Chapter 12 Lex
Lex
Thanksgiving is definitely the worst holiday: giving thanks, counting our blessings, celebrating with the ones we love. Blah, blah, blah. It’s just another cruel reminder to the people with hollowed-out hearts that we don’t have enough pieces to fill the gaps.
Mom adjusts my turquoise tie in the full-length mirror as we gear up for a dinner for three at some overpriced steak house.
The kind of place where you can’t even see your food because the lights are nonexistent.
This dinner is solely for appearance’s sake, to keep the image alive and well that the Halls are an all-American family celebrating a time-honored tradition of upholding values and kinship on a holiday rooted in violence and colonization.
“Why aren’t you wearing the rust-colored tie?” my mother asks me, dragging the knot up to my throat. “I wanted us all to match.”
“I figured I’d save the matchy-matchy look for the next family photo shoot. You know, the one where we all pretend to be perfect.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “We rented that poodle last time. Where is she? Maybe she can wear the rust-colored tie.”
“We didn’t rent a dog, Lexington. We borrowed Lulu from your aunt Gia.”
“My mistake.”
Gripping me by the shoulders, she spins me around to face her.
Her hair has extra hair in it. Extensions or something.
But no amount of glitter or jewels can hide the vacancy in her eyes.
They look exactly like mine. The pearls around her neck are a noose, and the long-sleeved salmon gown rimmed with gemstones is only a pretty shield to conceal her bruises.
I glance away, down at the floor. “Your makeup looks nice. Hides your black eye.”
She releases me sharply. “Don’t start.”
“You started this. I’m just along for the ride.”
Her crimson lips thin as she turns back to the mirror and fluffs her layers of hair. “I want you on your best behavior tonight. I mean it. No outbursts, no embarrassing spectacles.”
“I would never.”
“That includes unwarranted sarcastic comments.”
I loosen the tie around my neck that’s compromising the thinning oxygen in the room. “So you want me to put on my acting hat. We both know that’s not a problem.”
“Just one day,” she bites out, pivoting to face me. Her teeth are bared, the rouge on her cheekbones pinkening. “All I ask is for one goddamn day, where you behave like a well-mannered, respectful member of this family. Your father—”
“My father can go fuck himself.” I send her a pleasant smile as I comb a hand through my gelled-up hair. “Respectfully.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. We stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the gilded mirror, me trying to maintain the force-fed grin and Mom trying not to lose her shit and ruin her makeup.
We look so similar right now. My sleek suit, her Prada dress.
Matching golden hair and blue eyes. Carved from the same stone and blackened in the same dirt.
But my mother chooses this.
I never will.
As I hook the button on my suit jacket, I glance down at the turquoise tie. There was a reason I went with this color, and it wasn’t solely to piss off Mom.
It reminds me of Stevie. She always wears a splash of blue-green, and I wonder if she even realizes it.
Every day I’ve seen her over the past three months, that color accessorizes her in some way.
Obvious, subtle, sometimes keenly hidden.
Earrings or a headband. Nail polish or a thumb ring. Even her old car.
I wonder why she likes the color so much.
I wonder why I care.
The front door claps shut from down below, and I pop my head up, my chest deflating with a flat sigh. “Showtime.”
“Veronica. Are you ready?” My father’s voice booms like a thundercloud, echoing through every sterile room.
“Coming, Mortimer!” Mom takes another minute to primp before shooting me a wary side-eye. “Promise me you’ll be good.”
“You say it like I’m an unruly toddler.”
“You act like one. My fault, I suppose, for raising you with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“You don’t make those airplane noises anymore.”
She does a final hair fluff and reaches over to fiddle with my collar. “Please, Lexington. At least pretend to have a good time tonight. There are always people watching.”
“If he doesn’t want to be with his family on Thanksgiving, he can stay home.”
My eyes swing toward the bedroom doorway. My father has his shoulder wedged against the frame, his steely gaze pinned on me.
I palm the nape of my neck, flattening the baby hairs that prickle with foreboding. “Stay home?” I echo, messing with my cuff links. “And miss out on the annual recap of our charming family dysfunction? Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
Dad huffs a joyless laugh through his nose and tucks his chin to his chest. “Veronica, let’s go.”
Mom swallows, pressing a hand to my bicep, her touch almost tender. “Come on. Grab your shoes.”
“I said Veronica .” His voice is even and stony. “Lexington isn’t coming.”
Faltering, my mother glances between us, her long lashes fluttering as she blinks. “Mortimer,” she murmurs. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“And this insolent child is thankful for nothing.” A sharp finger snaps in my direction. “He’s staying home. We’ll enjoy a quiet evening by ourselves.”
“But he—”
“I’ll meet you in the car. Two minutes.” He storms away, leaving a trail of cold contempt behind.
Mom’s eyes close briefly, her face wrought with tension, before she spears me with a damning look. “Are you happy now?”
I’m far from fucking happy. “It is what it is.”
“It is what it is because you make it that way.”
I bark a laugh and collapse onto the pristinely made bed topped with decorative pillows, likely hand-stitched by Martha Stewart herself. “You’re saying I’m responsible for this shit show? You married the guy. I’ve never had a say in that.”
“You instigate him. Poke him. You’re incapable of keeping your mouth shut.”
“I just say the things you’re too cowardly to say.”
I think she’s about to lash out, spew something scathing, but her face falls as she stares at me. Tears wash over her eyes for a moment before she blinks them away. Then she shuffles out of the room, muttering behind her, “I’ll bring you some leftovers. I love you.”
My shoulders slump. “I know,” I murmur, turning back to the mirror and gazing at my reflection across the room as commotion sounds from one floor below me.
Arguing, escalating voices, insults.
Fuck.
I hate this.
Thanksgiving is a time for giving thanks, and the only thing I’ve felt thankful for lately is a girl who turns songs into lullabies, a script, and a secret rooftop beneath the stars.
I remove the tie completely.
Then I change into my casual clothes, ruffle the gel out of my hair until it looks like I just crawled out of bed, and reach for my cell phone as I shuffle down the winding staircase.
Me: How’s your Thanksgiving going?
A few minutes later, a response pings as I sink down on one of the kitchen barstools.
Stevie: Who is this?
Me: Guess.
Stevie: Lex?
Me: Good guess.
I wonder what she’s doing right now—feasting on turkey legs and apple pie while pumpkin-scented candles flicker from every table and countertop. Playing the piano, rolling dough for homemade biscuits, smiling and laughing because she means it. Because she’s happy.
A smile hints as I watch her dots dip and pause, dip and pause.
Stevie: Oh hi! I was really hoping you’d text me. I haven’t seen you since school let out for break, and I wanted to tell you how eternally grateful I am for the car. I don’t even know what to say…except thank you. Thank you so much.
I frown, my thumbs stalling over the keypad.
Her text makes it sound like she’s about to sob buckets of happy tears into her cranberry sauce.
But hell, replacing her car was the least I could do.
Her family barely makes ends meet, then scrounged up a couple of grand to get her a beat-up car from, like, 1985, only for me to come along and smash it to bits, all while pinning the blame on her in the process.
I was an asshole.
Me: Sure. It wasn’t a big deal.
The bubbles shimmy up and down, disappear, then dance to life again.
Stevie: Are you kidding? My dad was crying. I was crying. Mom would have been crying, but I think she went into shock. No one’s ever done something like that for me before. So thank you.
My eyes skim over the message a few times, taking in her words. Her genuine gratitude. I’m not sure what to do with it, how to spin it into something comfortable or familiar.
Me: You’re welcome I guess. Seriously wasn’t a big deal. The accident was my fault.
Money is money. It’s paper and coins and debt and greed.
I have a shit ton of money saved up from my TV show.
Mom and Dad are holding most of it hostage until I prove I’m “responsible” enough to manage it, and I often forget it’s even there.
In my experience, all money has ever done is suck the humanity out of people who were once decent.
It’s life’s most time-hallowed poison, always there, always seeping inside us and altering our priorities until everything’s about accumulating more, more, more, then protecting what’s already been gained.
It twists genuine intentions into transactions and makes every gesture feel hollow.
But I suppose it’s important to her, to those who aren’t accustomed to it.
Stevie: What are you up to today?
I look around at the stark and joyless house, wishing the walls would morph into chipped red siding, the roof into storm-beaten shingles, and the empty space beside me into her.
Me: Nothing.
It takes a few minutes for her to reply. There’s not much to say after a response so jaded. So sad. But then her message comes through, and she fills the void a little.
She fills my void.
Stevie: Happy Thanksgiving, Lex.
I send her back a smiley face and whisper to nobody at all, “Happy Thanksgiving.”
***
Opening night.
I’m kind of dreading it, if I’m being honest. And not because I’m not amped up and flying high on adrenaline, nicotine, and espresso but because it’s almost over. This is it. We perform a few shows, and then life goes back to what it was.
I’m not ready for that.
I’m not ready to not have this.
Backstage is a whirlwind of activity. The air feels syrupy, thick with hair spray and perfumes, black coffee wafting from the break room. Everyone’s thrumming with energy, focused on their routines and choreography.
I’m in a corner by myself, away from the chaos, replaying lines in my head.
The stage manager is on his game, checking cues and tweaking the lighting, while Mr. Hamlin buzzes around like a drunk bumblebee.
He lives for this shit, and I realize I’m going to miss him when all this is over.
Mr. Hamlin has real passion. Heart. It’s a rare thing.
One of the parent volunteers pops over to me, double-checking my costume as she gives me an appreciative once-over. “You look fantastic, Lexington.” Her gaze sparks with heated interest before she sends me a wink. “You wear that costume so well.”
My costume is embracing the bohemian flair: a deep velvet jacket that, when it catches the light, shimmers midnight blue or maybe royal purple, contrasting a white shirt underneath, ruffled at the collar.
My hair is tousled and unkempt, my trousers sleek and black, and my cravat a rich burgundy color.
But something in her tone has me thinking she’s less enthused about the costume and more focused on the body wearing it.
“Thanks,” I mutter dismissively.
I’m used to being objectified; it’s why I’ve never dated, never cared about sex, never craved physical touch.
It’s all meaningless. When women look at me, they don’t ever really see me—not the shit that matters anyway.
It’s just giggles and flushed cheeks and backhanded comments that teeter on the line of sexual harassment.
No one cares about my personality, about what makes me tick and cry and bleed and laugh.
Not until…
“Lex.”
Stevie’s voice punctures my dark cloud. When I lift my head and find her sashaying toward me from the dressing room like some kind of otherworldly being, I swear time stops, and the cloud isn’t just severed—it’s obliterated.
I drink in the beaming smile on her face, the way her hair glints under the backstage lights, the silky indigo dress painted on her like she was carved from a blue moon.
I blink at her as she approaches, straightening against the far wall. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Um…” Words stutter around my brain, but I can’t settle on the right ones. She looks like magic. “Hey.”
She breathes out a laugh. “I see you’ve memorized your lines well.”
Swallowing, I shake off the ridiculous trance and force my eyes over her shoulder. “How are you feeling about tonight?”
Flattening her palms at her hips, she slides them down her thighs, smoothing out the wrinkle-less dress as she moves in closer. “I’m nervous.”
“You don’t have a reason to be. You’ve nailed every rehearsal.”
“It’s different tonight. The audience, the expectation. My whole family is out there watching.” She sighs, her breath shaking in time with my jittery hands. “It’s just…different.”
“You’re living your dream right now,” I tell her, popping my shoulders. “Enjoy it. Embrace it.”
She sends me a curious nod. “Is this your dream, Lex? Acting?”
I know she’s thinking about all the shit I spouted off a few weeks ago, about the cesspit that is Hollywood. And I don’t know how to answer the question. My dreams feel muddled. Murky. Twisted into knots I can’t untangle. “I don’t really know anymore.”
Sadness darkens her eyes as she studies me. But she blinks it away quickly, reaching into a little satchel draped over her shoulder. “Here. I brought you something.”
I frown. “You did?”
“Yeah…it’s silly, I know. But it’s sort of my good-luck charm.” Her hand disappears inside the purse, then reemerges with a small pendant tucked between her thumb and finger. It’s shaped like a star, enameled in a swirl of greens and blues. “Put it in your pocket.”
My hand extends in slow motion, and she places it in my palm. “Why are you giving it to me if it’s your good-luck charm?”
She shrugs, her cheeks flushing with color. “I wasn’t sure if you would have any family out there watching you today. I was thinking this could be a reminder that you’re not alone.”
My gaze locks on the turquoise star before swinging back up to her face. A swell of emotion splashes across my chest, liquifying every dark, wretched feeling lurking inside my heart. I curl my hand around the pendant. “Thanks, Nicks.”
“Sure. Of course.” She hesitates then, trailing her eyes over me, from toes to top. “You look…”
A beat passes.
My muscles tighten as I wait for the inevitable.
Hot.
Handsome.
Sexy.
But when her eyes lift all the way up, locking with mine, they soften into melted jewels. She smiles. “Like a star.”