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But him standing in front of me, talking about how his family should have this land, almost as if it belongs to them? Yeah, that will bring the past slamming forward from the rearview.
“From the time I tried to be a part of this town, it was clear that there was an unspoken rule about who was allowed to belong. I’ve grown up; I’ve seen how the world treats all kinds of people. I don’t hold any ill will. But I’ll be damned if you think, just because you kissed me, I’m all primed up to hand over my father’s land.”
“Cassandra, that’s not—”
“You’re used to getting your way in Hope Crest, I get it. Not a lot of people say no to you, or your family. But I grew up with the taste of that word in my mouth. I’m Hollywood bullet-proof at this point, hearing no or judgment is in my DNA. So hear me when I say this; I don’t need your help. You aren’t my ally. I’m going to do this by myself, in honor and respect for my father, and then I’m going to list that house fair and square. If your family wants to make an offer, be my guest. But there will be no handouts or special favors when it comes to you and me.”
It pisses me off that he made me mad, that my cheeks feel hot, and my temper is spiking. I hate getting to this point.
But it’s no mystery why Patrick Ashton and his precious town could get me here, especially when he just confirmed what I’d wondered about for many years.
If we’d allow ourselves, we could be explosive.
* * *
My phone rings, bringing me out of a dead sleep.
“Hello?” I mumble, trying to clear the frogs from my throat and blink away the sleep dirt in my eyes.
“Cassandra, dear, were you sleeping?” My mother’s voice somewhat hisses in my ear.
Sitting up straighter, I pull the cell away from my head to check the time. Ten a.m. Jeez. I don’t know the last time I slept in or the last time I didn’t feel guilty about doing so.
“Yes, I had a long night trying to pull up some carpet in Dad’s place,” I lie.
Because my late night had nothing to do with that. No, I mostly lounged on Dad’s old recliner with an episode ofDiners, Drive-ins, and Divesmumbling in the background while I replayed that kiss with Patrick over and over again in my head. So much so that I must have exhausted myself at some point and fallen into bed.
If she hadn’t called, I don’t know when I would have gotten up. And that is glorious. For years, I’ve woken at the crack of dawn to get a workout or a shoot in, to show up to set, to take a meeting or interview. I’ve been on a plane or stuck between time zones, jet lag pulling me down all months of the year.
And now? Now I have nowhere to be. Nothing to do. There’s something glorious about nothing.
“I don’t know why you’re back in that place.” I can see her turning her nose up in her two-million-dollar Philly penthouse. “There are people you can hire.”
“I know.” No sense in getting into why I don’t want to do that. Mom would never understand or try to.
My mother isn’t a bad mom. She isn’t a great one, but she’s always been there for me. Mom, in general, is just a cold person. There is not much maternal about her, though she tries. She always showed up to events, helped me get ready for things, took me on shopping dates, and helped me move. When I struck it big in Hollywood, she directed me in what I should do to protect myself in terms of lawyers and contracts. She calls at least once a week to make sure I’m okay.
But always, in the back of my mind, there is that little girl who knows she doesn’t fully care. My mom wasn’t the one who held me while I sobbed over a bad day. She never told me I was enough or that what happened between my parents wasn’t my fault. After I transferred from Hope Crest High, we didn’t talk about the trauma and bullying I went through. Mom kept it moving, which was fine, just not the type of mother I hope to someday be.
A sparkly, made-up vision of me running in a field with a redheaded little girl is what I imagine whenever I think about how I’ll get itrightwith my own kids.
“Anyways, I’m calling because Dennis got a call from Malcolm. Apparently, he’s been trying to reach you. And I was surprised to learn that you haven’t signed on to your next project.”
I’m almost thirty, and though Mom might not want to talk about emotions, she’s always more than happy to pick at my career. If I’d started earlier, she would be the best candidate for a stage mother we might have ever seen.
But the fact that Malcolm, my lawyer in LA, is calling my stepfather … well, it means I’ve gone too long without addressing things.
“I’ll call Malcolm, don’t worry.” I try to appease her without giving too much away.
“Why aren’t you on another movie, dear? Haven’t found a script you like? Do you have another campaign for that makeup brand in the works?” Mom pushes.
“Something like that.” Avoidance is the best option.
Because just like not being able to explain why I want to empty my father’s house by myself, my mother also won’t understand why I need a major break from my career. Possibly a permanent break. Her brain won’t compute me walking away at the height of my fame.
“Well, if you need me to look anything over to evaluate how it would be received by the public.”
It’s a genuine offer, not a malicious one, and I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I’m not even accepting submissions.
