AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Until he called to ask you for money,” I say.
She looks up, surprised. “How’d you know about that?”
“It’s always the same story, Laila. The same thing happened to me and to so many of my friends, once they started getting any kind of success and fame. You have no idea how common it is.”
“Oh.”
“So, did you give him money when he asked?”
She looks sheepish. “Did you?”
I nod. “I paid my father ten grand, in exchange for a comprehensive agreement. He’s prohibited from talking about me to the press and can’t sue me for the time I decked him. So, it was money well spent.”
“Shoot. I didn’t think to get an agreement like that. He’s given several interviews about me. It’s so embarrassing. He acts like he’s been an amazing father to me—like my success is all his doing, simply because he got me a Fisher Price keyboard as a toddler. But he’s not the one who sacrificed, constantly, to keep me going to piano lessons. He’s not the one who listened to every new song I wrote, even the terrible ones, and cried tears of joy and told me I had a gift.”
“Don’t pay him another dime, Laila. Ever.”
She sniffles. “I send him money a few times a year.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He was a heavy smoker and now he’s sick. Helping with his medical bills makes me feel less guilty, I guess.”
“Guilty for what?”
She twists her sultry lips. “I can’t abandon him. He’s blood. And I’ve been so lucky in my career.”
Anger surges inside me. “No, Laila. Fuck him. You didn’t ask him to have sex with your mom without a condom. And, yes, you’ve been lucky in your career. But luck is only one of the factors of your success.” I motion to the half-empty bowl in front of me at the dining room table. “It’s like this soup. There’ve been a whole lot of ingredients, besides luck, to get you where you are today. Hard work. Piano lessons. And most of all, like your mom said, your gift. Whatever luck you’ve had, it wouldn’t have gotten you anywhere, without the rest of the ingredients along with it.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, looking moved. She swallows hard. “That means a lot, coming from you. I think so highly of your talent. You’re an amazing artist.”
My chest heaves. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you. I think the same of you. Your voice gives me goosebumps. When you hit those high notes, I literally get a tear in my eye.”
She exhales a slow, long breath, like her heart is beating a mile a minute, and electricity crackles between us.
“He’s a douchebag, Laila,” I say, my eyes locked with hers, skin on fire. “Don’t send him another dime.”
“I probably will,” she admits. “Because sending it is my way of controlling him—keeping him away from me and my family, for good.”
The full extent of my assholery toward Laila hits me like a tsunami. “I’m so sorry for all the times I was a flaming dickhead to you during the tour, Laila. I’m sorry for any time I yelled at you or made you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry for that time I said you didn’t belong on the tour. You did. You’re a genius with incredible talent and star quality and I was an asshole to suggest otherwise. I’m sorry for the times I’ve smoked around you, especially the times I’ve purposely blown smoke in your face, solely to piss you off. Please, forgive me for all of it. There were times during the tour when I felt irrationally rejected by you, or maybe I thought I couldn’t make a play for you because Kendrick had a crush on you, and my solution to all of it was to lash out and/or push you away, with all my might. It was stupid of me. And I’m so sorry.”
Her chest visibly rises and falls for a moment. Her blue eyes are practically glowing. “I accept your apology,” she says. “I wasn’t all that nice to you, on many occasions.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s something wrong with me, Laila. The same way there’s something wrong with my father. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t have a complete soul.”
“That’s not true, Adrian. I saw you with Mimi. I saw you with your bandmates for three months. I saw how respectful and sweet you are with Ruby. Trust me, you’ve got a complete soul.”
“But what if I don’t?” I say, admitting my worst fear, out loud, for the first time, ever. “What if I’m my father’s son, in ways I don’t want to be?”
Laila gets up and strides to me at my end of the table. “Stop. You’re nothing like him.” She stands over me and clutches me to her, and I lay my cheek on her belly, while she runs her fingers through my hair. She whispers, “You’ve got a beautiful soul, Adrian. You’re just scarred by the stuff that happened to you as a kid, as anyone in your shoes would be.” She kisses the top of my head and takes the seat next to me at the table. “Can I ask you something? That lyric in ‘Hate Sex High’ about punching a hole in the wall. Was that true?”
