F I F T E E N
LOS ANGELES, CA
The whole world threatens to collapse under me with the weight of these words—words that hold such power over me, like I'm just a notch in Adam's immaculate life and record. No one ever bothered to tell me I hadn't ruined his life and that it had been the other way around until I moved to New York and got a therapist to help me function.
I've only been able to trust two people ever since, not counting my therapist, and one of them doesn't even know why; Nick probably just things I'm being as cutthroat as the industry demands me to be, standing my ground before fleeting things, like fame and reputation and roles can be swept from under me.
That trust—or lack thereof—extends to romantic relationships as well; after a period of sleeping around and willingly pursuing every person who would have me, a pathetic attempt at regaining control of my life and my body, I realized I was chasing a comet. I was running after a type of connection I didn't want to have, and was replacing romantic intimacy with sexual intimacy, and, though there's nothing inherently wrong with that, in my opinion, I quickly realized I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I worked through that, but can't seem to take the final step towards finally allowing myself to be happy.
So, I say the words. I spell it out like it was—like it is. A gross violation of my trust, my boundaries, my privacy, and my dignity.
Assault.
I describe it to her, remembering every single detail from that night as though it's playing right in front of us, happening to someone who isn't me. Whenever I thought to myself I would never be that girl again, I was always reminded that's the one part of my past that the world would never let me discard. I will always be the girl who craved attention, who wanted to be wanted—so badly she went to great lengths to get what she wanted and ruined a promising young man's life in the process.
That is all a lie. It was my potential.
Michelle stays quiet throughout my whole explanation, and I stare at my lap instead of looking her way. I only acknowledge she's still in the room, sitting right next to me and keeping me at arm's length, when I finish the explanation. Though her hair covers most of the side of her face turned to me, her eyes well up once my words run out, and she rushes to wipe them with her knuckles.
She doesn't say a word for what feels like an eternity. My heart has shrunk considerably, but the weight on my chest doesn't ease up. Day after day, it feels like it's being crushed by an invisible force.
"You said no," she eventually croaks out.
"I did. So many times."
"And he didn't listen."
"No."
"Fuck, Becca."
Years ago, maybe she would've hugged me. Great emphasis on maybe. Now, she doesn't, but she does reach out for my hand with those cold, wet fingers of hers, courtesy of the tears she's been failing to brush away, and I don't run away from her for once.
My first instinct is to move my hand away from hers, dodge the gesture, and claim we're not there yet. I'm not sure we'll ever be there, not after I left her all alone, not after I let Adam occupy the empty space I'd left behind, not after all the hurtful stuff she said to me. All those things she said for the sole purpose of hurting me, just because she could, just because I'd hurt her first and, therefore, she found it was justified. I don't know if we'll ever move on from that, regardless of whether she knew the truth or didn't; there's stuff you just don't say to people.
There are things you don't say to people, and there are things you simply don't say to them if you want to repair your relationship with them. Period. Though I'm not entirely sure whether that's Michelle's goal or not, she still followed me here for a reason and was willing to listen to me, albeit barely even letting me speak. If there's still some good in her, if there's still a part of her that hasn't been tainted by Adam's presence or my mother's influence, I want ever so desperately to cling to that sliver of hope. However, all evidence points towards something different, even if it pains me to admit it.
I wasn't the only person who changed—who has let this city poison them from the inside out. Michelle is still my sister, physical differences aside—and I can't wait to be a hypocrite about her disaster of a new hair color—but she's not the same little sister from six years ago.
The maturity suits her, regardless of how immature and childish her tantrums about my presence and return have been, but I just know it's one of those situations where she's been praised about that from a young age, and I simply don't understand why women have to grow up so fast. Though they mature earlier than men, it's still not fair that boys get to be boys even in their mid to late thirties, and girls start being treated as women the second puberty starts. Even then, even though they're expected to be wiser and more mature and not get in trouble, they'll never be old enough or smart enough to play in the big leagues. They're the sweethearts who are expected to smile and nod politely even when their dignities are at stake.
And Michelle, little Chelle, embraced it all because she had nothing, nowhere, no one else to turn to. After I left, it was either our distant father, our vile mother, or Adam, and I'm certain he's told her all sorts of manipulative shit to dig his claws in her. She's so cool because she's mature for her age; she's not a vapid airhead like all those other girls. The other girls know better; girls his age know better, which is why he never goes after them.
"You had proof, right?" Michelle continues, though the conversation has run dry and so has my mental and emotional energy to keep pursuing it. "If you hadn't given up on pressing charges, did you have proof?"
I exhale deeply through my nose, pressing my crossed arms against my stomach to try and fight off the nausea. The smell emanating from the kitchen isn't half bad, spicy just enough to not burn my nose, but my appetite has vanished. "Yes. I had my word, and I went to the hospital. They got my clothes, too, but I didn't press charges right away. I waited for a few days, tried to decide whether or not I wanted to take that risk, but then I did. It's not like it mattered."
"It mattered, because it got processed—"
"—and then I dropped the charges. I don't know what they did with the results and, to be honest, I don't care. It would be used against me anyway." She throws me a dumbfounded look, like what I'm saying is foreign to her. I hate to burst her bubble by revealing Adam is far from the perfect guy she thinks he is, but there's no doubt in my mind he would never hesitate to ruin her life with his team of lawyers the same way he did to me if it ever came down to that. "You can't prove a damn thing. It would be my word against his, and I had a reputation, remember? I liked the attention. I threw myself at him, things got a little rough, and I cried wolf. We both know that's how it would've gone."
Her face hardens. "Not with Dad's lawyers."
"Well, I didn't have Dad's lawyers. I was threatened with a defamation lawsuit and gaslighted into thinking no one would believe me anyway. They made me think I'd made the whole thing up, Michelle. The worst part is that they actually convinced me of it." She rises from the couch to pace around the living room, growing restless from being locked in a house for too long. The beach is right there and, instead, she's stuck in here with me. People get bored of me eventually—I get it. "I got better after I left. I don't want to jeopardize that for the sake of closure and justice I know I'll never get."
"We'll talk to Dad," she decides, ignoring everything I just said. "We'll tell him the whole story. If the evidence was processed, it should still be in the system. They have to keep it for, like, twenty years, or something. I saw it on an episode of SVU."
That comment is what nearly sends me over the edge.
Blood rings in my ears and all I see around me is crimson fog. If her knowledge extends only as far as SVU, the same show I refused a starring role in—I'm tired of playing the victim of the day, both on and offscreen—then I'm doomed, and I know she's not taking this nearly as seriously as she thinks it is. If she thinks that's real life, if she thinks everything happens exactly like you see on TV, then she's in for a rude awakening. She thought it was all about jealousy, anyway.
"Lunch is ready," Sadie announces, choosing the perfect timing to do so. When we both turn to look at her, we find her in the most disheveled state I've ever seen her in, like she was fighting the battle of her life in the kitchen just to prepare one meal. "It's Tteokbokki with chili sauce, so, if you don't like spicy food, you do now after all my hard work." She huffs, blowing a lock of hair away from her stupidly perfect face. "If you'll excuse me, I have a fiancé to call. I need to tell him we need to hire a personal chef. Stat."
⊹˚. ♡
Michelle decides to stay.
It's a clear change from her past behavior and, to be honest, from my own, the girl who runs away from everything, but I don't complain. Sadie does, albeit not to her face, and the passive-aggressiveness comes out full swinging whenever they're in the same room (particularly when Michelle dares to ask if she's my girlfriend), but I can't ask her to be nice. She sure as hell has never asked me to be nice, and my ego was convinced her overprotective streak is to blame for it.
Maybe she truly cares about me as a person outside of our professional relationship, when I'm no longer a product to her. I understand the lines easily blur when two people spend this much time together and, at this point, there's nothing she doesn't know about me—which is terrifying in its own right—but I'm still hesitant to call us friends. After all, to make up for her extensive knowledge of my private life, what do I know about hers? I didn't even know she was engaged up until the moment she mentioned it.
"Look, I'm not trying to make decisions for you here, but are you sure about this?" she questions, halfway through her second bottle of Merlot of the night. Her cheeks are flushed from all the drinking, which makes her actually look her age—who would've known she's not even in her thirties—and, when she's not busy being falsely nice to Michelle, she's been giggling like a schoolgirl all evening. "Are you sure you can trust her with this information?"
"It's a bit too late to rethink my decision," I remark, slouching on my designated lounge chair just so I can drop some of the ashes from my cigarette into the fanciest ashtray I've ever seen. It's so white it glows in the darkness of our balcony outside. "I think the illusion has been shattered, though. She looked pretty disgusted when I finished talking."
"Yeah, but still. She's been glued to that phone all day."
"I know."
I'd be lying if I said those thoughts haven't crossed my mind, and there have been moments when all I want to do is smack myself across the face for being so naive and delusional. Of course I'll always be suspicious, given how deep my trust issues are ingrained in my psyche and how personal the subject matter is; even though I want to trust Michelle like she trusted me to explain everything to her, there's a tiny voice in the back of my mind that reminds me I could be making a mistake. It took me years to trust Nick and Sadie, and only one of them has earned the right to unlock my full backstory, but I know they would never betray me in such a devastating way.
Relying on Michelle's ability to keep secrets and to value me enough to decide I deserve to retain some dignity in the middle of all of this is a slippery slope. My stomach has been turning like a revolving door all evening—the chicken parmesan we ordered for dinner and all the wine certainly haven't helped—and my brain is so ready to immediately jump into the worst-case scenario, one where Adam finds a way of ruining everything for me again. Everything I've worked so hard to build and rebuild, gone.
"What do I do?" I ask Sadie, curled under my thin blanket. "How can I be sure she's in it for all the right reasons and won't betray me or do something behind my back?"
Her expression grows somber. "Well, I could talk to her, let her know we're dealing with something with serious legal implications, and that, if she tries any funny business, I'll sue her to oblivion." The simultaneously best and worst part of all of this is that I know she's serious. "I think it's one of those situations where you either trust her or you don't. It really is black or white."
"I guess." I finally put out my cigarette stub before my heart can jump out of my chest and leave me sliced open. "The old Michelle would never tell a soul, but I can never be too sure now. It sucks, doesn't it? You can never be sure of how well you know someone. I mean, for fuck's sake, you know everything about me, and I don't even know your last name."
"Well, did you ever ask?" She downs what's left of her wine, then sets the tall glass aside to wrap her silk scarf around her bony shoulders, standing up in a surprisingly fluid movement. Before she leaves, she squeezes my shoulder. "It's Choi. I'll speak to Michelle. Good night, Harley."
⊹˚. ♡
awww they really do love each other
no one asked and i know people don't like cast lists, but hey. i finally found someone i like for sadie and miss lee da-bin/yeonwoo is that someone