Chapter 72 Lee
Lee
As she knew it eventually would, Depression became too strong and painful for Lee to bear. Her sister’s words—You love pretending you’re looking out for everyone else, but it always comes back to Lee Perkins in the spotlight—echoed in her ears as she stuffed things in her suitcase.
In her mind’s eye, Lee could imagine herself back in Los Angeles, swanning around the circuit, accepting accolades for her noble journey across the ocean to save her sister.
She’d probably tear up a little when she told her tale, splay her fingers on her chest, inhabit the brave big sister who’d put her career on hold for family.
The narrative was already crystallizing, another perfect anecdote for talk show appearances.
God, Regan was right about her. Had every moment of care, every rescue, every time she’d dropped everything to help—had it all been a charade? To quote Markos the cop, possible.
Possible, it was all—and always—a show.
Even her love felt suspect now. Did she love Flora and Isabelle, or did she love being the one they called when everything fell apart?
On her phone, Lee checked in for her flight from Athens to LAX.
Flight 447 departed the next day at 2:15 p.m., an eleven-hour flight.
Lee wouldn’t make it to touchdown. She wasn’t going back to a life of clinging to a dull version of sanity, Depression whispering in her ear day and night.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, she could let go.
The offer of a massive film role didn’t bring her solace.
She was not needed by anyone, all the calibrated meds weren’t helping enough, and there was no reason to suffer any longer.
It was too much, and that was OK. She’d made a journey to save her family, and now it was time to save herself.
Lee’s boarding pass appeared on her screen. Seat 3A, first class.
Pure, clean relief flooded through her; it made her shoulders drop and her breathing slow. She had a plan. She had control. She didn’t have to figure out how to live. Not anymore.
Everything she’d told herself about love, about family, about being the person others could count on—lies. Pretty lies she’d wrapped around an ugly desire to be necessary, a search for a way to escape the fact that she had nothing to offer, that she was empty and in pain.
One last performance to go.