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“I can’t.” I slump onto the couch and close my eyes, if only to block out Tom’s scrutiny. “He doesn’t understand and neither do you.”
“You’re being completely unreasonable. Difficult. I understand you wanted some time with your father; believe me, I get it. But this isn’t the way to go about it.”
A solitary tear falls from the corner of my eye, then another, and I open my eyes, ready to face the strange yet attractive man watching me barely keep it together.
My insides roil. Thankfully, he’s no longer there. He must be on the balcony, perhaps to give me privacy, and I appreciate the gesture.
“Mom, I have to go. I’ll text you once I’m on the road.” I end the call and turn off the phone.
Once a famous actress, often called the next Meryl Streep, my mother left the silver screen when I hit double digits in age. At my father’s request.
By that time, he was already an award-winning, internationally acclaimed filmmaker, both directing and producing movies. More and more, he was playing a key role in making Canada, principally Toronto and Vancouver, Hollywood North, and insisted he have my mother at his side.
Giving up her passion—she blossomed on the screen—killed something vital in her and yet, as much as it hurt her to do it, she loved my father more. Almost overnight, she went from a tour de force performer to a marionette. Mute and motionless and eventually, she was diagnosed as clinically depressed. Now, she self-medicates. All the time.
“You okay?” Tom now stands only feet from me, and I startle.
When did he come inside?
Angrily, I wipe at my tears. “I need to get ready. My bags are packed. Take them to the car.”
Ashamed that he saw me crying, I stride into the bedroom and slam the door.
In a little over an hour, Tom wipes beads of sweat from his brow after securing my final Louis Vuitton bag in the back of the car.
“Is this it?” He surveys my luggage, packed Jenga-style, with his hands out and ready to catch anything that might fall.
“I have one more.” I hold out my carry-on. “But I’ll keep it with me in the back.”
He closes the back liftgate on the SUV, and I make the mistake of placing my hand on his arm but quickly pull it away. There it is again. A buzzing sensation pulses to life in my fingers as if our connection is electric. A live wire.
Abrupt and exaggerated, I scramble backward, putting some much needed space between us. Expression quizzical, he waits for me to say more.
“I need a picture.” Phone out, I snap a selfie with my belongings crammed into the SUV behind me. A bright, over-the-top smile plasters my face.
Cheeks tight and aching, I seek out a quiet spot for another, more subdued selfie while he moves his displaced bag to the front seat. I upload both shots to my social media accounts. One approved and the other a secret. For the family sanctioned post, I type out:
Road trip! So long LA. Until next time! xo
For my other account, I’ll use some of the time on the drive to type out my thoughts. Tom waits by the back passenger door, clearly amused if his smirk is any indication.
His chin dips toward my phone. “Do you do that often?”
A flush travels up my neck. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m tickled that he cares to ask or because I suddenly feel self-conscious. Defensive even.
“Do what? Take selfies or use my phone?” My tone drips with sarcasm.
“I deserved that.” The corners of his mouth twitch, holding back his grin. “Take selfies.”
“So what if I do?” I sniff and toss my long hair over a shoulder, hoping my attitude will shut him up.
He couldn’t begin to understand why I do it, and he strikes me as someone who wouldn’t care about my four hundred thousand followers on one account, and nearly double on my alias.
I may not be famous in my own right, but over the years, I’ve cultivated a following based on who my parents are, the people I hang out with, and for what I share. Today, I’m known for my fashion, beauty, and lifestyle content. Well, that’s on my Leighton Price account.
At first, it was hard to have my mother and publicist review, edit, and approve everything. Their stifling control and scrutiny, along with an impromptu invite to a life-changing event, led to the creation of my second account that’s just for me and my followers. The outlet I need.
He continues to stare, mouth twisted into a wry grin, and it’s unnerving. My blood boils. Still, I can’t tell if it’s due to the unpredictable yet receptive way I react to him or because I itch to balance this playing field and return my own judgement.
