E I G H T

LOS ANGELES, CA

          Things Sadie No-Last-Name is: agent. Publicist. Travel buddy. Responsible for my success. Business woman. Girlboss (she hates this word with a burning passion, arguing its meaning has been lost and ruined thanks to third-wave feminism).

          Things Sadie No-Last-Name is not: my friend. My best friend. A therapist. An assistant ("frankly, Harley, you're not a child. There are things you can do without my help or input."). My mother. My mother figure.

          I'm aware of how tragically exhausting it is for the both of us that I constantly have to curate the things I tell her and the way I tell her those things based on what she's willing to hear and how she's willing to listen to me. On any given day, she can be interested in everything I have to say, the gritty details and the emotional value of what I'm talking about, or she's only available to care at a surface level, even if I'm having a panic attack right in front of her. As I look at her now, wobbling slightly from side to side like I'm on a boat, I'm not entirely sure what she's currently demanding from me.

          "I think you've already had too much to drink tonight," she says, but that doesn't stop me from pouring myself a generous dose of Prosecco. She doesn't physically try to stop me, either, and I don't think she could if she even attempted to. "Harley, come on. Sit down so we can talk."

          "I'm fine," I slur. To my credit, I do stumble towards one of the high stools in the kitchen, but all I manage to do is lean my hip against it after nearly knocking it down by accident. "I don't really feel like talking to you. You're going to make me trauma dump on you, then you're going to make me feel like shit about it. That's how it goes. That's how it's been since we first met."

          She sighs, brushing back her hair. "This is different."

          "How come?" I down the Prosecco without a second thought, the bitter taste lingering in my throat like an open flame. "Every time I try to have a serious conversation with you, you brush it off and say it's above your pay grade or that you're not my therapist. Like, that's fair, but I'm having a hard time telling the difference between now and all those other attempts at venting with you. It's always something we'll talk about later, but later to you means never."

          For a split second, some semblance of emotion flashes across her face, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared, so quickly I doubt I actually saw it. She turns around and I almost fool myself into believing she's headed off to bed, deeming this entire conversation a lost cause, and she does indeed disappear into her bedroom, but she comes back with a hoodie.

          I've never seen Sadie wearing a hoodie. I've never seen her look anything but composed and perfectly made-up, like she's not even real, and I don't know what to make of this. I don't know how to see Sadie as a real human being, not when she's been making an effort to keep her distance from me this whole time, so obsessed with keeping me at arm's length, and I've been doing the same thing. I can handle our professional relationship, even if she gets on my nerves quite frequently.

          The humanization of Sadie makes me uncomfortable, like I've entered an uncanny valley. She's not meant to be a regular person.

          "Are we friends?" I ask her, taking the bait she's been dangling in front of me like a carrot. She thinks I'm stupid enough to fall for it and, truth be told, she might be right. "If you ignore the professional side of our relationship, I mean. Would you consider us friends?"

          She settles onto a couch, legs folded over the pillows, and I'm amazed at how young she looks. She's not that much older than me, and it shows. "How honest do you want me to be here?"

          I quirk an eyebrow. "If you want me to, like, open up to you—"

          "I think you owe me at least that after that little stunt you pulled at the wake."

          "Okay, okay, back up." I pour myself another shot of Prosecco and join her in the living room, occupying my own armchair. The air between us is baltic, charged with electric tension, and, for a brief moment in time, I allow myself to bask in the sensation that she's scared of me. No one ever is—I'm usually the one stopping myself from doing certain things, saying certain things, going certain places out of fear—and Sadie certainly won't be the first, but it does me good to suspend my disbelief occasionally. "I don't owe you anything. You work for me."

          "We work together," she corrects, through gritted teeth, and I know I struck a nerve. She's not a narcissist like Mother Kane, but there are traces of it in her; I don't think there should be any shame attached to that. Everyone wants to be reminded of their own accomplishments, regardless of how falsely modest they pretend to be. "This is a partnership."

          "I'm following the rules you came up with and respecting your boundaries, Miss Sadie. I know what I need to know about you to make this 'partnership' work, and you know everything about me to come up with the best image possible. You want me to look unapproachable to everyone who doesn't want to sleep with me and to everyone who can't advance my career in any way."

          Sadie stiffens. "I'm really sorry you see things that way."

          I scoff, bringing my cup to my lips. "I grew up with that woman as a mother. It takes a lot more than that to make me feel bad, though I'm not surprised you, too, would go as far as to try and gaslight me. It's not about how I see things; those words have come out of your mouth more than once. Is it me misinterpreting things then or not understanding English?" She's staring down at her perfectly manicured nails and long, slender fingers, so I know I've lost her with my inability to be nice to the one person contractually obligated to have my back. My frustration grows and I'm happy to have my Prosecco to keep me distracted; otherwise, I would've fallen into a black hole of ranting to someone who doesn't want to listen. "This is the one thing I'll never owe you. My past has always been off-limits."

          She looks up at me, doe-eyed, with those huge eyelashes of hers, and I momentarily regret being so mean to her. "I think we're friends, Harley. I think we've been through far too much together at this point, and, in the current climate, women sticking together is wise—"

          I almost spit out my drink all over the fluffy rug between us, astounded by how stupid that sentence was.

          Sadie is wise. That's a given. However, every time I'm faced with her contradictory behaviors and hypocrisy, I feel myself regressing into my tumultuous relationship with my mother.

          I hate admitting it, but the way one's relationship with their mother is embedded into every bond they attempt to create later in life, the way mothers become our mirrors and everything we don't want to be, the way mothers always break your heart before anyone else ever does . . . all of it never leaves my mind.

          I don't regret leaving. Even if I did, I made my bed and have been lying on it for far too long to ever be able to look back in anger, but I'd be lying if I say it doesn't upset me that this is how things turned out, that this is what my relationship with my mother has become. All those years I wasted begging her to love me, to see me—they all meant nothing to her and meant the whole world to me, especially when I obsessed over blaming myself for all of it. Now that I'm older, smarter, and more self-sufficient, I know you can't force a narcissist to love you.

          "See, this is what I don't get," I continue, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and catch a glimpse of my reflection on the large, golden-framed mirror behind Sadie, too self-absorbed to look away. I look feral, like I've just escaped the zoo. "All these years, you've wanted me to please and befriend men and to treat women as my biggest competition. The only female friend I have is my sister's age, and I've been lying to her for months. You don't get to excuse all of this in the name of feminism, when we both know this industry loves shitting on women and throwing them under the bus at any given moment. Everyone is all about women supporting women until they can profit off a cat fight. Everyone is all about women supporting women, but then they actively promote a culture where they're better off being terrible to each other."

          I know how horrible this sounds, but it's true.

          Part of why I don't have the energy to try and build and maintain friendships—with anyone; it's not exclusive to women (and I won't be the type of girl who proudly admits she's only able to be friends with guys because there's, like, no drama. Everyone is dramatic)—is because of my inability to get people to care about me and what I create. Every time someone promises they'll watch something I'm in, especially the roles I'm particularly proud of, I know they won't, and I've stopped allowing myself to believe otherwise and creating expectations.

          It feels like every group of people I slide into keeps me at arm's length, even on the rare occasions I do try, and I see the pained look on their faces as they try to come up with something nice to say about projects they don't really care about. It's good to be polite to your fellow actors, even if their projects aren't your style or you just don't have time, but I'd much rather have them be honest about it instead of making empty promises. Soon! I'll do it soon! God, she's so annoying.

          It's a catty industry. It's brutal. I get it.

          What I don't get is all the effort that goes into building an illusion of people caring about one another, especially when they're not already properly established in the business, and still feel like they have to earn their place. I don't think that feeling ever goes away completely, unless you're in the top percentage—the Meryls, the Toms—or are part of a very specific demographic, where mostly everything you do gets applauded, forgiven, and still allows you to have a career in spite of your 'scandals'. Everyone else gets one shot at a successful career.

          Sadie massages her temples, her annoyance with me growing by the second. "I know that. Trust me, I know that. I'm doing what I have to do to keep your career afloat, but it's not like you're particularly friendly, either. You're as warm and welcoming as a glacier." I wrinkle my nose. Not even I can contest that. "It's what I had to do for myself, too. You have to present yourself in a certain way to succeed in the industry." She rises from the couch, as elegant and gracious as a ballerina, and reaches for the Prosecco. "The amount of times I heard people call me an obnoxious cow behind my back . . ." She shakes her head, filling up her glass. "Point is: you rarely ever know someone. Like, really, really know someone. At most, you know the version of them they're willing to show the world in that moment, in that context. It's especially true in this industry, and especially true for women. Women have to constantly reinvent themselves, to be nice and accommodating for the men. Meanwhile, men get to be routinely stagnant and mediocre."

          That does it for me.

          Even though pushing people away and refusing to treat them as therapists or echo chambers or yes-men is my favorite hobby, I'm soft-hearted, pissed drunk at this point, and have a soft spot for closed-off women with hidden depths, so that's all it takes. It's all it takes for me to open my big, stupid mouth and trauma dump all over Girlboss Sades.

          Watching the alterations in her reactions and facial expressions could be comical with how out of place they are in someone like her if it weren't for the subject matter at hand. I've learned to distance myself from everything that has happened to me in Los Angeles, finding it much easier to process and cope with as though I'm watching it unfold on a screen—I am an actress, after all, regardless of the objective and subjective quality of my craft—but Sadie isn't me or a therapist, so she's bound to take it differently.

          I've become desensitized to it, in a way. There are days—especially nights—when it hits me so hard I can't even breathe, when I have to run around the house and triple check everything is locked so tightly no one can break in, but I no longer actively think about it. I have to live with the consequences of it every day, reminded of the person I've become thanks to it and the way I act, perpetually afraid of men and more acutely aware of the horrors they're capable of.

          Women are always aware of that, some more than others. It's one of those shared experiences they don't talk about, acknowledging it with the lowering of their heads in shame—we're taught to feel ashamed of what has been done to us while the men walk away scot-free—or the pursing of the lips, treating it like it's taboo. It's up to the women to face the consequences of something that wasn't even their fault, but the world revolves around blaming them for it anyway. You can't heal while being stuck in a system that capitalizes off your suffering and rewards those who harmed you.

          "I didn't know," she croaks out, once I'm done. If we were different people, we'd be hugging by now, but we're still Harley and Sadie, and there's no room for such affectionate gestures between the two of us. It keeps us both satisfied. "All this time, you've let me tell you to walk up to older men and—"

          "—for conversation. To rub elbows. It's not my fault if they think I'm interested in sleeping with them." She gulps, nodding, and looks so miserable my chest is tight with guilt. It's never been her fault, and I know it has pained her to make me do those things. I see the look in her eyes every time we spot each other at cocktail parties and there's a man's hand lingering on the small of my back. "It's not your fault. You didn't know. Even if you did, you do what you have to do to sell a product."

          "Still. We could've found a different approach."

          "We should've had a different approach from the start regardless of what happened to me." I cross my legs over the couch, vision blurry from the alcohol, and stare down at the carpet. "It's their fault, but I also don't want to place myself in dangerous situations, especially not over my career. I can live without it, but I can't live through something like that again. There's only so many parts of myself I can afford to rebuild." She sniffles, and it's then that I realize I've been crying this whole time. I rush to wipe those tears and my nose, feeling disgusting all the while. "You didn't know. Now you do."

          "I'm sorry." I risk looking up. I find a humanized version of her, the one thing I've been chasing and running away from this whole time. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I hope you know I don't hold it against you that you never . . . that you never trusted me enough to tell me."

          "It didn't come up in conversation."

          "I know it helps acting all nonchalant about it, but I'm just glad you had proper help somewhere along the road. Most people don't." She leans back, staring out of the open window. It's still so warm and humid inside I'm glad we won't be staying for long. "Even when they press charges, most of the time nothing happens. When they do, it's a miracle they get a conviction—or a conviction that feels fair. Men's potential always seems to matter more than women's right to their dignity."

          Though it pains me, I agree with her.

          It's what I've been saying for years—that a valid, true accusation would only ruin someone else's potential and no one ever cared about my potential, my future, my life—but I've already lost too much. I've grieved for far too long, ruined my life for far too long, and, though I don't think it will fully disappear from my memory, I don't have to hang on to it. I want to be more than that—I want to be more than a victim.

          No one ever cared about my dignity. I do.

⊹˚. ♡

this is a harley kane stan account. ty

i'm aware of how long this chapter is. it's also the longest chapter in the entire book, so hey! they can only get shorter from here!