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The thought was tempting. My mom’s latest passion was a tropical rock band, and my mood could use some uplifting twang. I shook my head reluctantly. “I have to work.”
“Because you need the money?”
I stiffened, knowing where she was going with this. “Yes,” I said shortly, hoping that would stop this conversation in its tracks.
A long pause, and then delicately, “Julian doesn’t just have a right to know about his baby, Willow. He also has a responsibility.”
I don’t know if my mom realized it or not, but she was using the exact same tone of voice she used when she suggested I ask Fletcher for something I needed or trade on his name. I’d taken that advice more times than I should have, and I’d regretted it every time. Never more so than this time, though.
“I’m not going to live off Julian’s child support payments,” I said tensely. “Youdidn’t live off Fletcher’s.”
My mom inclined her head gracefully. “No. I had too much pride. I often wished that I had taken more from him, though. Every time I had to work instead of chaperoning your field trips. Every time I missed a school play or your spelling bee because I couldn’t take leave. I wished I’d had a little less pride and a little more...” She shrugged, unable to find the right word. “Darla never had to make that choice,” she finished simply.
I considered her words, I really did. Intellectually, I understood her message, but I couldn’t wrap my heart around it. Taking more than I needed would feel like being paid off, and I wouldn’t let Julian pay me off. Not ever.
So I went to work the next day and didn’t say a word about the new addition to our crew. Miller was shooting at the skatepark. The first half of the day was Michio practicing gravity defying tricks that twisted him into the air, high above the concrete, spinning him like something out of a Matrix movie. I’d seen him do similar things a couple dozen times by now, but this time it felt different. I watched his mother’s face instead of his and wondered how she could stand it.
The second half of the day was shooting a scene between Michio and Brendan. They were both tightlipped about the specifics, but apparently it was a recreation of a real fight they’d had. They’d had it three years ago when Michio was just starting to eclipse Brendan in talent and prestige, but Miller wanted to use the energy to heighten the drama before the Olympics.
Afterward, watching the dailies, Miller said triumphantly, “You can always tell when it feels real to him. The kid isn’t a good actor, but he’s a natural at recreating his own emotions.”
I nodded. I’d noticed the same thing. “It’s a strange thing to do,” I mused. “It’s like you’re fictionalizing his life as he’s living it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Miller said. “But it’s not strange. People do it all the time. They just do it to their own lives through social media with a bullshit filter and no narrative. Michio’s doing it with a director extraordinaire–” he paused to preen for a moment “--and he’s actually telling a story instead of just showing a highlight reel.”
“Kind of like reality television,” I needled, unable to help myself.
Miller gave me a black look. “Watch it. I know you’re hungry to be part of theAll the Dying Lightcrew.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat. He was right. I had been dying for that opportunity. I’d wondered a hundred times whether I’d get to do it or whether the charade would be up by then. I’d known it probably would be, but I’d hoped. I’d really, really hoped that somehow things worked out for the best. I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined them turning out like this.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” Miller said, annoyed at having to spell this out. He didn’t like too much emotion unless it was happening in front of the camera. “You know I don’t care if your last name is Laurier or James or fucking Putin.”
“Maybe you don’t, but the boss does.” I got a grip on my emotions and pulled the lid over them tightly. I managed a careless smile, like it was no big deal. “Besides–” I started, then hesitated. Now was the ideal time to tell Miller I was pregnant, but something in me wouldn’t let me say the words. Once Miller knew, all bets were off. It could stay my secret for as long as I kept it, or he could casually mention it to the next person he saw. Discretion wasn’t exactly his strong suit.
A normal person would have picked up my dangling word and prodded for the rest, but Miller hadn’t even noticed. He was lost in his dallies again, a smug smile on his face. He loved this strange, Avant Garde-style of filmmaking. I loved it too. It was weird and experimental, and I didn’t know how many films like this the world needed, but I was glad it was getting this one.
I hoped it got the reception Miller wanted for it.
That Julian wanted for it.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, checking the time on my phone. “Dinner plans. Do you need anything before I leave?”
Normally Miller would have made a pithy comment about production assistants telling the director when their job was done, but now he just waved me away. “Get out of here.”
“Have fun,” the first AD called as I headed out.
I smiled and waved, waiting until I was in my car to let the expression drop off my face. My dinner plans weren’t exactly going to be fun. I was going to Fletcher’s house for his seventieth birthday. He was going to have a huge party this weekend, but tonight was his actual birthday, and it was just for family and his closest friends.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten on the list. Darla had sent me the invitation through the actual mail. A neat black envelope with gold cursive. The invitation inside matched. I’d stared at it after I opened it, wondering if every one of Fletcher’s biological children had gotten an invitation, or if it was just his illegitimate one who got the fancy cardstock.
They’d just gotten phone calls or texts, I decided. Maybe they’d been told over family brunch. I hadn’t planned to go, but for some strange reason, my pen had slipped over to the box markedI’ll be there!
I couldn’t imagine why now. It was one of those nights in my apartment, curled up on the couch with Camper, feeling hideously lonely. My mom was out with the singer she was dating, my friends were out drinking, and Julian was probably wrapped around Shelly Monroe. And here was this one invitation–not one I wanted, necessarily, but the only one I had.
Stupid. An invitation didn’t mean I was wanted. It meant Darla had felt obligated to invite me, and Darla had exquisite manners. Amazing that she never managed to impress them on Tiffany and the boys. They’d gotten too much of Fletcher. His bluntness, his crassness, his brilliance. Darla’s social graces had been overruled by Fletcher’s top dog energy in their genetics.
But I’d said I’d be there, so even though it was the last thing I felt like doing, I put on a little black dress, slipped my tired feet into high heels, and drove to the James Estate. Not just a gated community, but a gated estate with a guard shack at the entrance to the long, winding driveway. It was a monstrosity of stone complete with turrets at either end of the wings and gargoyles in the eaves. All it needed was a moat filled with crocodiles to complete the look. Fletcher had bought it when Darla was in Europe one summer. I suspected she hated it. The inside was a complete contrast to the outside–subtle, elegant, and classy. Her style hidden inside Fletcher’s lack thereof.
