Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
I can't get out of the studio fast enough. My skin is one massive rash, all aching itch and prickly heat. My insides are the same—a temperature so close to boiling I’m blind. I see colors, shapes, and dimensions, but none of it looks real. I’m in a video game, and my one objective is to make the quickest escape.
I recognize the brown and pink dress in the kitchen and see my ticket out.
“I need you to do the segment for me,” I blurt.
A stunned pause of silence swells in the space between us.
“You aren’t feeling well?” The sympathy in her voice is far from convincing.
I know she’s the dragon that set me aflame, but she’s also my only way out. There’s no way I can look at that lens and put on a fake face for the viewers at home.
“No, I’m not. Tell Mr. Bruce I had an emergency. I’ll check in with him later.”
I spin on one heel and make for the exit no one uses—a cold, sparsely lit corridor that leads to the parking garage.
I barely make it out of the building as the tears spill over and run down my cheeks. I rush to my car, climb into the driver’s seat, and let the trapped flood of emotion break free the moment I close the door.
After a good, hard cry, I rally. Get it together so you can drive, I tell myself. You’ve got this. The last part plays out in Jude’s deep voice, nearly triggering a new round of tears because he hasn’t responded to my apology. I told myself I’d be offended with a measly thumbs up on the text, but I’d rather have that than nothing.
I skip the freeway and take the long way home, allowing myself to relive what happened. Just the other day, I was hypothetically asking who would go around searching someone's personal information. Turns out, the answer is Patty.
For her to reduce my parents’ identity in such a way—in front of Marsha Langston, no less—was unbearably cruel. Yes, my dad’s a convicted felon, but he’s so many other things. And while my mom battled with alcohol to the point she missed out on my adolescence, she got clean, sober, and saved two-and-a-half years ago. She now runs a women's rehab center in Cleveland, and I’m proud of her for that.
Still, I’m not sure I can rally in time to give Marsha the winning audition she’s looking for. As it is, I can’t do anything until I get my hands on the new key ingredient, and who knows if the average grocer even carries it. I may have to order some online.
My phone starts to buzz, and I notice that Patty’s about to go live for my segment. I’m sure Mr. Bruce and Nellie want to know what happened to me, but I don’t have the slightest desire to get into it. This isn’t one of those offenses you run and tell your besties about for validation. It’s one you push down and bury because it’s too painful and shameful to speak aloud.
So I won’t be tempted to turn on the TV and watch Patty taking my place, I create an even longer route home. I pass a total of six markets—including Organic Goods, owned by Lisa, but can’t get myself to stop at even one. Why waste good pistachio cream by making yet another disaster in my ruined state?
Once the segment should be done, I get back on route and dream about sinking beneath my covers with the drapes drawn.
At the stoplight two blocks from my house, I peek at my phone and see that both Nellie and Mr. Bruce have texted and tried to call. I have Siri send them a group text.
Me: Sorry I had to bail. I’ll explain later. I hope the segment went okay.
I hit send, shut off my phone, and wait for the light to turn green. My mind wanders to the left-over champagne in the fridge, but I’m quick to decide against it; if my childhood taught me anything, it’s that alcohol is not a proper coping mechanism, and this is definitely not a celebration.
I’m so focused on the bed in my room that I almost miss the Jag in my driveway and the man on my porch wearing a bright red scarf.
My insides erupt with a new sort of emotion—hope that bursts through me in a warm, fluid wave. My eyes lock on his across the yard, and another tide rushes in—a steady swell of excitement. Jude actually drove out to my house. He’s here, and heaven help me, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see.
I park the car and gather my things while Jude kicks his shoes on a dusting of snow beside the welcome mat.
I’m on the brink of a breakdown. Devastated over what happened at work, elated to find Jude on my porch, and terrified that he might say something I don’t want to hear. I’m not sure I can take even one more thing.
I hike the straps of my bag onto my shoulder and close the car door. As I walk toward my front porch, I gradually lift my gaze.
Our eyes lock once more, and Jude gives me that look—the half smile that has seduced half of America.
“G’day, Lady G.”