Jacen’s POV
“I suppose you want me to talk about my childhood.”
Eyes, pale grey and patronizing, regarded me over a pair of thick rimmed glasses. “Do you want to talk about your childhood?” Dr. Keller asked neutrally from where he sat, professional and poised in an oversized leather chair.
“You’re the therapist here, right?” I asked lazily, letting my head dangle off the side of the sofa as I threw a stress ball up towards the ceiling. “So you tell me Doc, does anything about my demeanor suggest I had a pleasant childhood?”
He studied me for a moment. He was young, Dr. Keller, probably mid thirties, but he had all sorts of fancy degrees on his walls, mixed with autographed headshots of celebrities. He was the crazy one if he thought he was getting my picture on that wall. Why would I want to advertise what a headcase I was?
"Not particularly, no,” he decided finally.
“Then why would I want to talk about it?” I snapped, catching the stress ball. “Jeez, for a guy who went to Harvard you’re kind of a dumbass.” I turned my head to offer him a sweet-as-sugar-shark tooth smile. “No offense of course.”
Dr. Keller took off his glasses. I doubted he needed them anyway. They seemed more like a fashion statement. “Do you know why you’re here Jacen?”
“Well, I was an accident so I assume it has something to do with a broken condom.”
Dr. Keller stared at me, seeming unphased. Based on some of the photos on the walls, he’d seen worse than me. Of course, I was just getting warmed up. “Your manager is worried about you. The trial is coming up in a few weeks, and she wants to make sure you’re in the right mindset to deal with it.”
“Her name is Odette,” I said, having gone back to playing catch by myself. “And she’s not my manager. She’s my mother.”
Dr. Keller was silent for a minute. I concentrated on the pink ball flying through the air. In my peripherals I could see the glossy leather of his loafers. “You went through quite an ordeal last December.”
“My whole life has been an ordeal,” I replied absently. “You get used to it.”
“It can’t have been all bad,” Keller said. I knew he was staring at me like something you might find under a microscope, but I pretended not to notice. “Your girlfriend, Nicolette - I know she means a lot to you.”
I began to wonder just how much Odette had told this guy about me. “You don’t know a damn thing about Nikki,” I informed him politely. “So don’t talk about her.”
“You’re very protective,” he noted casually.
“She’s my girlfriend,” I responded, giving him a WTF look. “I’m supposed to take care of her.”
“Did she know you were coming here today?”
“No. But to be fair, neither did I,” I said pointedly. Odette had suggested therapy to me before, but I’d always dodged the topic. Then all of a sudden our car had come to a stop outside this posh office that afternoon. I’d considered making a run for it, but Odette had begged me to just give it a try, and I caved.
I was starting to regret not running for it when I had the chance.
“You don’t believe in therapy,” Dr. Keller said with a small, knowing smile. It was the most accurate thing he’d said since I arrived.
“No. And I think a quick peek at my family tree will tell you why,” I replied, my attention back on the stress ball as it flew towards the ceiling, and then plummeted back into my waiting hand. “Just about everyone in my family has been in therapy at some point or another, and they’re all still crazy.” Or in the ground.
“Everyone but you?”
“My sister wanted to send me to therapy when I was a kid. My parents disagreed; thought it would interfere with my work schedule. I’d tell you more about it but that would violate my no ‘childhood talk’ rule.”
“So you don’t think you have anything to benefit from therapy?”
“Look Doc,” I said, catching the ball and sitting up, so that we were facing each other. “I’m always going to be a little bit of an asshole, and I’m always going to have nightmares. I’ve seen some shit, and no amount of therapy is going to make me unsee it.”
Nikki was the only therapy I’d ever needed. Nikki had done more for me in the last few months than a thousand therapists ever could. It was Nikki who made me want to be a better person, and it was the feel of Nikki’s body against my own that helped me sleep at night.
“I hope I’ll be able to change your view on the subject,” Dr. Keller said as he rose to his feet. I took that as my cue to do the same.
“So does that mean we’re done?” I asked expectantly, taking my phone from my pocket to glance at the time. 8:45. I was so screwed. “Cause I kinda have a thing to be at.”
“We’re done,” Keller said, dropping a folder on his desk. The folder was labeled J. Sage. Not even doctors used my old last name. It wasn’t just a stage name; Jacen Sage. I’d changed it legally too, so that nobody would be able to pry into my past.
“Well it’s been a real slice Doc,” I said, making little pistol hand motions at him as I made my way to the door.
“See you next week,” he reminded me pointedly.
“Not if I can help it!” I sung sweetly as I left the office, letting the door swing shut behind me. I didn’t waste time after that, I just began a brisk jog across the lacquered wooden floors and down the spiraling metal stairs. I didn’t have the patience for the elevator.
One flight and I was down in the lobby, making my way to the door. A pretty secretary was trying to flag me down but I just called back, “You know who to charge!”
I pushed through the glass doors and emerged into the familiar dry heat of Los Angeles. The city was a metropolis of glittering glass and melting plastic, looming above me as I made my way over to the limo idling at the edge of the sidewalk.
I almost never took the limo, but it was tradition to take one to the big premiers; a hat tip to the golden age of Hollywood. While I was all for nostalgia, I hated limos. They were big and slow and attracted too much attention, even here.
I climbed in the back seat, and before I was even seated, we were moving. “How did it go?” asked Odette, performing a miracle by actually looking up from her phone. A lot had changed with Odette since December, but some things hadn’t. She still wore a sleek pantsuit, only instead of black or navy, it was a elegant maroon. Her hair was up, as per usual, but now a days she let a few strands hang loose.
It was all very strange.
I’d been trying to piece together this puzzle for months now. I could only assume that nearly losing me had given Odette some perspective, and inspired her to be less uptight. It was a reasonable assumption, but a part of me felt there was something else going on there too.
“Exactly like you’d expect,” I replied as Odette handed me the garment bag that contained my suit for the evening. This was another premier tradition I hated; the tux.
“And by that you mean you were sulky, uncooperative, and probably broke something,” guessed Rosalyn from where she sat on the opposite side of the limo. She wore a nude colored dress, that made her look naked, save for the crystals that created designs over her more . . . interesting areas.
“I didn’t break anything,” I said pointedly as I pulled my shirt off over my head, discarding it to the side.
“Oh yeah. Take it off,” Rosalyn teased lazily as she took a sip from her wine glass. She’d cut her hair while in France. Now it reached just past her chin in a sleek, elegant bob. It made her look older, more sophisticated, but she was still just Rosalyn.
“You know, this is why you and I are such good friends. You always make me feel so safe and loved - not at all objectified or self conscious.”
“Oh c’mon, you know I’m just kidding. I’ve already ridden that ride after all.”
“Thank you Rosalyn,” Odette said pointedly, but she was smiling down at her phone. Somehow I doubted her amusement had anything to do with Rosalyn calling my body a ride. Odette had certainly grown to like Rosalyn a lot more - now that we weren’t dating anymore - but she still tended to get squirmy when Rosalyn mentioned our previous relationship.
Not this time though. Odette had made her half hearted comment, and then her eyes were back on the phone.
“Who are you texting?” I asked as I undid my belt and kicked my sandals off. Even I wasn’t suicidal enough to wear leather boots during an LA summer. I would have to wait until at least September.
“Hmm?” Odette asked, glancing up absently. “Oh no one . . . Viviane.”
“I didn’t realize Viviane had such a great sense of humor,” I replied dryly. “Or is it nudes? Cause that I would have to see.”
Rosalyn choked on her wine a little. Odette shook her head at me and went back to her texting. I eyed her suspiciously, but ultimately, had to focus on getting dressed. We were only a few blocks away, and if I tried to walk the red carpet in my underwear I’d probably be mauled by horny fangirls.
I tugged my jeans off, and Rosalyn tossed me my slacks. I put those on, and then got to work putting on the shirt and vest. I was actually rather good at that. Lastly I put on the jacket, which I left open, to reveal the grey vest. A part of me felt like that didn’t match, since the jacket was black, but what did I know about fashion?
I tried to do the bowtie, but I knew going in that was going to be a failure. After watching me struggle for a few minutes Rosalyn finally put down her glass with a huff and came over to tie it for me.
“You really do suck at this,” Rosalyn said as she tied the bow tie at my throat. She was right of course. People were always dressing and undressing me - for various shoots and scenes - so I never learned how to do certain things.
“It’s the will of God,” I said instead. “He knows what a sin it is to cover up this body, so he does whatever he can to prevent that from happening. It certainly is a wretched and laborious cross I bear.”
Rosalyn rolled her eyes. “Wretched indeed,” she mocked, as the limo came to a stop. I could feel the rumble of nearby chaos. We were close; probably stuck in a line of limos. We were last by design. They always save the best for last.
Rosalyn glanced over my shoulder and out the window. All the windows were so ridiculously tinted it was unlikely she could see anything. Of course, we’d both been to so many of these events we didn’t need eyes to know what it was like out there.
“If we show up together everyone’s going to think we’re dating again,” Rosalyn said plainly as she smoothed out my bowtie. “You do realize that?”
I sighed as the limo inched along. “Of course I realize that,” I responded dryly. “But what choice did I have? I couldn’t bring Nikki. And going stag to one of these things is like asking to get molested.”
"As long as you’re prepared for the Spanish Inquisition that awaits us at the end of that carpet,” she said nonchalantly as the limo lurched forward, only to stop again. I could hear the fans waiting beyond; feel their screams vibrating through my chest. We’d arrived.
“Good luck,” Odette said, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Call if you need anything.” Odette had plans to meet up with friends that night for drinks. It was strange to think of Odette as having friends. We had always lived a nomad’s life, her and I; a life of constant wandering. Us wanderers sticked together for the most part. All my friends were wanderers. Odette though, she had a whole life outside of me, a life that was rooted in Los Angeles; her hometown.
“I’ll see you later,” I said as the door opened, courtesy of my driver Liam. I gave Odette one last look, but her attention was already back on her phone. I promised myself I would figure out what was going on with her, and then I scrubbed the thought from my mind. I needed to be blank; if I was going to survive this night.
I took one last deep breath, and stepped outside. I had lost the ability to be phased by this brand of insanity. Girls jumped up and down, screamed, cried. Cameras flashed. Paparazzi swarmed. A thousand people screamed my name.
All I did was smile.
I stood there for a moment, letting everyone get their pictures, before turning to help Rosalyn out of the car. There was more fanfare. I offered her my arm and together we began the treacherous journey down the red carpet.
Rosalyn was a pro. Together, we worked the crowd effortlessly. We signed autographs, posed for pictures, talked with fans. We smiled politely for the paparazzi who called our names like we were dogs - here Jacen, right here Jacen, hey Rosalyn, over here Rosalyn. When it came time for the interviews, we both laughed at the inevitable question - are you two an item again? - we both laughed and explained no, we’re just here as friends, Nikki couldn’t make it. Rosalyn was the perfect partner.
And yet, I kept wishing Nikki was here instead.
Nikki would have sucked at this. She wouldn’t have known how to stand, or when to smile, or where to go. She would have felt awkward. She would have been worried about embarrassing me. She wouldn’t have known what fork to use at dinner or how to act. I wanted her there anyway.
Rosalyn was a good business partner. But I didn’t want a business partner. I wanted my best friend. My rebel, my writer, my fighter; my Nikki. She didn’t know how to play the games these people played; and I hoped she’d never learn.
Rosalyn must have noticed I was pining, because she pinched my arm as we made our way inside. The front room was all decked out for dinner; flowers, and twinkling lights, and silk tablecloths.
“What?” I snapped at her as we made our way over to our table, or rather, the table. The one where the stars sat. We were the ones everyone had turned out to see after all. So much work went into these movies, but nobody ever wanted to take pictures with the screenwriter or the crew.
“Stop pining,” she said lowly, reading my mind. “You’ll see your precious Nikki soon enough. Right now we have work to do. Get your game face on.”
She was right of course. The press was everywhere. It was my job to maintain a good image. Which is harder than it sounds. I’d been doing well lately, but that was because I’d been hiding away in Pennsylvania with Nikki all summer. But now it was time to get back to the real world, and the real world watched my every move.
I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice the world watching as Rosalyn and I went to sit at our table. The usual suspects were all present. Isabel, as our fellow co-star, was there, and had brought Trigger with her. Pat was there too, looking stoned and sophisticated with his bloodshot eyes and pressed tuxedo. He wasn’t alone though. He’d brought Monica.
It was the first time I’d seen her in months. She’d spent the summer in the Hamptons, at some swanky spa that was supposed to help her deal with everything that had happened back in December.
She didn’t look like somebody who was dealing. She was scary skinny, even for a model. She’d shaved half her head, like some women in Hollywood were prone to doing, and dyed the tips of her bleached hair red. She was wearing way too much makeup. Her eyes were black mascara smudges in her face.
“Jacen!” Isabel squealed when she saw me. Isabel still looked like Isabel; tanned and Disney princess gorgeous. “Darling! I’ve missed you so much,” she raved as she came over to hug me and peck my cheek.
“I’ve missed you too Iz. How was Hawaii?” I asked.
“Oh, beautiful of course,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Come, sit, sit. We all need to catch up! I feel like I haven’t seen any of you all summer!”
Rosalyn and I took our seats, sinking seamlessly into our old routine. We talked about the trips we’d taken; Trigger had been touring in Europe again, Pat had been working on a project up in Vancouver, Rosalyn had been in France. I’d been in Pennsylvania, pretending to be a normal teenager. It was the best summer of my life.
“So Jacen,” Isabel said, when everyone had finished talking about all the exotic places they’d been and how boring it all was. “Where’s Nikki tonight?”
“Oh, today was her first day of school,” I explained, swishing the scotch in my glass. “She probably wouldn’t have come anyway. She hates these things.”
“Has she actually ever been to one?” Pat asked, taking a drag off a contraband cigarette. You definitely couldn’t smoke in here, but this table had it’s own rules. “I mean, she should at least give it a chance before deciding she doesn’t like it.”
“By that logic you should give gay sex a chance,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink. “Unless of course you already have.”
Everyone laughed, Pat included. He wasn’t the kind of guy who pretended to be offended by things. “I do wish you would bring her sometime,” Isabel whined. “I just know we’d have so much fun together.”
I dismissed her with a vague promise, and within the hour, dinner came. Marinated shrimp, tossed together with chunks of rare steak soaked in Manhattan sauce. All very fancy. I poked at it, and mostly just ate the mashed potatoes and nibbled on bread.
Somewhere along the way, the conversation shifted to the yacht party Rosalyn was planning. Isabel was rattling off names of people Rosalyn should invite, and every so often Trigger would jump in with “Oh no you can’t invite her. I can’t be trapped on a boat with her - she’ll throw me overboard.”
“But think of the exciting game of Clue we could play,” Rosalyn said with a bored, pointed smile. “Which one of Trigger’s conquests finally whacked him?”
“If we’re playing Clue then I want to be Miss Scarlet. I’m always Miss Scarlet,” Isabel insisted.
“I can already tell you who did it. Nicole Silver, in the bedroom, with a bondage whip,” Pat said with a wicked smile.
Trigger glared. “I told you that in confidence.”
Their chatter was lost on me though. Underneath the table, Monica was playing footsie with me. She was just sitting across from me, silent and not at all bubbly or Monica like. She didn’t even look at me as she did it; just stared off at nothing. I kept moving my feet back, but she just kept playfully nudging my feet with her pointy shoes.
It was super weird, and super uncomfortable. Pat, where he sat next to Monica, must have noticed my expression, because he was staring at me. I gave him a look that said I’d tell him later before abruptly getting to my feet.
“Sorry, gotta make a phone call,” I mumbled before shuffling away. Really I’d just wanted to get away from Monica. She was seriously freaking me out with her out-of-character silence and weird makeup. Not to mention her hitting on me was super awkward.
I took my cell out and decided to give Nikki a call. I’d told her I’d call after the premier, but now was just as good. I hadn’t talked to her since that morning when she got off the plane, and I missed her voice.
The phone had only rang once when suddenly there were hands gripping my arm. I flinched, and turned to see Rosalyn hanging onto my elbow, her fake nails digging into my flesh as she dragged me behind a corner.
“What the fuck?” I demanded. Now, in the old days, Rosalyn dragging me anywhere usually ended in one thing. I knew that wasn’t the case this time. “What is it?”
“Look!” she hissed, pointing across the room to where people were trickling in from outside. Two people in particular caught my eye. One an aging Brazilian beauty queen in a canary yellow cocktail dress, the other a silver haired man with eyes like mine.
“Holy shit!” I breathed, throwing myself back against the wall so that I was hidden behind the corner. I had to force myself from sliding down the wall. “What the fuck are my parents doing here?”
“They must have still been on the guest list,” Rosalyn said, biting her lip in a helpless, pitying manner. Like she wanted to help but hadn’t yet figured out how to do so. “It was made so long ago . . .Someone must have forgotten to take them off.”
“I didn’t even know they were in LA,” I groaned, daring to peer around the corner to catch a glimpse of them. They were talking to my old director, Hank. The way my mother was looking around told me she was looking for me. I ducked behind the corner again. “I need to get out of here.”
Rosalyn nodded, like this was the only reasonable course of action. Like it wasn’t totally insane that I, a legal adult, wanted to run away and hide from my parents like a frightened six year old. “The kitchen,” Rosalyn said, “There should be a door in there. Go out that way.”
I froze for another stupid second. I must have been some kind of masochist, because instead of running like I wanted to, I stood. I stood and I looked around the corner at the two people who had been actively responsible for making my childhood suck.
Sandra Sage looked as beautiful as always. Even from a distance, her eyes looked dead. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had rocked me to sleep, and sang me Portuguese lullabies when I was sick. It was hard to believe this woman had once been my mother.
I’ve often wondered, in my weaker moments, if she ever loved me. If she was even capable of loving anybody. I like to think it was Michael’s death that drained the life out of her. But if I’m being honest, it was probably me.
“Go!” Rosalyn urged lowly. “I’ll distract them, but you’ll have to be quick.”
I forced the memories - of Georgia, of cherry trees, of Michael - out of my head. Instead I remembered all the horrible things Sandra and Michael had did to me in the last couple of years. All the dinners, all the missed birthdays, all the Christmas gifts their assistants picked out. The backhanded compliments, the patronizing, the way they had left the hospital before I even woke up.
I hated them. Sometimes I forgot how much I hated them. Sometimes I let myself get swept up in childish dreams of a perfect family. But underneath it all, I hated them. I really did.
And for that reason, I left. I didn’t want to look at them, or talk to them, or breathe the same air as them for another second. So I jogged down to the kitchen. It was chaotic - full of waiters and cooks darting about frantically. Surely somebody noticed me, but nobody said anything.
“There a back door to this place?” I asked a redheaded waitress. She blinked at me in confusion for a few seconds, tried to speak, and eventually just ended up gesturing behind her. I didn’t take the time to thank her, just followed her directions. Surely enough, there was a swinging door back there.
Gratefully I exited through it, and found myself in an LA alleyway. The air was dry and smelled of garbage and sea salt. I could see stars up above. I smiled at the sight of the North Star. It always made me think of Nikki. For, what had to be the hundredth time that night, I wished she was here with me. All the horrors of my childhood just seemed like bad dreams when I was with Nikki.
“JACEN!”
The scream pierced down to my core. For a second, I went rigid. And then, I spun. A group of people stood at the base of the alley. A few paparazzi, easily recognizable by their cameras, and a group of fans, easily recognizable by the JACEN SAGE propaganda they wore.
I didn’t think in that moment. I just ran. I wasn’t naive to think that that would be the end of it. Fangirls and paparazzi were equally persistent groups of people. A part of me admired their tenacity. Another part of me wished they would just leave me the hell alone.
Seriously, can’t a guy have a nervous breakdown in peace?
Evidently not, if that guy happens to be a movie star. The horde, squealing and flashing, chased after me as I ran out of the mouth of the alley. I’d had a lot of practice in my life with running - running from fans, running from cops, running for my life. I never ran for fun, only for survival.
But when I did, man did I book ass. The alternative was that the horde would catch up with me. I’d be encircled by a swirling mass of well meaning fans and not so well meaning paparazzi. There would be microphones in my face and camera flashes blinding me and in the state I was in now, I just knew I would lose it.
So I ran. I ran down the nocturnal streets of Hollywood in my fancy leather shoes. I was Jacen Sage, teenage superstar and youngest person alive to ever win an Oscar, and I’d been reduced to running from thirteen year old girls and a few dudes with cameras.
It wasn’t exactly my proudest moment.
Dodging an oncoming Mercedes, I darted across the street and into the parking lot of a nail salon. It was empty at this hour, except for one beat up pickup truck. Immediately I got down on the dirty asphalt and slid beneath the truck.
There I lay as the horde of fans and paparazzi passed by. I breathed a sigh of relief as the sound of their footsteps disappeared into the night, masked by the distant sounds of traffic and nightlife.
I could have gotten up. I could have called Odette and told her to pick me up. I knew I would eventually do both of those things, but for the time being, I just laid there. I stared up at the bottom of this stranger’s pick up, breathing hard as I attempted to take stock of my life.
There was the upcoming trial, and all the pain that would unearth. There were the ghosts; the ghost of Michael and the ghost of Eleanor. There were my parents, who served as constant reminders of everything I’d sacrificed for my fame. There was Odette and her secrets, Cherish and her fears, Nikki and her new life. And then there was me, all alone and laying on the pavement in my new tuxedo.