Chapter 11
Calling an Angel
Fenella
“How could you do this to me? Goddamn it!” I scream.
Both hands claw at the air as my eyes lock on Alan. My whole body’s shaking. Curses rip out of me like I can’t stop. He swallows hard, like he can’t breathe under the weight of everything I’m throwing at him.
“Fenella, baby,” Jessy murmurs, sliding his arm around my shoulders and squeezing tight, anchoring me, keeping me from flying off the edge completely.
“Tell me, Clark, what the hell makes you hate me this much?” I drag my fingers through my hair. Tears stream hot and relentless down my cheeks. My chest hitches like I can’t even control my lungs.
I never imagined the man I thought was always helping me, my boss, would turn out to be my old schoolmate—the one I rejected, the one Amy used to bully, and now somehow part of Amy’s family.
“Did Amy put you up to this? Did she tell you to ruin me?”
My voice pitches sharp, almost breaking. Still, he gives me nothing. He just stands there frozen, watching me unravel while Jessy keeps his grip on my shoulder so I don’t topple.
“It’s not like that,” Alan finally says, his words slow and heavy. “Just calm down first. I’ll explain when the time’s right, when you’re calm enough to hear it.”
My eyes fly open when he takes a step toward me. My hand shoots up, shaking. “No. I can’t take one more word out of your mouth. I’m done. Come on, Jessy.”
I turn on my heel and walk straight out of that cursed office. All I want is distance, to get far away before my head blows apart from the pressure. My neck throbs. My eyes burn like fire.
Maybe I’m being childish, maybe I’m running away, but I can’t stand here one second longer. I’ll explode into a thousand pieces if I stay. My breathing’s ragged. Tears stream down my cheeks and my hands swipe at them again and again.
I reach the second floor and people stare like they’ve never seen me before, eyes wide and pitying, and I hate it. I hate the sympathy that feels like knives in my skin. It makes me look weak and pathetic, and I can’t stand that.
I grab my sunglasses from my bag and shove them on. Maybe they’ll hide even a little of how wrecked I am. Outside, the paparazzi are still circling, ready to eat me alive.
“Fenella, wait.” By the time Jessy and I reach the lobby, Laird catches up, panting, sweat shining on his forehead like he sprinted after me. His hand clamps on my arm.
“Let go,” I snap, yanking against his grip.
“Fen, please, just listen—”
“There’s nothing left to hear, Laird.” I try to pull away but he won’t let me. He pulls me into his chest, his arms crushing around me like he’s terrified I’ll vanish.
“Let me go!” I shove back, fighting his hold, and Jessy lunges in, grabbing Laird’s arm and holding him off me.
“Laird, back off. Give her space. She’s not in her right mind now,” Jessy snaps, straining to push him away.
“Jessy, please,” Laird begs, his voice breaking. “Fenella, you know this is Alan’s trap. You know it.”
“Yes, I know, Laird, we all know. But I can’t—I need air, I need space. So please, just leave me alone,” I plead, my voice cracking, and finally he drops his arms though his whole body resists.
I walk straight out of Gene’s office and don’t look back. I don’t want to see Laird’s face twisted with sadness and disappointment. That’s the one thing I can’t bear, not now, not from him.
* * *
“Thanks, Jessy. Sorry for always being a pain.”
I stand at my apartment door. Jessy drives me back here, and the whole ride is quiet. He doesn’t say a word, and I don’t either. It’s been such a shitty day.
“It’s fine. You sure you’ll be okay alone? You can crash at my place for a while, or I can stay here for a couple more days.”
I shake my head. Both my hands squeeze his tightly, trying to steal a bit of comfort. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time alone to calm down. And you should go be with your mom. She needs you more.”
During the ride, the hospital called him to sign some consent papers for his mom. I can’t keep leaning on him forever. Mike was right. I’m not the center of the universe.
“My place is always open for you, anytime. You know the password. If you need me, just call, day or night, okay?”
I nod. He pulls me into a tight hug, and I hold him back just as tight. I fight the urge to cry again, because it’ll only make him feel worse, even though I’ve told him a hundred times none of this is his fault.
“Take care, Jessy,” I say as he waves and hurries off.
The door shuts with a beep, signaling that I’m alone now. My steps drag toward the kitchen, and I open the fridge. Inside, there’s a crate of cold beer. I rip the plastic open, grab one, and pop it with a small hiss of satisfaction.
I gulp it down fast, craving the burn. My throat stings, my head throbs. It hurts, but I’d rather deal with that than the mess inside my chest. The can’s empty in under a minute.
I grab another one, flick the tab, but it won’t budge. I try again. And again. What the hell is wrong with this can? I groan, roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and give it another shot. It finally opens, but my fingernail snaps in the process. Great.
Whatever. Who cares if my nail breaks? No one’s gonna see it anyway. I might as well just go to jail. Or hide in a mountain cave like some witch people whisper about.
The beer hits my tongue with a bitter-sweet taste. It’s good. I crush the empty can and toss it into the trash. Damn. Now my stomach hurts. My knees cramp, so I sit down, curling up on the kitchen floor.
What the hell am I doing?
Tears spill down my cheeks. My breath comes in broken sobs. I hug myself, shaking, unable to stop crying. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. I picture myself drowning, sinking deep into dark water, trapped inside a wrecked ship with no air.
Maybe if I die, I can escape everything pressing on my head and heart.
It’ll finally stop. Maybe I should’ve just died already—like everyone screamed at me on socials.
Alan, Mallory… all their fake smiles and empty words don’t matter anymore.
Nothing can bring my life back to what it was before I met them.
My phone blares from inside my bag, sending a punch straight to my chest. The ringtone sounds familiar, but I can’t remember who it belongs to. I let it ring out.
I grab another can of beer, ready to drink it, but my phone rings again, freezing my hand midair. Maybe it's urgent. Is someone dying? I set the can down on the floor, reach for my bag, and dig through it until I find my phone.
When I see the caller ID, my heart sinks. Like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. I bite my lip and wait for the ringing to stop. When it finally does, I exhale in relief.
But then it starts again. Persistent. Whoever’s calling isn’t giving up. Should I answer? Maybe this is my last chance. I wipe my tears, blow my nose, and swipe the screen without saying a word.
“Hello, Fenella? Are you there?”
It’s my mom. I haven’t called her in months. The last time we talked was right after New Year’s. She’s never been thrilled about my modeling career because she worries too much, always has, and at some point, I just started pulling away.
Dad passed away five years ago. Back in my first year in New York, no agency would take me, so he was still paying for my tuition and rent. When he died during my second year, I had no choice but to hustle on my own.
He didn’t leave much behind. The company he built with his whole life’s work had to be sold to cover debts. Even his life insurance went to pay off what was left.
From riches to rags. That’s why I pushed myself to work while studying, even though Mom hated the idea. But it was the only way I knew how to survive, and she’s never been proud of the fact that I use my looks instead of my degree to make a living.
“Fenella?” she calls again, gentle and soft.
“Yeah, Mom.”
I drag myself across the kitchen floor and lean against the fridge. My head still pounds, and my throat aches until it makes me cough.
“Hey, honey. Are you okay?”
Her voice sounds the same, sweet and caring like always. She’s an angel, really. The last thing I want is to disappoint her or hear her say I told you so.
“Yeah, Mom. I’m fine, just choked on a drink.” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
“Oh, thank God.” She lets out a relieved sigh.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just wanted to know when you’re coming home.”
I freeze. It’s been years since I last went back, always too busy, always with some excuses.
“I know you’re probably busy, but I hope you’ll come home this year and celebrate Christmas with me,” she says. “This time I’m head of the committee for a fundraising event, and we’re opening a secondhand bazaar in the park. I’d really love for you to join us.”
Mom still runs her charity foundation for children with cancer. She’s always believed it’s her life’s calling, and she’s always hoped I’d find something noble like that too. But my first attempt at a social campaign turned into a disaster that got me cancelled.
“Uh… you really think I could be useful there?” I ask, hesitant.
“Of course you can.” Her voice brightens instantly. “If you want to donate, you can sell some of the stuff in your room. I swear, I’ve never touched your things. You should organize them when you’re here.” She sounds so hopeful it almost breaks me.
“You know, people say cleaning up your old stuff helps clear your mind,” she adds softly. “Like that Marie Kondo thing.”
I wipe my nose again, swallowing the sob rising in my throat. She must’ve seen the news, the headlines, the comments, but she won’t say it. This is her way of reaching out.
I remember donating my prom night fundraising money, six hundred dollars, to her foundation. Mom made me hand it over at the hospital myself. We bought toys and clothes for the kids.
She made me play with them, spend the whole day there. She said it would calm my heart. And she was right. Now she’s trying to heal me again.
I mumble under my breath, nudging the empty beer can with my toe until it rolls and stops by the dining table leg. “Okay. I’ll come home for Christmas this year.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Praise the Lord. I’ll be waiting, honey. You’d better book a ticket soon before they sell out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you know,” I whisper.
“I’ll make your favorite bread pudding.”
“Okay.”
“Love you,” she says.
“Love you too,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
The call ends, and I rest my head on my knees. I cry again after hearing Mom’s voice. How does someone like her still exist in this world? She’s too good for it. I must be the luckiest person alive to have her.
I take a few deep breaths and lean my head against the fridge door, trying to ease the beer buzz. My eyes stay shut for a while until my chest loosen a bit. Both my hands wipe the tears from my cheeks, smearing whatever’s left of my makeup.
Something in me just snaps, pushing me to grab my phone and open the ticket app. Without thinking twice, I book a flight to Boston for tonight. Once the ticket is sent to my email, I get up, toss the empty beer cans into the trash, and head to my room.
I pull open the closet, take out my clothes, and start packing them into a big suitcase. My eyes land on the couch. Alan’s gift bags are still there, the ones he gave me after we wrapped the ad shoot.
I grab the bags, dump everything out, and shove the stuff into my suitcase. I throw in all my clothes and a few branded things I’ve been keeping around, not caring if it all fits perfectly. It doesn’t take me long to finish packing, call a cab, and head straight for the airport.
* * *
“Oh, honey! You weren’t kidding when you said you’d be home before ten tonight!”
Mom’s voice bursts with surprise and pure joy as she pulls me into her arms. The warmth of her hug hits me hard, melting everything heavy inside my chest. I’m crying again, clutching her tighter.
Her body feels smaller, more fragile than I remember, and I rest my head on her shoulder, sobbing quietly.
She holds me close, rubbing my back the way she used to when I was little. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything’s gonna be fine. I’m here, always here for you.”
Her voice is soft and calm, the kind that could quiet any storm. I’m home again. Maybe I’m just being dramatic, or maybe I’m slipping back into being her spoiled kid.
“I missed you, Mom,” I mumble between shaky breaths.
“Yeah, honey. I missed you too. I missed you so much it hurts,” she whispers near my ear.
“I’m sorry for being such an ungrateful mess. I know I’ve been a lousy daughter, and I made you lonely.” I pull back just enough to see her face through my blurry eyes.
“It’s okay, baby. You’ll always be my one and only princess,” she says, brushing the hair from my face, her own eyes glistening. “You’ve just been busy. I get it.”
A long sigh escapes me as I melt into her arms again. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Welcome home, honey,” she murmurs, hugging me tighter.
I cry until the cold night air creeps into the house. Then I close the door, kick off my shoes, and move closer to the fireplace. I curl up on the couch with my head in her lap, letting the warmth soak in.
Just for a bit. I just need to rest for a while.