, persuaded me to drop everything and to disappear if I didn't want my entire life to be ruined.
Now, years later, I vividly remember sitting there, feeling like the world was moments away from collapsing around me, and staring back at a legal team—it included women, too. My eyes stung from all the crying and my scalp was sore on the spot my hair had been ripped out of, but the worst pain was lodged underneath my ribs, the sense of betrayal bubbling like hot lava in my bloodstream. I remember wondering what those women were feeling when they looked me in the eye and presented deals falsely advertised to protect me, when in reality they were protecting someone else—a guy. If I stayed quiet, if I went away, if I didn't ask my father's lawyers for unnecessary help or pro bono consultation, it would be so much easier for everyone involved.
Stupid, naive little me fell for it, for the weaponizing of my own pain and desire to protect my father and his image of me against me. I was so desperate to not tarnish his version of who I was that I accepted the deal, packed my bags, and exiled myself across the country. As I sat in cold, lifeless rooms and watched those lawyers pat him on the back, as I attempted to make myself smaller, I found myself silently calling out for my mother, willing her to walk through one of those doors.
She never came. To this day, I'm unsure why I ever expected her to come to me.
Today, as Adam screeches in horror after my copy of the house keys leaves a nasty scar on the paint of his precious Volvo, my mother appears outside faster than my brain can process what's going on. I can hardly believe what I've done—it's far from being the worst thing I have ever done in my life; in fact, it doesn't even rank in the top five—but setting my eyes on her is quick to bring me back to reality and remind me of what exactly is at stake.
I'm a guest here. Even though I was emotionally blackmailed to fly all the way over to Los Angeles and relive the most traumatizing moments of my life, over and over again, I'm still a guest, and my name can be erased from the funeral's guest list. My grandmother wouldn't have wanted me there anyway, or so I'm assuming based on her treatment of me while she was alive, but I've been here under the impression that I'm doing my father a favor by supporting him. I would do anything for him, including this, and disappointing him again is the last thing on my agenda, but it's bound to be a consequence of my actions.
If I get kicked out, if I get sent home because I can't behave myself around Adam, my mother, and everyone else who helped ruin my life, then that's it. It's over. I'll have reached the point of no return, and not even he will be able to turn a blind eye to my behavior and the lengths I'll go to for the sake of avenging nineteen-year-old me. I can't even pretend it's about protecting Michelle when it's always been about me—me, what was done to me, and how I've been treated ever since.
Granted, part of it has been my fault (the whole thing about how I've been treated since I left, considering how eager I was to pack my bags and not have to deal with this city and its ghosts anymore). Though I was responsible for some of it, it wasn't just me—it was all of them, even Michelle, who acts like Adam is the single greatest human being to have ever set foot on this planet.
Michelle herself is quick to follow suit, a girl on a mission, ready to protect poor little Adam from whatever—or whoever—is making him wail like a banshee. I know damn well why this upsets me as much as it does; after all, I desperately need her to open her eyes and realize how dangerous this man truly is, in spite of his boy next door, golden boy good looks. His looks make him even more dangerous, if anything. I need her to stop treating me like the villain, to stop turning my feelings into something that can be simplified into something as stupid as petty jealousy. I need us to be sisters, to fight over dumb stuff, not argue about the validity of my trauma.
"I don't know why I even bother to feel surprised when you do these things," Mother says, exasperated. Michelle is by Adam's side before I can blink, with Sadie shooting daggers at him while pulling me back by the bony wrist, and it's the soft pressure of her fingers against my skin that reminds me to keep breathing. "Every time I expect you to behave like a normal human being, you always find new ways of surprising me."
"Well, I am an actress," I point out. "It's my job to reinvent myself."
This infuriates her even further, as evidenced by both the red flush on her cheeks, the one semblance of emotion that passes through the botox, and by the way Sadie steps in front of me. I don't need her protection during broad daylight, but it's not even fair or justified to wish she had been there when it mattered. After trauma dumping all over her in the living room last night, I feel strangely closer to her nõw, but I still have some reservations about whether it was wise to open up to her like that.
"You could've ruined Adam's car," my mother continues, speaking through gritted teeth. She's never been one to yell; after all, appearances matter, especially in Los Angeles, and we can't have the nosy neighbors eavesdropping on conversations, especially when the exiled disgrace of an eldest daughter is involved. "First, you slap him out of the blue. Now this. And for what, Rebecca? For what? What has that boy ever done to you?"
For a brief moment, Adam's eyes meet mine when he dares to look away from Michelle, his hand pressed threateningly against her hip bone to keep her anchored next to him, and the rush of adrenaline that goes through my body shocks me like an electrical current.
Knowing I possess information he doesn't want to be out there and will go through great lengths to ensure it stays that way only makes me feel powerful for a brief moment. Even if I opened my mouth and aired our dirty laundry, we'd just fall back into the people we were at nineteen, and his lawyers would, once again, make it all go away in the blink of an eye, no notch in his immaculate record. Once the panic subsides and he remembers this, there's defiance in the way he looks at me, daring me to open my mouth like I'm not standing on the losing side.
Do it. I dare you.
Who would believe you, anyway?
The validation is something I don't know how to stop chasing. No one can convince me that my version of events is incorrect or invalid, not anymore, so I'm certain of what happened, how it made me feel, and how I feel about it now, but I've always wanted other people to believe me. My therapist never doubted me and, to my sheer shock, Sadie didn't question any of my decisions or blame me; in fact, she even took some of the guilt off my shoulders and swung it around hers, like it's her cross to bear.
Two people in the whole world believe me, out of the four who know exactly what happened. Even if Adam has gone around and ran his mouth to explain why I was suddenly gone and spreading rumors about him, it's always easier to believe the golden boy over the girl who has been nothing but trouble.
"He does have an arm around Michelle," I point out. He immediately drops his hand, but not because of me; my mother looks their way because of me, and that's the only thing that scares him besides taking accountability for his actions. "Look, it's not that big of a scratch. It's not something another coat of paint won't fix and, let's be honest, it was probably overdue for a retouch anyway, so I'm just doing you a favor. For old time's sake."
I know she wants to yell at me. She's never hit me before, thinking she's above physical punishment—the only thing she's done right—but she doesn't need to raise her voice when she's always been incredible at choosing the right words to wound me deeply. My mother thrives on passive-aggressiveness and snide comments she can easily guilt-trip me into believing they're warranted.
"If it weren't for your father specifically wanting you here, I never would've asked you to come," she reminds me, like I'm not aware of that already. Even so, I force myself to keep smiling, though it lacks the Mia Goth energy from earlier; now, she's hitting me right where it hurts, using my father against me. "You're here today for the seating chart, so I can expect you to leave right after, right?"
"After today?"
"After the funeral."
I've been telling everyone who wants to listen that I'll only be in Los Angeles until the funeral, after which I won't even allow myself to think about this place. Everyone knows that, including me, but it's always bittersweet to have your own family be so damn eager to see you gone, even if you don't even want to stay in the first place. It's one of those harsh reminders I won't ever fit anywhere, not really, and Los Angeles will always be a part of me, no matter how hard I try to scrub it off until my skin reddens to the point it's about to peel off.
The public humiliation immediately surrounding that night, the charges I attempted to press, and my expulsion from the state was horrible. Packing my bags in the middle of the night and blowing most of my savings on a plane ticket and a cheap apartment were nearly fatal blows to my ego, but the loneliness of it all only made it hurt even more. Realizing I had no one to reach out to, realizing I couldn't do it even if I had anyone to talk to—it was part of the agreement I'd signed, and I was too terrified of the mean women in suits to break it—was worse, but I compartmentalized it. I shoved all those feelings and emotions into a box I'd only open when I was ready.
I was alone then. I'm not as alone now, but it's still one of the most isolating experiences of my life. Who would believe me, anyway?
"Yeah," I reply, in a mumble. "Can I go see my father?"
She blinks, my lack of strength to argue or bite back with the same strength as her coming as the great surprise of the day. "He's in his office."
I walk past all of them, Sadie in tow, and walk down the same path I've spent my entire life following. You can't beat history.
⊹˚. ♡
I'm not sure why my father still has an office here.
He hasn't lived here in years, a fact that haunts me to this day—especially with the whole 'Rebecca, everything that's wrong about this family is your fault and your fault alone' mentality that's so prevalent in this household—but maybe my mother never had the heart to repurpose it. I don't want to give her unnecessary credit or pat her on the back for doing the bare minimum, considering it's her fault she cheated on him with a twenty-year-old pool boy, but the room where my father spent most of his free time is still here.
Inside, there are framed pictures everywhere, mostly paintings he commissioned, ever the art enthusiast, and there are even ones Michelle and I used to paint for him when we were younger, convinced we would become as good as the ones he liked. Neither of us ever ended up pursuing that dream, if it can even be referred to as such, and my life has completely fallen off the wagon since then, jumping from hobby to hobby, from dream to dream, and now I'm a college dropout with barely any acting credits. Somehow, I still feel like he would have been proud of me in spite of all of that if we kept in touch.
He's standing by the mahogany desk, tall and broad-shouldered like a football player, and the golden-framed mirror behind him almost looks like a halo. I don't believe in angels—never have been religious, really—but there was a time when I believed in superheroes, and he's never quite managed to dust off that reputation. He'd dress up as Superman for Halloween to take me and Michelle trick-or-treating, the fondest childhood memory I can recall, even on bad days, and it's an image I've always kept with me. A reminder there was still something good waiting for me here, a reminder that he'd always be here to protect me.
Until the day he wasn't. Until the day it was just me and the lawyers. Until the day I packed my bags and left him all alone.
"Bec," he calls, reaching out a hand towards me, and that single handedly shatters me. Finding the strength to not take it and to stay put where I am is far more heartbreaking than I ever thought and, when he notices my hesitation, he draws it back. "Thank you for being here."
"I think we should talk, Dad."
⊹˚. ♡
me when i lie: chapters will be short!! :)