Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"
Автор книги: Susan Ward
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
He is already fully dressed when I join him in the bedroom.
I’m pulling on my panties and bra. “You know, you can only be useful in my study of literature if you tell me how the play ends.”
Alan is sitting on the bed waiting for me, as I rummage through Rene’s clothing. I look at him, and for some reason the complete lack of emotion on his face turns me cold.
“Ivanoff runs off stage and shoots himself in the head.”
Oh Alan, what’s going on with you? Why did you bring up Ivanoff today?
* * *
After Alan makes me breakfast, I set off to try and accommodate his clothing specifications. No matter how I try, I can’t make any of Rene’s clothes work. She is a lot taller than I am and has a leaner, less curvy build. We can share tops, an occasional skirt, but that’s about it. Jeans, never an option. And shoes, not even worth trying, since Rene definitely doesn’t have any that are closed toe.
I go down the hallway to Jack’s bedroom and into my parents’ closet. Lena’s things are still hanging here, in perfect order, where they have been since that day she left New York for California permanently. A lump swells in my throat as I stare at her neatly arranged wardrobe. Twelve years and Jack hasn’t cleaned out her things. I never gave a thought to it, but it is all still here.
Alan comes into sharp focus in my mind, as I rummage through the cedar-lined drawers. I am lost in him. I have become lost in him so quickly, so quickly that he could end us in a humiliatingly public way and then I would spend the night in angry fucking wanting to please him.
I shake my head to push away my thoughts. Jeans. Closed toe shoes. I have only a few options with my mother’s clothing. Lena was not the casual type, and what she has left behind in the casual department was New York chic in 1977. The only positive is that we are nearly the same size, though Mom was taller.
I settle on a cute pair of dark, denim overalls that I can make work by rolling the cuffs. The long sleeve shirt is a baggy beach-type thermal of Jack’s. The shoes are bucks-up buckskin ankle high hiking boots that never saw a trail or dirt. They are spotless twelve years later and I wonder why Lena even has them.
A camping trip? A hike? Something planned to please Jack, but never done. Yes, that was my mother. She definitely knew how to please him without ever doing anything she didn’t want to do. Mom was highly competent at being female and in loving Jack.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Today, I look like an incompetent girl. All I need is braids. How lame is this outfit?
Crossing into my bedroom, I hold my arms wide. “Well, what do you think? Have I managed the wardrobe specifications? And what’s up with that, anyway? Who cares what I wear?”
Alan smiles. He kisses me. “You will.”
“I will, will I?” I notice he is carrying Jack’s old leather bomber jacket atop his own leather jacket that I didn’t even notice him wearing yesterday when he arrived.
“Tie back your hair,” he orders, waits, and then tosses a bandana at me. “And put this on. It will help.”
“Help what?”
“Hurry up, Chrissie. We need to roll.”
* * *
In the parking garage, I freeze and just stare at him. It took Alan three hours to go six blocks and he did it on motorcycle? These clothes now make sense.
“I am not getting on that thing,” I protest, pulling my hand free from his.
Alan ignores me. He zips up Jack’s bomber jacket, tugs my collar high and pulls up the bandana until my nostrils and mouth are tucked in.
“I am not riding on that. Where are we going?”
He swings his leg over, turns the ignition and primes the engine with gas. He points. “Get up behind me. Put your feet there. Whatever you do, don’t let go of my body.”
I hate motorcycles. I’m more afraid of them than airplanes, and jeez, he’s got me sitting on the back of one.
Alan laughs. “Don’t worry. Neither of us is twenty-seven.”
I raise my eyebrows. An obscure literary reference they don’t teach in California, most probably, but I don’t get the joke.
“The great ones die at twenty-seven,” he explains glibly. “Hendrix. Joplin. If we are both around after we’re twenty-seven, we’ll both know what we are.”
I could have done without it being cryptic. Don’t mock death, Alan, it’s not funny. I snuggle into him closer. I press my cheek against his back and hold him tight.
“Good girl.”
“But why the motorcycle, Alan? Where’s Colin. Can’t you do something normal like drive a car?”
At the top of the garage exit, he stops, setting his feet on the ground while the metal door rolls up. He turns to look at me. “We went public, Chrissie, in a very ugly public way. I would have preferred not to do that. Ignore everything on the street. We’ll be out of the city in a couple hours.”
Everything on the street? Oh shit, and then I see it. How is it possible that there are so many of them? There are tabloid photographers blocking the exit. They are blocking the road. They are running from the front of the building, all while shouting and rapidly taking pictures.
He pushes through them, he doesn’t answer, and he speeds off really fast. It would scare the hell out of me if I wasn’t relieved to be out of there.
* * *
The traffic is thick and slow, as New York traffic is, but Alan drives like a maniac and I wonder if he really thinks he can’t die because he isn’t twenty-seven.
My rational self, trying to keep me from freaking out about all this, points out that he is only doing it because the tabloids have tried to follow. But cutting through cars at high speeds on the Washington Bridge Bronx Expressway it has given us an advantage that Colin and the car would not have.
I hold on and let him whisk me away. Still, I’d sort of like to know where we are going.
We lose the last of them by the Garden State Parkway, and he immediately eases off the speed when we enter the New York State Thruway. We are going north and away from the city.
With each mile, the tension ease out of Alan, and the feeling of soaring up roads, in the open air, is strangely liberating and soothing. I feel calmer inside and less frantic holding him. We feel good again, so connected, and so very right.
I feel a slight letdown as he turns off the highway and onto an off-ramp, gradually slowing. I lift my cheek and study the little village by the lake in front of us. I guess this is where we are going, but really Alan, couldn’t you have asked if I wanted to leave Manhattan.
He can be so highhanded at times. I add it to the rapidly growing list of adjectives about him: highhanded, brilliant, gentle, kind, sensitive, sophisticated, angry, elegant, obnoxious, and harsh. What else have I forgotten? I know that’s not the entire list.
We stop at an intersection. We haven’t spoken for hours. “Where are we?” I ask.
“Lake George. I think you’ll like it. Rural New York is very different than the city. Too many people go to New York and never leave the city. Totally different world. A good place to stay until things quiet down again.”
My gaze locks on a hokey little place with white cabins. “Well, they certainly have lodging here. I vote for the Seven Dwarfs Motel and Cabins.”
He gives me a smile that tugs at my heart. “Are you still angry?”
What’s in his voice floods my heart. “No. I should be, but I’m not.” I make one of my little playacting faces. “And heck, why fight. I’m about to be bounced in a room named after a Disney movie. How great is that?”
He laughs. “Are you hungry?”
I nod. I could eat. I point to the Papa bear statue wearing a plaid beret. “How about there?”
Alan laughs. “Really?”
I shrug. “Why not? I like A&W. I never get fast food. There doesn’t seem to be much choice here.”
He rolls us into the parking lot and turns off the bike. As I study the menu, I look at Alan and I laugh. I wonder when the last time it was he did something like this. Probably never. Somehow I don’t think many girls drag him to fast food.
I listen to him order, then take the plastic number stand and find a table. I settle in an outdoor plastic booth, but he pulls me up from the seat, until he’s eased back against the wall, slightly turned with me between his legs and sitting against him.
His chin is resting on my shoulder and he is holding me. He is quiet, troubled beneath the surface. Something is bothering him. I can feel it.
“Is this your first date-date at fast food? Something tells me you don’t go to this type of place very often.”
He pretends to give it thought. “Actually, yes.”
The food service girl comes to our table, delivering our tray. She gives Alan that look, the I know who you are look, but when I glare she takes off without saying anything. Back at the order window, she is rapidly talking to the others in the fast food box. I can feel their stares.
“It’s a good thing there are no tabloids here,” I say, prepping my food to eat it. “People would really start to wonder what’s happened to you if they could see this.”
He doesn’t even give me a slight laugh for the effort. He just picks at his food. My Alan radar is not askew. Something is bothering him.
I squeeze some ketchup and ranch dressing into neat swirls on my plate. “So, where are we staying? How long are we here?”
“I own a farm, not far from here. It’s on the lake. We use it as rehearsal space. It’s a good place to chill and other things. I want to stay on The Farm a few days.”
I stare at him. A few days? I don’t have anything with me except my purse, which he tucked into his pack, and my birth control pills. God, Alan, I’m a girl! I don’t have anything with me.
“Why are you frowning?” he asks.
“Because you just did this. You didn’t ask and the only things I have are my darn pills and my wallet.”
He smiles, a touch wicked. “Then you have everything you need, Chrissie.”
“Very funny.”
I stare at my food. I take a handful of french fries and onion rings and angrily dip them into the ranch dressing, then the ketchup.
“Why do you mix your food like that?”
Really? He wants to talk about that? That seems important to him.
“When you eat the onion rings with the fries it makes them both taste better.”
He studies my face. I can tell he knows I’m angry. And then, because he’s decided to be irritating it seems, he starts to sing one of my favorite Dylan songs but has changed the verse to “she eats just like a little girl.”
“That was terrible. And it is sacrilege to change the words to a Dylan song.”
He pouts. “I had to. I couldn’t sing that you break. You don’t break, Chrissie. You don’t know that, but you are not the kind of girl that’s ever going to break.”
I stare at him. So, I don’t break? Oh Alan, as much as you understand me, sometimes you don’t get me at all.
* * *
We roll to a stop on the gravel drive. The Farm. It looks like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. Whitewashed wood, with pretty little porches and picket rail fronts. Apple trees. A barn. An old, open framed jeep that is little more than a rust bucket.
I can hear sounds from the two story farmhouse and that’s when I notice that there are cars in the driveway. Lots of fancy cars. Who is here at Alan’s farm?
The front door opens. Linda rushes out in shorts and a tight tank top. She is carrying a margarita glass.
She waves. She smiles. She laughs.
She pounds Alan’s chest with a finger. “You bring everyone up here, and then you don’t show. You were supposed to be here yesterday. Not smart, Manny. Not a good way to start.”
She fixes her laser-focused stare on me. “I’m glad you made up. I’m glad you’re here, Chrissie. I could use a friend.”
The Farm.
The larger dysfunctional family.
This isn’t a date.
I remember the adjective I forgot: mean. Yes, Alan can be mean and this is very mean.
He tricked me. He deliberately dragged me here with him, knowing very well I would never want to see any of them ever again. I watch him ease off the bike, unzip his jacket, and toss it across the seat.
Oh Alan, you make it so easy to hate you at times. Only it’s not. It is not easy to hate Alan.
Chapter Fifteen
We follow Linda into the house to find the entire dysfunctional family downstairs. The room is spacious, comfortably understated in shabby chic country furnishings coordinated in yellow and blue. From the dark wood floors to the open beamed ceilings, it is vintage Americana, windows of colored stained glass, blue check curtains on black iron rods, and heavy wood everywhere. The farmhouse is charming.
It would probably be a wonderful place to stay if the aged wood walls didn’t feel like they were about to burst from the pressure of containing the earsplitting cacophony of a tight knit cult. God they are loud, and they feel like so much more than ten people. I really hate that Alan brought me here.
“At last the band is together again,” Len Rowan announces, and Alan instantly becomes the focal point of the room among a dazzling display of exuberant hugs and vacant pleasantries.
Alan stays at my side, his hand tightening its hold on me, and no one really looks at me except to give a fast greeting or smile in a move-on-quickly sort of way. It’s unnerving. Something has changed. My standing with these people has changed and it has made them less openly rude and more standoffish. Interesting.
I glance at Linda, and she winks as if in reassurance, her eyes bright and wide. Before I can say anything to her, Alan steps deeper into the center of the room, pulling me with him. The rapid voices swirl all around him as I step out of his hold to remove my jacket, and it’s then that I notice he has that expression again, dominant and aloof and tired of them all.
The strange undercurrent in the room isn’t just about me, part of it is about Alan. I get an internal warning that this little adventure could go either way, peacefully or a total shitstorm. What the heck is happening here?
“Oh my god, Chrissie, where did you get those?” Linda says, her piercing voice punching through the loudness of the room. “They are vintage and I absolutely love them.”
I flush. I’d forgotten about the out-of-style 1970s overalls underneath the jacket, and I am in a room of girls dressed in expensive, provocative chic. Good one, Linda. Now all the wives are looking at me.
When I turn to hand Linda my jacket, I realize she is sincere and she really does like the darn thing. She grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward the kitchen. “Do you want a glass of wine or something? Dinner is almost ready. Don’t believe that nonsense about Jewish women not being able to cook. I’m an excellent cook.”
As she pushes through the swinging door, I note that whatever is cooking in the kitchen does smell delicious.
Once the door swings closed behind us the chatter stops, she turns to stare at me, and her lively eyes are alertly searching. “Are you OK?”
The way she says that tells me it’s not a casual question and that she’s been worried about me.
I nod. “I’m fine. We talked. It’s good.”
Linda slams open the oven door and shakes her head. “I’ve never seen Manny like he was when he realized you’d left. At first I thought it was just ego. Girls just don’t walk out on Manny…” Linda lifts her brows with heavy meaning. “…And then I realized it was something more. He was frantic, he was going to bail right then in the middle of the party to go after you until Len stopped him. That’s when I knew he must have done something pretty fucked up with that temper of his.”
Frantic? Alan is many things, but he is never frantic. Surely, Linda is exaggerating.
She straightens up and leans back against the counter. “And then when the last of the party cleared out, the fireworks. Oh, Chrissie, you missed one hell of an explosion. Kenny made some stupid comment—nothing new for him, by the way—and then boom. I’ve never seen the five of them fight so badly. I thought, this is it. They are over.”
She starts to lift lids from pots to give each an aggressive stir—something that looks like rice and chorizo and cheese, Mexican style refried beans, some kind of spicy red sauce, and if I’m not mistaken, those are enchiladas I smell in the oven. I never expected to find traditional California Mexican cuisine cooking in the kitchen, and then I remember Linda is from LA.
She pushes a glass of wine into my hand. “Then the shitstorm of press started. That’s when things got really interesting.” She turns to pour herself another margarita. “I don’t have to tell you that this is a pretty paranoid group of guys. Every one of them just waiting for the day Manny walks out on the band. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve heard out of them since he landed in New York with you.”
She shakes her head and takes a hefty sip of her Margarita. “Manny’s drama, exhausting, and then all the strangeness suddenly makes sense. Why he was so secretive and shit after he returned to New York. And so careful about keeping everyone away. You’re Jackson Parker’s daughter and Manny was delusional enough to think he could keep you out of the eye of the tabloid hurricane. Mr. Fucked Up British Superstar with the daughter of an American Icon. Yeah, right? Like that was ever going to happen.”
Oh shit. I’ve somehow managed not to think about this the last twenty-four hours. Do I have hours, days or weeks before I have my own shitstorm to face with Jack?
“How much print has there been? Is it awful?” I ask in dread.
“Nothing much yet, but its coming. There is no way to stop it. And it’s going to be a lot and it’s going to be ugly. Manny’s made a fortune kicking up black tar ink. The tabloids live for this shit. So now the paranoid lot out there in the living room doesn’t know what to be paranoid about, and the tabloids are picking out your wedding dress.”
Linda starts pulling out blue-edged plates from a glass front whitewashed cabinet.
“So was Manny really just in California with you the entire five months after Rehab?” she asks with a hint of irritation.
I sputter into my wine. Oh shit, he is lying to them and I don’t know what that means or what I should do here.
“Well?” she demands.
“He was in California the entire five months,” I reply with awkward, truthful diversion.
Her eyes narrow on me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Jack’s girl, and all this drama was just to keep the two of you hush-hush? It really hurts that you guys didn’t trust me.”
I sigh and stare off into space, that last question not even worth making an effort to construct a lie in response. I’ve got my own problems here and Linda, succinctly, with the speed of a machine gun, made sure I’m reminded of each one: a tabloid bloodletting en route to me; a pissed off Jack eventually en route to me; Alan’s confusing never-ending drama…oh, and the album, Chrissie, don’t forget the album…and all the things in me that I have to work through when I get home, within my perfectly fucked up life that I just fucked up even more.
Linda points to a drawer. “Can you start pulling the silverware out for me?”
I start to slam knives and forks on the wood block counter.
It’s funny how delusional you can be when you want to do something you know you shouldn’t. How could I have ever thought that Alan would be someone who just quietly passed through my life privately? There isn’t a single thing Alan does that is ever private. I’m delusional. How the heck did I get so deep into a hole so quickly?
“You don’t have to murder the flatware, Chrissie, just because everything is fucked. That’s pretty much SOP.”
Humor has returned to Linda’s voice. I wish I had her emotional dexterity, but then Linda has existed for a very long time in Alan’s epic universe.
Linda slams open the wood shutters above the splash counter and begins to lay out heat mats for the pans.
I stare out into the living room at Alan. He is relaxed in a chair, laughing, long limbs in front of him, disheveled dark hair, shimmering black eyes, an unrelenting centerpiece in any setting, almost too perfect to be real. I jumped into the hole willingly. I wanted to, and I want him.
But wanting him doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be nice if having him didn’t involve all the rest of the complicated shit, if it were something even slightly approaching normal and familiar. A month ago I didn’t even have a boyfriend. How quickly I’ve been swallowed up by Alan and his world. Why does it feel like I’ve jumped a track in my life, that I am speeding on a road where I can’t see where I’m going? Alan and I are just a temporary thing. Why doesn’t it feel temporary?
God, why did he bring me to The Farm? I stare at the wives, and something about how they cluster and cling to the circle makes me shudder inside.
“So, what do the girls do at The Farm?” I ask.
“We get fucked…” Linda lifts her glass. “…and we get fucked up. This is guy world, Chrissie. That’s all there is. Fucking and getting fucked up. There aren’t even phones here. Alan thinks it interferes with their focus. No phones. Not even TV. They have music, their bullshit stories, getting fucked and fucked up. But all we’ve got is getting fucked, fucked up and kitchen duty. Thank god there’s a cleaning girl who comes twice a week or we’d be mopping floors, Chrissie. The ERA hasn’t reached here yet.”
That comment makes me laugh even though it’s repulsive. Linda is funny, even when she is being coarse and vulgar.
“Dinner!” Linda shouts, in a voice the shakes the rafters.
By the time I’ve filled my plate and left the kitchen to join everyone sprawled in the living room eating, there isn’t an inch of empty space near Alan. I don’t really want to be near any of them, I don’t fit in and probably never will, and my anxious glance searches the room for somewhere to sit apart safely.
“Come here, little kitty. Come sit with me.”
My startled gaze shifts to find Len Rowan patting a floor cushion beside him and studying me in a very peculiar way. Oh yuck, I don’t really want to sit all cozy on the floor with him, but I can’t just ignore him and walk away.
I smile and let Len take the plate to set it on the low table in front of him. He puts his hand on my arm to guide me down beside him. I almost pull away, but I forcibly stop myself.
It’s just a friendly touch. Nothing more. Don’t be an idiot tonight, Chrissie. I grab my fork and start to cut into an enchilada.
“You OK?” Len whispers.
I look to find Len quietly probing with his gaze, as if trying to figure out something I must have let show on my face.
“I’m great.” I fill my mouth with a forkful of Mexican. He’s still staring, expectant. Shit, why is he doing that? “Linda is a great cook.”
Len smiles. “Linda’s a great girl. You need anything, you go to her. Linda won’t ever steer you wrong. The rest of them…” He doesn’t finish and reaches for his beer. “So, what is Jack thinking about all this?”
Oh god, from totally ignored girl to let’s have heart-to-heart girl. And what does he mean by all this? I flush and I look at Alan. Thankfully, he’s absorbed in Linda’s overly animated chatter.
“Nothing to think,” I say quietly, evasively.
Len laughs. “OK. I get it. Mind my own business.”
He nods, smiles, and places a light kiss on my cheek, to my great surprise. I realize he wasn’t being invasive; he was being concerned. I peek at him as I eat my dinner. By the time I’ve finished my meal, I know I read Len Rowan all wrong.
Len may be an ass on the surface, but there is a shrewd sensitivity to him that I think most people miss. It suddenly makes sense that he’s with Linda. They are the balance in this strange cluster of personalities: Linda with the girls and Len with the band. They’re the glue that somehow keeps everyone together.
After dinner, everyone just lounges around talking and laughing. The minutes turn into hours and it’s starting to feel like this evening is never going to end. I’ve spent the better part of four hours listening to an endless stream of industry talk and gossip, there is nothing of the substantive world here. There’s meaningless dialogue occasionally spiced with a quick anecdote about Jack, which feels weirdly inserted into the conversation as a polite attempt to include me. Nothing could be less polite. Every time Jack’s name comes up in passing, I tense. I can’t even imagine what the fallout for this will be when I go home.
Never before have I done anything that would test the boundaries of Jack’s tolerance or his approval. In all moments, I work desperately hard to remain as close to perfect—or at least if not perfect, then privately a mess—so as not to tip the strange balance of our totally careful father-daughter relationship. I’ve always been so afraid to tip the balance.
I stare down into my wine. Well, Chrissie, you better come to terms with the fact that you have tipped the balance. For some reason as I analyze this, it’s anger I feel flooding my tissues instead of my familiar apprehension and worry. I’ve fucked up your image of me big time and this time in a public way, Jack. Are you going to ignore this?
I study the strange herd of dysfunctional people I’ve fallen in with. It’s like a public service announcement. Even Jack couldn’t move past this with his ’60s axioms and nonparenting for parents bullshit.
By the time the group starts to break up, there is breathing into life inside of me, a carefree sense of not giving a shit what anyone thinks about anything—not Jack, not them, not anyone. I fell in love. I let a guy love me. What’s fucked up about that?
I tilt my head to find Alan crouched down beside me. It’s strange, but we passed the entire evening not even together. Those mesmerizing, penetrating black eyes are slowly absorbing the details of my expression, and then he takes my face in his hands, his fingers spreading across my cheeks.
I’m just starting to lean in for a kiss when he stops me. “Are you OK?”
I laugh, frustrated. “God. You’re like the tenth person to ask me that tonight. What’s up with that?”
Alan laughs and shakes his head. “Just checking to see if you’re angry with me again. I’m tired, Chrissie. Take me to bed and be good to me.”
I make a face, lips turning downward in simulated pouting. “Don’t count on it,” I tease.
He shakes his head just enough for the dark waves to dance. “No?”
Beneath his unreadable surface I feel just a smidge of silly Alan in there.
“Nope.”
He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. The staircase is old, the wood creaks while we walk, and there is something in the creaking sound that is strangely comforting to me. I can see the moon through the round windows, high on the wall, and there is the lovely sensation again that we are alone even though I know perfectly well there are people in every upstairs bedroom. The staircase is narrow and dark we’re in a magical transition away from them to only Chrissie and Alan again.
Alan pauses at the door and flips on a switch before he pulls me in behind him. The room is simple and dominated by a charming, antique brass bed invitingly arranged with hand sewn quilts and country check pillows. The furniture is heavy and old and spotless, and the windows are dual-paned and framed with patches of swirling blue stained glass.
With easy grace, Alan reclines on the bed and stares up at me. Those black eyes are alive with tenderness and lust. It’s a disarming mix. I swallow and lean back into the door. It would be so easy to forget all the questions in my head when he stares at me like this.
“I thought you said you weren’t angry with me,” he murmurs softly.
There’s a sweet kind of smile on his face now, cajoling and affectionate. I feel my body respond.
“Depends on why you brought me here.”
He pretends to be confused. “To The Farm? Or the bedroom?”
I sink on the bed beside him, settling my chin in the upturned palm of my hand. “What’s going on here, Alan?”
He leans into me, long fingers closing on the fastenings of my overalls. He gives me a full mouth kiss that I feel all the way down to my toenails. It leaves me breathless and just a touch angry. So Alan, you don’t want to answer my questions.
I stare up at him, completely committed to being resistant. “You’re lying to them and I want to know why, since you’ve made me a part of it.”
He lies back on the pillow, irritated.
“I’m quitting,” he says, just when it was looking like he wasn’t going to answer me. “You know that. But I’m not a solo act, Chrissie. I can’t walk out in one day. For a lot of reasons, most of them legal and involving lawsuit settlements, I’m doing the tour, I’m doing one more album with the band, and then I’m through. Will you kiss me now?”
“But why lie to them about me?” I stare at the quilt, fingering the design, trying to make sense of this. “You made them think we’ve had this long, hot, and heavy affair going on for months. Why? Why don’t you want anyone to know you were with Jack?”
His eyes widen with a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Fuck, you don’t know anything about Jack, do you?”
I feel my face flood with a burn, and uncontained hurt unfurls within me. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
I can tell he can see he fucked up with that comment. He runs a hand through his hair and his expression softens.
“Your father is an extraordinary man. He’s the guy people call for you when you’ve fucked up big and you want off the road you’re on. He helps you clean up your shit, get your head straight, and get you on a different road. I’ve got fifteen more months, Chrissie. I just want it all to end. If they know I’ve been with Jack, they’ll know I’m leaving.”
I don’t know where to begin to process my emotions. I didn’t know any of this about Jack, and that’s not the Dad I’ve had, not by a long shot. It makes everything inside of me somehow hurt even more. And even though it’s trivial and secondary, it reminds me of that day at the airport, Alan’s concern over the tabloids spotting me and how sweet I thought his worry was. It was never about me. It was about him, and for some reason I wonder: how much about us is only about him? There is that sense there is something going on between us that I don’t fully understand yet.
I focus on the wood slats of the ceiling, trying to calm my inner turmoil.
“What’s wrong, Chrissie?”
I look to see Alan studying me, trying to assess my reaction to this. I muster an overly bright smile. “I just want to go to sleep.”
