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“Of course. I’ll wait downstairs.” Hal deigns to look embarrassed as he leaves.
Enjoying his squirming, I tug on a pair of leggings and a graphic T-shirt. I have no plans to be anywhere. No need to be dressy.
“How did it go yesterday?” Mom asks when I come into the dining room.
“Good.” I skewer Hal with a warning look—he’s already opened his mouth to respond.
Mom checks with him.
Hal nods. “It was great. Laurel even made some sales.”
She smiles, happier than happy, and I intercept her train of thoughts. “Just because I stepped out of the house yesterday doesn’t mean I’m back to socializing.”
Yesterday was a disaster. A repeat experience is not necessary.
“But you could be back.” Mom sets a clean plate on the table in front of me. “You’re twenty-one, Laurel. You should be maxing out your father’s credit cards and having Jonas throw your boyfriends off the property, but your expenses, for months, have been disappointingly frugal. Fifty dollars’ worth of audiobook subscription services and maybe two hundred dollars’ worth of random expenses like smoothie shops. Wait a minute—”
Uh-oh. She’s going to finally catch up to the fact that I’ve been sneaking out of the house on my own here and there, under hefty disguises. I hurry and carry on the conversation. “Shouldn’t you be happy about my lack of financial or heart troubles?”
Mom sits across from me. “No, Laurel. I’m not happy. You sent exactly seven text messages last month.”
“How would you even know that?” I glare at Hal who’s covering his mouth with his hand to hide a grin.
“Phone bill records,” Mom goes on, “but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you don’t have any friends. You don’t have a romantic interest. You don’t leave the house—” She squints at me. I’m not off the hook yet. If my parents discover I’ve been going out on my own, they’ll push for my full return harder.
“I went out yesterday. It will last me all year now.” I grab some fruit and a piece of whole-grain toast and give her my brightest smile. Is my joke a go?
No go. Mom frowns and parks her hands on the edge of the tabletop. “Laurel, that’s enough. Live your life. Don’t be afraid of the world. It’s been a long time. Nobody remembers who you are anymore.”
She’s wrong. People may act like they don’t care anymore, but the moment I slip and draw attention to myself, the media will dredge up every little bit of my past. But what if there’s more to them wanting me out and about? “Do you and Dad just want more space? I’m not a kid anymore, so do you want me to move out?”
“Not at all.” Dad joins us and sits next to me. He’s wearing firming gel pads under his eyes. Outside the walls of our home, Vincent “The Fox” Halifax is an idol. At forty-five, he looks like he’s barely eased into his thirties. Little does anyone know that he keeps an unyielding sleep schedule and abides by religious beauty regimens. To me though, he’s still just my dad in old flannel pajama pants. “We like having both you and Hal here. We’re still sad, though, to see you waste your best years. You could be doing so much, for yourself, for the world.”
Both Hal and Mom support him with enthusiastic nods, and Mom picks up the baton. “You could push your father off his throne if you wanted to. You could climb mountains or feed underprivileged children, but all you do is—”
“Hide.” I finish the sentence for her. “I know.”
Doesn’t she know I would never be able to do anything she’s mentioned? Dad can’t either. Mom’s the one donating to charities and feeding the orphans. All he can do is perform and be eye candy. Whenever he’s out there, not on stage, he can’t take a step without people pushing him back to being the star. They did the same to me.
A stray thought brought on by the events of last night intrudes on our less than pleasant conversation, and I latch onto it to stop talking about me. “Dad, who’s your hero?”
“What do you mean?” He steals one of my fruit pieces.
“Who is your hero? Who inspires you to keep going in terms of music?”
“Your mom.” He shoots her a loving smile.
“Stop flirting”—I kick him gently on the foot—“and tell me about someone who made a real difference.”
“Ouch!” Mom protests. “What am I, a dirty, uninspiring rag?”
“Sorry, Mom. That’s not what I mean.”
“Soren.” Dad rests his elbows on the table. “He was never a performer, but when I was starting out, he spent a couple years touring with my band.”
“I remember that,” Hal says.
I remember too. Before Uncle Soren became too sick, he traveled with Dad and helped however he could.
