Spiral (26 page)

Her voice sounds almost robotic as she, sweet-faced, replies, “I have a lot of help and support right now. I have the good fortune of being surrounded by a loving family, faithful friends, and devoted fans who give me all of the strength I need to face this tragedy head-on.”

I guffaw, “Oh my God, that is the most manufactured response I’ve ever heard! Can’t you be real with me for five seconds?”

She tilts her head. “That’s my truth, Jack.”

“No, it’s not,” I reply, refusing to soften my tone, even as her jaw tightens. “That’s what they make you say. Your truth is you drink and party and try to pretend none of that stuff happened last month. Your truth is denial.”

“The words they give me have to be my truth, Jack. If I don’t believe it, I can’t sell it, and my job is to sell, not become some social services case.” Her mouth sets in a hard line. Now she’s angry. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

A chill shoots through me. I know where this is going just by her expression. To protect myself, I say, “Dare.”

“Dare?” She takes off her sunglasses, revealing her piercing, vengeful eyes. “Okay. I dare you to tell me about the day your father left.”

I freeze, my eyes locked with hers. Breath catches in my chest and sits there, useless. My tongue becomes dead weight in my mouth. I need a witty come back, or a sly joke, anything. But my brain just shuts down like a jewelry store getting robbed, complete with steel doors and ringing alarms.

Game over.

I look away and shake my head. “That’s stupid – that’s not even a dare.”

“Sure it is,” she shoots back. “A dare is something uncomfortable that you make someone do because otherwise they would never do it.”

“Well, I’m still not doing that,” I insist, rolling off of the floating chair and into the water. As I head to the pool’s edge, I hear her swimming after me.

“Stop running away, Jack!” she calls. I pause at the wall and feel her glide up beside me. “You asked for a dare, and I gave you one, so now you have to do it or you’ll lose.”

I shake my head and start to lift myself out of the water. Suddenly, I pause, wondering if she means I’ll lose something other than this dumb game, something bigger. Like her.

I think about it for too long, and she grows impatient. “Jack?”

“I lose then.” I push down on the side of the pool.

“Why?” she presses, grasping at my arm and pulling me back into the water. “Why won’t you talk to me about him?”

I turn and glare at her. “You won’t talk to me, either! You just gave me your publicist’s bullshit answer when I asked for the truth. Excuse me if I don’t have a prepared statement to hide behind.”

“Okay, fair enough,” she says slowly. She looks down at the water and after a few moments she says, “Therapy’s for weak people who can’t handle the hard times in their lives.” I swallow hard, thinking of the therapy I had to take part in after Dad left, knowing full well that if I hadn’t had someone to talk to, I would still be getting my frustrations out by beating the hell out of anyone who crossed me.

She continues, “I don’t need some doctor telling me how to get over their deaths; I just need to be strong and move on.”

“Yeah, except you’re not moving on, Cherie.” I move closer and say, “Therapy can be a good thing. You can let your guard down; you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

She pins me with an angry stare. “You know, you should really practice what you preach.”

I shrink back from her. “I had to be strong for other people. I didn’t have a choice.”

“What makes you think I have a choice? The whole world is watching me and waiting for me to crack!” I have to agree with her; maybe she does have to pretend everything’s okay just so the rest of the world doesn’t see her fractures.

“And what about now – do you still have to be strong for others?” she pushes.

I glare at her. “I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one who comes to my room every night – what would you call that?”

I thought my words would incite her, hopefully make her too angry to continue, or too embarrassed. I thought it would derail this whole conversation.

Instead, she shakes her head and wags a finger at me. “Don’t even go there. I mean this wall you put up when anyone tries to bring up your dad. You’re still trying to act all tough like it doesn’t bother you, but it clearly does.”

“I found a way to cope with it, Cherie,” I lie. I’m as good at lying as she is when it comes to this subject. “It’s not like it haunts me every day; I just don’t like to talk about it.”

She shrugs. “Well, I’m finding ways to cope that don’t involve some prick prying into my psyche while the photographers follow me in and out of his office!”

“No, instead they follow you in and out of bars and clubs! You think drinking and partying are better coping methods?” I shoot back.

She shakes her head. “You make me sound like I’m an alcoholic, Jack.”

“You kind of are,” I say. “Even my friends at home have heard about how you drink and stuff every night. The paparazzi are following everything you do anyway, and they’re recording it and gossiping about it. What they’re saying isn’t good – would you rather they say you’re getting help from a therapist or developing a drinking problem at sixteen?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a problem, Jack, and I know what I’m doing, okay? I’m just having a little fun, and I think I deserve it after what’s happened to me. Please don’t nag me. Can you just be my friend?”

“Friends worry about what happens to one another, Cherie,” I reply.

She meets my gaze and retorts, “And friends talk to each other about stuff that bothers them, Jack. You can’t claim to be my friend and care about me if you won’t open up to me about your own problem.”

My shoulders grow cold at her biting honesty. “It’s not a problem. My dad leaving us isn’t anything but the past. I shouldn’t have to talk about that to be your friend.”

“Why can’t you, though?” she murmurs, floating toward me. I feel the familiar pulse of anger rising into my chest and spreading through my body. Cherie raises her hand and rests it lightly on mine, and I stare at the contrasting sizes and skin tones as she begins to weave her fingers through my own. A million bolts of electricity fly through my skin into my bones and up my arm, dulling the anger. The last time she was sober and held my hand, I was dragging her through a parking lot to save her from prying eyes. Now I feel like I’m the one getting dragged, only she’s dragging me back in time against my will.

In a voice that rises barely above a breath, with her eyes burning a hole through my skull, she begs, “Please let me in, Jack.”

The touch of her hand, the urging in her voice – all of it comes together like a tsunami rising and washing over my stoic barricade. She’s got me, and she probably knows it. She has to know I’d do anything for her if she’d be brave enough to force this conversation.

“I don’t want to.” It’s a last, weak effort to keep my secrets locked up, but I know and even she knows that they’re right there, at the brim, ready to flood.

“Why, Jack?” she presses.

I swallow the lump that’s forming in my throat. “Because.” I feel my anger stirring; anger at her for forcing me to talk about something so hurtful, and anger at my father for making it hurt in the first place.

But I suddenly realize that no one is forcing me to do anything. Cherie just has some uncanny ability to pull me in and make me stay, even as she crawls under my skin and gets me madder than I’ve ever been. She gets away with things I never allow other people to do, from touching my hair to digging for the truth about my dad. I would have run from this pool had anyone else been asking these questions, but here I still am, just trying to get her to drop it, but not even really trying that hard anymore.

I guess I don’t want her to drop it that badly. Maybe I want to tell Cherie. Maybe I’m ready to tell her what I won’t tell anyone else.

I train my eyes on the water and stiffly reply, “I woke up one day, and he was gone. I found my mom on the kitchen floor, holding the letter he left her.”

My words must paint an intense picture for her because she curls her fingers around my palm tightly. “What did the letter say?” she asks, hanging on my every word.

It feels like nails scraping down the walls of my stomach as I relive that awful moment. “That he met someone. That she shouldn’t try to call or write or find him because he didn’t love her anymore.” I close my eyes, seeing vividly his blue script on the yellow legal pad paper that I found crumbled inside of Mom’s tight fist that morning. I’d revisited this memory tons of times, mostly in nightmares, but always by myself. I hear my own voice coming out in wavering sounds, as if a ghost has taken over my body and is passing a message to the living.

I continue babbling. “That she could have everything – the car, the house, the savings, us. Just to please let him go and live his new life.”

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “That’s terrible.”I shake my head and avoid Cherie’s eyes. “I had to get my mom to her bedroom before Brenton woke up so he wouldn’t see what a mess she was, and I got him ready for school. Britney was crying and hungry. She was still a baby. I didn’t know what to do or how to feed her, but I had to figure it out because my mom couldn’t come out of her room.”

“How old were you?”

I take in a deep breath. “13.”

“That must have been so hard for you to see,” she says softly. “How long did it last?”

I can’t even force myself to look at Cherie. I fix my eyes on the wall of the pool and say, “About a day and a half. The next day was Christmas Eve, so Aunt Darla was coming over for dinner. She realized what was happening and got things under control. She had just gone through a divorce herself, so she knew what to do, and she got my mom some professional help. Mom eventually went on anti-depression meds so she could sleep at night and forget about it, and she basically became a vegetable for two years. I was on my own, taking care of Britney and Brenton, while Aunt Darla tried to help Mom figure everything out with a lawyer.”

“Did your dad ever reach out to you or try to explain his side to you?” she asks. It hurts just to shake my head in response.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Cherie is unmoving in the water beside me, just holding my hand and staring at our fingers, entranced. “I guess you felt pretty alone, huh?” she murmurs.

“Not at the time, no. I was just mad. Mad at him, mad at the world.”

She tilts her head. “Mad or hurt?”

“Both, I guess,” I reply. My voice lowers as I force out the words I’ve never said aloud to anyone. “I mean, how could someone tell you they love you and then just pick up and leave? Makes you wonder if they ever meant it at all.”

Cherie whispers, “I’m sure he loves you, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll never really know, huh?” I say, keeping my eyes trained to the wall of the pool.

She doesn’t say anything in reply for a few moments, then, “So how did you adjust to life without him?”

I shrug and tell her the truth. “I had to quit football for a little while just to be able to help take care of Brenton and Britney. Our town was small, and everyone knew about how he left her. I stopped talking to my friends. At school, I got into fights and stuff with kids who gossiped about it.”

“Fights?”

I nod, gritting my teeth. It’s all out there now. No turning back. Maybe it’s better that she knows. “Yeah. Lots of them. I got suspended. I had ‘anger issues.’ I probably still do, I just handle it differently.”

She finally has a reason to let go of my hand, but she doesn’t. Instead, she holds it tighter and asks, “Did you ever hurt someone? Like, bad?”

I swallow hard.
Here goes
. “Once, when I was really out of control, I turned on my friend, Frank. He was the only person still trying to talk to me. I turned on him because he’d finally had enough of my moody shit and told me to get over it. His mom came out to stop me from doing worse.”

I close my eyes against the memory. Cherie urges me to continue. “Then what happened?”

The words are hard to force out. “I turned on her, too.”

“You hit her?” she gasps.

I lower my head in shame. “Almost. I stopped myself just in time, but I was about to.”

I can hear her gulp. “What happened then?”

I shrugged. “I turned and ran as fast as I could for as long as I could until I just wasn’t mad anymore, and that’s what I’ve done ever since.”

“So that’s why you always go for a run when you’re angry,” she concludes.

I nod. “Yes. I never want to feel that out of control again, and running is the only thing that mellows me out.”

She sighs, “Well, having a drink now and then with my friends is the only thing that mellows me out. It takes the edge off of all of this. Can you understand that?”

I glare at her in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself? You know that’s like a line the alcoholic character on TV shows says right before they get too drunk or arrested, right?”

“Jack, nothing’s going – ”

“No,” I interrupt, finally looking at her again. “Don’t tell me nothing’s going to happen because something will. What you’re doing is practically textbook –
young celebrity experiences tragedy and goes from American sweetheart to party animal to overdosing addict!”

She huffs, and it’s her turn to roll her eyes.

“You don’t see it, do you?” I demand.

She shakes her head with sass. “Nope. Won’t happen. This isn’t TV, Jack. I’m smarter than that.”

“Oh, really? You’re smarter, huh?” I sigh, “Well, I see where you’re headed, even if you don’t. Even if nothing bad happens, you’ll still be known as some sloppy drunk, or end up high and useless all the time like my mom was.”

“She snapped out of it eventually, right? I will find my way, just like she found hers,” she replies evenly.

“But at what cost?”

Cherie shrugs. “Whatever it is, I can afford it.”

I growl, “Not money, Cherie. I mean at what cost to your reputation, to your life, and to me and everyone else who cares about you?”

Her lower lip juts out, and she coos, “Aw, Jack, do you really care that much about me?”

“Yeah, I do.” How could she not know that by now? I quickly add, “A lot of people do.” I don’t know why it’s so hard to admit how I feel about her out loud.