S I X

LOS ANGELES, CA

          There are plenty of things I'd rather be doing at the moment, including self-immolation, and none of those include speaking to Michelle, the dearest daughter.

           It's a strange position to find myself in, considering I used to adore Michelle back when we were younger and I wasn't furious at the world, but we've never been particularly close. After I left California, I knew that also included severing all ties with my sister, a clear reminder of the sacrifices I'd have to make for the sake of my long-term happiness and mental stability. I also found solace in the belief I would never have to set foot here again or see her, but now that I'm looking her in the eye, everything comes rushing back like a tsunami.

          I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to have a heart to heart with her or hear about all she's been up to while I've been gone. I came to California for my father, not for anyone else, and I don't want Michelle to think everything is fixed and fine and perfect just because we're standing in front of each other. If anything, I feel nauseous just by staring at her and realizing how much she has changed, how much of her life I've missed out on.

          That's why I can't allow myself to care. I can't allow myself to get emotional over that, and force myself to remember that no good amount of family memories will ever get to make me feel guilty for choosing myself for once in my life. Had I stayed, I would've ruined my life even further, and I couldn't bear the thought of destroying myself over something that realistically wasn't even my fault.

          It's not deflection of guilt. It's not unwillingness to admit responsibility. Nothing about what happened to me, about what was done to me was ever my fault, and it took me years to get to this point mentally. Being in California only threatens to destroy every wall I've put up, every good fight I got involved in while trying to get better, and I refuse to let my own family jeopardize all my hard work.

          "So you're not even going to talk to me, huh?" Michelle spits, still blocking my path. She's a lot fitter and more muscular than I am, so I doubt I'd be able to shove her out of the way, but I've slipped down similar stairs and know just how badly they can hurt someone. As much as I despise having to spend time with her, I wouldn't purposefully hurt her. Physically, that is. "You have some nerve, I'll have to hand it to you. You disappear without a word, no one hears from you except when you're on TV, and then you come back without letting anyone know."

          "Thank you for reminding me exactly why I didn't want to come," I dryly retort, fingers clenched around my tote bag's strap. "I was asked to come by the woman who gave birth to both of us, though it's really none of your business. Last time I checked, this is a free country. I'm free to come to Los Angeles anytime I want."

          "Yeah, but you didn't want to come, did you? Los Angeles must be too small compared to New York and your career."

          "Fuck you, Michelle."

          It's not exactly what I want to tell her, but it beats stressing out over how she knows about New York. I suppose it doesn't take much effort to figure it out with a simple Google search and two brain cells, but it also reminds me of how easy it was for my mother to get a hold of my new phone number—my personal phone number, at that. If it was that easy, there's no telling how many other people can get access to that information, no matter how private, and who those people are.

          I'm shaking at this point, something I'm certain perceptive Michelle Kane has noticed, and I feel pathetic that I'm, once more, trying to walk past her. This time, I don't try to leave, walking with an arm outstretched in front of me so I'll have somewhere to support myself as soon as my fingers reach the stairs, and she shows me a rare moment of pity and consideration by stepping aside. She doesn't try to steady me or do anything to help me whatsoever, but moving out of my way is the bare minimum.

          "Don't hurt Dad again," she asks me, quietly, and she's almost the old Michelle, the Michelle I used to know. Like me, there are many doors she has closed throughout her life, and that now includes the one hiding the version of us that loved each other. If I give myself permission to care, if I give this the opportunity to affect me, everything will come crashing down. "He's been through enough already. It destroyed him when you left, and having you here at arm's length won't do him any good."

          A sisterly bond never remains untouched and untainted, but it's never truly broken; it beats regular family ties, stronger than everything else. In a way, I think there will always be a part of me who won't be able to stop loving Michelle, but that's the part of me that chooses to associate with this family. If I even had to walk away from my father, I can't give her the satisfaction of being the only person immune to my silence.

          "I won't," I reply, hoping the fog in my brain will dissipate so I can finally leave and lock myself in my bedroom. It's one week, I remind myself. It's just one week in Los Angeles, and you have Sadie with you. You can survive. "He's the only reason I came here. I wanted to be there for him."

          She purses her lips. "I don't know why I'm telling you this or why I'm assuming there's still some humanity left in you, but we're supposed to go to Mom's later today."

          "I don't think I will."

          "It's not optional. She said whoever doesn't come, won't be allowed at the funeral." Her eyes narrow, like she knows she has me cornered. "I'm sure you understand where I'm going with this. You either go to Mom's house, or you go home knowing you refused to do the smallest thing to support Dad in his time of need. But what do I know?" She shrugs. "You know what's best for you. Too bad you never think about what's best for other people. Maybe it won't kill you to show some sympathy."

          It won't, but I still find myself genuinely considering drowning her. I wouldn't do that, realistically, and I don't want to get myself in more drama than what is absolutely necessary—my over the top plans for revenge and all that—which means sororicide is completely off the table. If I have to plaster the falsest of smiles on my face to get through the week, then so be it.

          I act. I pretend. It's what I do for a living.

          "I'll be on my best behavior," I promise.

⊹˚. ♡

          I show up to my mother's house under the influence of two glasses of vodka mixed with orange juice.

          I'm still on my best behavior, though I'm now unable to walk in a completely straight line, to no one's surprise, but I'm also no stranger to the disappointed look on my mother's face. I have yet to run into her, but my name is on the list as verified by the security team in the front garden, like this is some twisted house party, and they even make me remove my sunglasses to look me in the eye. These are people who have known me since I was a child and, though I look so different now, with barely any resemblance to the girl they used to know, I suppose some things never fully disappear.

          Though my heart is pounding against my sternum like a marching band, I attempt to convince myself this is somewhere I'm supposed to be safe in. There's security everywhere—part of me even wonders if some of these men were hired because my mother fears for her safety around the problem child, the bad girl of the family—and there's an approved guest list. The main issue is that I've spent the last few years of my life running and hiding from people my family knows, people whose names might be in said approved guest list, and I can't afford to let my guard down.

          "You could at least try to act sober," Sadie scolds, grabbing my arm in the foyer before I slip and fall. She pulls me up with surprising strength, and bends down to smooth any creases on my black dress. "This is not a cocktail party. People don't want to see you making a fool out of yourself because you're unable to hold your liquor."

          "Thank you, best friend," I reply, freeing my arm from her grasp and swinging it around her shoulders like we truly are best pals. She shoots me a murderous glare, damn well aware I'm putting up a strong front for the sake of pretending I'm not unbelievably stressed out about being here, so I'm assuming she's willing to excuse my bad behavior as long as she can blame it on stress or pass it off as a trauma response. "I'm doing great, don't you think?"

          "Don't oversell yourself."

          I almost laugh, but I don't. I take the time to fix my bun, freeing some locks of hair to frame my face and help me look more put together and in control than I actually am and feel. It's far easier to do that if I convince myself this is just a cocktail party after all, something I'm more than used to, and at least I have Sadie's begrudgingly comforting company to keep me grounded. As long as I keep my head low and don't attract too much attention, there's a high chance I'll survive the night.

          Objectively, I look good. The dress, the stiletto heels, the hair, and the makeup make me look sophisticated instead of trashy, and I even fool my brain into thinking of myself as a movie superstar. I'm far from it, but this is one of those nights that leave me in desperate need of an ego boost, and I have every right to create my own fictional universes in my head. Spending the night in a pink, glittery haze where everything is beautiful and good is utopic and wishful thinking, but it's one of those things I need to do to stay sane.

          I find Michelle inside, but the only sign of acknowledgment of my presence she shows is a subtle nod before turning her back on me, the signature behavior of someone who wants me to be upset over the fact that no one actually wants me here. I'm even more stubborn than she is, powered by alcohol and spite, and keep my chin held high, thinking this is not the thing that will ruin my night even further.

          It's not. It's something much worse.

          I quickly discover Michelle wasn't turning around just to avoid me. She turns around to meet someone, someone who greets her by opening their arms to invite her into a tight consolation hug and a whispered 'I'm sorry for your loss'. My blood freezes in my veins as soon as my brain processes who I'm staring at—like me, he has changed, but it's a face I can't wipe away from my memory no matter how desperately hard I try to claw it out of my head. He's leaner and more muscular, skin golden from the California sun and years of surfing—he was the one who taught me, after all—and his hair is much darker. Even in the distance, his eyes are bright and shimmery like sea glass, but I now know better than to fall for his boy next door good looks.

          Bile rises in my throat, scorching the walls of my esophagus, and I lose my balance, slipping out of Sadie's reach. She attempts to pull me back, but my panic leaves me oblivious to anything but him, my tunnel vision leading me in a straight line with one mission in mind: keep this man away from Michelle.

          I'm thinking of the way his fingers closed around my arm, squeezed my flesh until it bruised, ripped out a handful of my hair when I fought back. I'm thinking of the way everyone just let it happen, just pretended it was normal. I'm thinking of the way he's allowed everywhere, while I exiled myself across the country to get away from him because he got the protection and the respect that should've been mine.

          I'm thinking of the way my hand collides with his cheek, open and flat against his cheekbone, and I regret not wearing a ring just so it would leave a dent. The exit wounds of his presence in my life are out in the open for everyone to see, letting me bleed out in the middle of my mother's mansion.

          "What the fuck?" he gasps, jumping back. Michelle immediately jumps between us, hands on his arms, much gentler than his own way of handling me, and Sadie rushes across the salon to pull me away. My chest heaves, desperately seeking some oxygen, but it's hard to keep my breathing steady when the whole room is on fire, blistering my skin and lungs. "Dude. You have some nerve."

          "I have some nerve?" I spit out, struggling to break free from Sadie. Security starts making my way towards us, and I know I don't have much time, but all my rational thoughts were thrown out of the back door like trash from the kitchen the second my eyes landed on him. Like Michelle, I once trusted him, but you can never fully trust a scorpion; it will always sting you when you offer it a helping hand. "You seriously think I'm the problem here?"

          "You go around slapping people when they're offering their condolences—"

          "Then maybe you shouldn't be trying to make a move on my sister, you sick, vile son of a—"

          "How dare you?"

          My chest deflates, and I shrink back into nineteen-year-old me. My mother's heels click furiously across the polished floors as she stomps her way towards the crowd that has gathered around the fighting rink, fuming. Sadie doesn't let me go, to her credit, and the way she tries to get me away from this situation is almost like a hug, though I know there's no way of escaping this.

          Still, I don't give her the pleasure of getting to me. I can't.

          I shake my head once, blowing away the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of my face during the commotion. "This is me daring to do what you should have done for me, Mom. At least make an effort to protect one of your daughters."

          She huffs, face flushed red with fury, while Michelle keeps an arm around him, gently rubbing his back as he winces from the pain on his cheek. It will never hurt nearly as much as he hurt me. "I trusted you to behave. I suppose it was too much to ask for."

          "Ah, yes." I shove Sadie aside with my elbow, the floor swaying beneath my feet. "Shifting blame onto me instead of accepting your responsibility in driving me away from this place. Mother of the year, everyone."

          Her nostrils flare and she curls her fingers around my wrist, squeezing it until it cuts off my circulation. "You don't get to say those things to me. Not tonight. Not after what you did."

          "I don't care about your reputation. See, I—"

          She freezes, looking at something behind my shoulder, and I briefly look back. There, I see him, bigger than the whole world like a superhero without a cape, and my first instinct is to run to him, run to safety. However, this will never be safe for me.

          Then, he speaks.

          "Rebecca."

⊹˚. ♡

rebecca by daphne du maurier is one of my favorite books of all time. i considered going for rebekah here because of the last great american dynasty and all, but since they're pronounced the same, we're keeping rebecca. it fits harley better, don't you think?

i'm posting this after my vacation. i got sick, came home early, and accidentally wrote this on one day. it's also the day this silly little book was announced as a round 2 winner of the onc (!!) and as an ambassador pick, so i truly am honored that people like this silly little book. it's always a pleasure to share stories with you, and this validation makes it so much more fun. thank you so, so much for the opportunity.

though this book doesn't officially have a cast list (mostly because it doesn't need one and because i was rushing to get things ready by feb 1 so there were not that many graphics occupying my time), in my head harley is played by my love alba baptista, and michelle is played by meg donnelly. nick, of course, belongs to tone spirit, so we brought back grant gustin like glee brought back sebastian smythe for one (1) episode in season 5. you can of course picture them as different people, but these are my personal picks in case you're interested.

mwah