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My eyes land on the house across the street. Someone else lives there now, filling it with warmer memories, I hope. My parents were pissed the day I dropped the future they’d lined up for me to follow Timothy to LA.
Had they lived to see me starring in a massive superhero franchise, maybe they would’ve come around. If a dream or a passion had taken me to LA, it might have reconciled us. They respected ambition. The problem was I didn’t have any.
Nothing’s changed. I sigh and turn away. Since I brought all this up, I might as well ask the big question. “What happens if I don’t want to act anymore?”
Silence again. She has to be adding up the income she’ll lose.
I’d be, except I inherited a fortune from my parents and I’ve earned more from the Warwick movies than I could hope to spend. And Celia forced Addison to sign a prenup, so I didn’t lose anything in the divorce outside of my pride and sense of self-worth, or what was left after four years of marriage.
Denise clears her throat. “What do you want to do instead? Write? Direct? Produce?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t think I want to do any of those things. I take one last glance at my parents’ old house before I turn my back on it. They’d be disappointed. Hell, I’m disappointed. I have a life most people would love and I waste it moping around and feeling sorry for myself.
“Take the next two weeks and think about what you want, okay?” Denise says softly. “I’ll help you in any way I can, but you need to decide.”
That’s the problem.
“One more thing. Have you completed your submission for the Hollywood Art Show and Auction? Angie asked me to remind you.”
Shit. I haven’t started. I’ve attended the auction for the last five years but this is the first time I’ve been asked to contribute beyond a monetary donation. A handful of celebrities create some kind of art—usually a painting—for people with money to bid on. There’s also a showing of art loaned for the night by the rich and famous, dinner, and speeches. It’s one of the more entertaining events and the money raised funds art programs across the city.
My submission is due December twenty-eighth. I should’ve finished it and had my assistant Angie send it in already. “I’ll get on it.”
Denise makes me swear I’ll give some thought to what I want to do about my career and the Warwick movie. The call ends with us wishing each other happy holidays.
I jog up the steps and into the foyer, trying to shake off my mood and the cold, tossing my jacket over the banister before heading into the kitchen and making a beeline for my coffee.
Jessie’s up, sitting at the table, doodling on an iPad. She’s wearing flowy ribbed pants today and the softest-looking sweater, all in creamy shades. Her hair is in an artfully messy pile on top of her head. I want to find whatever pin is holding it together and pull it out. Leave her undone and flustered because that’s how she’s making me feel.
Our eyes meet. She looks away but I still catch the mournful look in those deep amber eyes. Celia must have said something to her about last night. I doubt Timothy got a scolding over keeping Jessie in the dark—everyone accepts that he’s a wild card—but even if someone scolded him, it would roll off his back.
Nothing rolls off Jessie’s back. Ever.
I grab my coffee and stick it into the microwave. The seconds tick slowly by. Celia mixes some dough, softly singing a Christmas song. My back is to Jessie, but I’m uncomfortably aware of her stylus moving over the screen.
She’s not drawing me again. She wouldn’t.
What if she draws me naked and covered in cum?
The ding of the microwave makes me jump.
Jessie won’t draw me naked in front of her mom. I’m pretty sure.
I pull my coffee out, sighing as the warmth from the mug seeps into my cold fingers. Leaning against the counter, I watch Celia bake and Jessie draw and suddenly it feels like the last few years never happened. Except everything inside me is different. Out of place.
Celia pauses behind Jessie. “Ooh, pretty. Print that and I’ll put it on the fridge next to your brother’s head CT and your sister’s family Christmas portrait.”
I glance at the fridge to see the portrait. It’s a family of four inflatable T. rexes in massive, hideous Christmas sweaters. Cute. I wonder if there’s one sitting in the pile of mail Angie left on my kitchen table. Amanda and Hazel always sent me one, but Addison would take it down and stuff it in a drawer, preferring a clean aesthetic unmarred by family or life.
After I won the house in the divorce settlement, I bought hundreds of magnets and plastered them all over my fridge. The rest of the house still looks like Addison’s, but I’ve reclaimed the kitchen. When I get home, I’ll hang Amanda’s family Christmas portrait.
“Thanks, Mom,” Jessie says with a little laugh.
Celia squeezes her shoulder. “You’re the Salvador Dali of dicks.”
I choke on my coffee and they both turn to look at me. “Went down wrong.” I wheeze.Dicks?
Jessie’s eyes, no longer sad, linger on me after Celia looks away. “It’s not a miserable, limp dick draped over a branch. Try again.” She says it to her mom, but it feels like a dig at me and my face heats thinking about last night’s encounter.
