E L E V E N

LOS ANGELES, CA

          Loving my father comes with the acknowledgment that he's not perfect.

          It feels dishonest to even admit that was a hard thing to go through, especially when compared to everything else that has happened, both to me and to the world in the meantime—between Adam, political shenanigans, creepy clowns, wars, a pandemic, and global warming, my shattered idealization of my father has to be low in the world's priority list. I survived it regardless—all of it, even when I thought I wouldn't—and yet nothing felt nearly as devastating as removing my father from the pedestal I'd unfairly put him on.

          I stare back at the man who used to be my personal superhero, and it feels like staring at a stranger who knows most of my secrets. There have been many developments during the time I've been gone, developments that have changed the both of us, and I wouldn't be shocked to hear him say he doesn't know me anymore. Even though he just used his old nickname for me—I've always been Rebecca or Becca to everyone else—it only hit me hard for a brief moment.

          No person on Earth will ever measure up to him, a fact that eventually becomes clearer in every situationship I find myself in, and, though that's hardly the healthiest of relationships to have with one's father, it's also the healthiest and most rewarding relationship I have with a family member.

          It's sad. It's pathetic, really, that I search for him in everyone that crosses my path, and it's unfair for those people, consistently failing to meet extreme standards I don't actually expect them to match. The one time I allowed myself to even consider pursuing something serious with someone—the multiple times with one person in the entire world—always fell flat, with me coming up with the most egregious excuses not to do it, and I've been stuck in this cycle of self-sabotage for years. Even after I turned my back on my father, everyone will always come second to him—even Sadie, even Michelle, even Nick.

          I mentally groan. Even when we're on opposite coasts, even when he's in New York being talented, successful, and pretty, even when I'm stuck in Los Angeles for an entire week with my family, he somehow finds a way of weaving his way into my thoughts like mold. Like a disease. This is dangerous territory I'm headed towards, and every single red flag ahead of me is flashing bright like a giant neon sign, sirens blaring everywhere I go.

          So, I decide to focus on the matter at hand. I pull the chair in front of my father's desk, move the family memorabilia aside so I can't see the framed photographs of my youth, when I was still a normal girl, and sit in front of him. Sitting in front of him, surrounded by memories I've spent years burying six feet underground, is one of the hardest things I've had to do, and I have to dig my nails into my thighs to steady myself and to resist the urge to bolt out of here.

          The intensive therapeutic process I put myself through during the years following my departure from Los Angeles was vital to dismantling the idealized image of my father I had built, which, in turn, helped me not feel so crushed by the outcome. The fact that he hadn't come to me after the whole Adam thing was devastating in of itself, but he hadn't been there simply because I hadn't told anyone where I was or that I was leaving. I didn't tell anyone what happened, well aware it would backfire and ruin my life even further, so I can't resent my father for not being perfect and miraculously finding out the truth. It makes sense from a logical standpoint, which is why it was so hard to come to terms with.

          The man standing in front of me is not the same man I turned my back on years ago. He's not perfect, either, and never has been. He's always been much easier to love than my mother, something I'm assuming she won't ever stop resenting me for, and it makes me wonder whether they feel the same about me and Michelle. Michelle has always been better at everything—smarter, more talented, more athletic, nicer, kinder. She's always been more well-rounded, whereas I'm sharper and rougher around the edges.

          It shouldn't bother me, at least not to this extent. It's not even about Michelle herself, and it's stupid that I'm hanging on to this kind of resentment after all these years, in spite of all the logical counterpoints there are to every single one of my arguments.

          I'm still upset over how easy it was for them to let me go, but they didn't know a thing about the circumstances, and I highly doubt Adam would ever run his mouth. I resent all of them for not even trying to find me, trying to check on me, but I changed my number, my name, my career, and my appearance, not to mention my physical location. Even though my mother managed to track me down when it mattered, it just convinces me it never mattered before—I never mattered before. Do I get to be upset over speculation or am I hurting myself for the thrill of it?

          "I wish you would've told me you were leaving," he begins. I decide to look at anything in the office that isn't him—or, if I absolutely have to look his way, I can stare at his shoulder instead of looking him in the eye. Him, the only person it pains me to lie to, but I'm not allowed to be honest with him.

          I sigh. The things I do for the sake of survival.

          "I didn't know I was leaving until I started packing my bags. It was a spur of the moment decision."

          A creaking sound coming from the opposite side of the desk tells me he's shifting in his chair, the atmosphere in the office instantly growing more awkward.

          "Why?"

          "Why what?"

          "Why was it a spur of the moment decision? I'm trying to understand the headspace you were in." I pick at my thumb's cuticle. Telling him the truth is the objectively right thing to do in this situation, but I'm paralyzed in my own chair thanks to a combination of shame and terror freezing my entrails. My reputation is in the trenches as is, and I don't have the money or the power to fight against Adam's lawyers, even with Sadie by my side. It will always be my word against his. "What happened, Bec?"

          I oh so desperately want to be honest with him, I do. However, seeing Adam again after years of convincing myself I was okay and over it is proving I am, in fact, not that far from the old Harley.

          Reliving all those memories has been taking a toll on me and my health, worsening my already problematic chainsmoking and binge-drinking habits and rendering me unable to go more than ten minutes at a time without feeling like my chest is about to explode. It's the airport situation all over again, and I feel so weak and pathetic I'm mortified to let other people see me in such a despicable state. It makes me want to dissolve my own body with sulfuric acid, a sure and easy way out of a situation that is forcing me to face the worst day of my life and the worst people I know, and I don't care how dramatic that makes me sound. I'm an actress, after all.

          "Nothing happened," I mutter, like the lying liar who lies that I am. For what it's worth, I consider it an act of extreme bravery to sit there, baring my throat around all the wolves and their sharp fangs. "Your gem of an ex-wife is an absolute delight to be around so, naturally, I couldn't take it anymore. She found me anyway, so I guess it wasn't a job well done. I'll keep my mistakes in mind for the next time I need to steer clear from this place."

          He huffs. "Well, if that were the case, you didn't have to leave me and Chelle in the dark about where you were. She cried for a week, you know. Even wanted to report you as a missing person, hang flyers around town." My stomach churns. That sure sounds like something Michelle would do, but I don't dare ask either if she actually went through with such a stupid idea or why she changed her mind. The years have hardened her; even if it's not in the same way as they did to me, she's not the same Michelle I used to know. "You changed your number, you changed your name. You were on TV, for crying out loud; didn't you spend years of your life rolling your eyes at wannabe actresses who sell their souls for a shitty role in a canceled pilot?"

          "It just so happens that those shitty roles pay my bills and actually make me happy." I don't mean to sound as aggressive as I do, but no one gets to shit-talk my roles but me. Even if they're not getting me any nominations for awards that matter, they're what has kept me afloat all these years. "Sorry for not following the path you laid out for me, but at least you have another daughter with a bright future ahead of her. Maybe focus on her instead of chasing after a lost cause."

          "Rebecca, you're not a lost cause."

          I look up for the first time, my glare burning deep into his own eyes. "It's Harley."

          He flinches now, probably expecting this kind of treatment to be directed at literally everyone but him, but I can't fall for the traitorous hand guilt is extending towards me. He has welcomed Adam here, highlighting his fall from grace in my eyes even further, and I can't, in good faith, give anyone the benefit of the doubt if they're choosing to side with him.

          I'm here for my father's sake, to support him during a difficult time, and I take full responsibility for the way things have turned out—he's right when he says I didn't have to stop talking to everybody and could have, at the very least, given him a second chance, even if I left Michelle behind—so it's unfair to dance around that and pretend I'm faultless. I'm not a victim anymore and don't want to be treated that way, but it still doesn't excuse accusations of me having fabricated the whole thing just to get back at Adam or to beg for attention.

          Even if my job of choice requires me to be in the spotlight and to be thankful for the attention given to me both by adoring fans and by people who admittedly don't like me that much, I'd much rather live quietly without prying eyes following my every move. It's incredibly self-centered of me to even assume they care enough to keep tabs on me, but I also know what it's like to walk around feeling like you have a target on your back.

          During my last days in Los Angeles, while I was debating whether or not I wanted to press charges, and during the beginning of my life in New York, I convinced myself everyone around me could read minds and, worst of all, was spying on me on Adam's behalf. Now that I'm doing much better, both emotionally and mentally, and no longer think the world revolves around me, there are times I somehow manage to forget about all of it, but not about the lasting effects it has had on me. The instinct to stay on men's good side, to behave, to stay where they can't see me is much more overpowering than it would be otherwise.

          Surviving everything this city has put me through is the ultimate act of betrayal. I'll never stop feeling wounded and bloody in here, not when my first urge is to keep my mouth shut out of fear and sheer humiliation over not being believed, not even by my family. No matter how much I love my father, no matter how much I'd sacrifice for his sake, I can't keep this up—I can't go on gathering strength to protect a version of myself that should've been protected. All things considered, I was a child, and it's still the grown man that gets the sympathy.

          "You were the one who said we needed to talk," my father points out, voice stern. I know all too well he doesn't talk about his feelings, and it's much easier to bottle them up and act like they don't exist. I know this because he's passed it down to me. "I thought we'd be making some progress, having a real conversation for the first time since you left. What will it take for you to stop shutting me out?"

          I gulp. The world momentarily stops spinning. "I need time."

          "How much time? I know you don't want to be here, so I'm assuming you're leaving immediately after the funeral. That only gives us the rest of the week."

          "I don't know."

          "Listen—"

          "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I really am sorry for your loss, though." I slide out of my chair, somehow managing not to fall over or knock down his personal belongings. There's a stubborn tear streaming down my cheek, which I rush to wipe with the heel of my hand. "I'll think about whether I'll be able to stay or not, but I'd appreciate it if you stopped judging me for every single choice that I've made ever since I left. I did what I had to do, and I'm happy with my life as is."

          He shrinks, looking much smaller now that I've risen to my feet. "I understand."

          "Good. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

          I make my way towards the door, taking deep breaths, and make the active decision to remind myself I, too, have my own agenda. I did promise I'd ruin everyone who ever hurt me, but, if this entire conversation has taught me anything, is that my own father is part of that group, and I wonder if I'm willing to stoop so low. He's hurt me by not being perfect, by his tendency to slip into passiveness and inaction, by allowing Adam to be in the same vicinity as Michelle.

          What cuts the deepest—my love for my father or my desire for revenge?

          "Whatever happened to you, you can talk to me about it," he points out, voice barely louder than a whisper, once I'm already standing by the door. "I'm on your side, kid. No matter what."

          Outside, I hear Adam's voice. It's more than enough.

          "Of course," I reply, offering a small smile I don't even believe in.

⊹˚. ♡

i know it seems like there's not much happening in this chapter, but i promise this conversation + harley's inner realizations are important for what is to come. idealizing people in your youth always comes with its downsides, and coming to terms with your parents being real people outside of the image you have of them in your head is an entire grieving process of its own (psychoanalysis is fun!)