50. Blakely
FIFTY
Blakely
Waking up the next morning, my body feels empty, drained of every single molecule, leaving behind a hollow shell. But as I head down to the gym for my fasted cardio, the numb gives way to a thick, dark substance that weighs me down until my legs feel sluggish, and it feels a lot like shame.
I threw up last night. And then once I was done, I made myself puke again. Lost control, ate thousands of calories, and then purged. Like a…
Shaking my head, I don’t even finish the thought.
You need help .
The morning sun shines light on things that were shrouded in shadows the night before. Jackson was only trying to tell me what, deep down, I already know about myself.
I have issues with food. And with exercise.
With control.
Anything that isn’t under my thumb at all times, if I’m honest.
It’s been there for as long as I can remember, but as I’ve become more popular in the spotlight, it’s gotten worse. Other people’s judgments and opinions are so far out of my reach that I grasp on to the things I can—dependent on the feeling of perfection.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Repressions often grow wild when they’re unchecked in the dark. But I never thought I’d get to the point I did last night. And I won’t ever let myself get there again. I don’t think I need outside help, not convinced it’s as serious as Jackson believes, but I’m anxious to see him. To tell him that I get what he was saying and I’m sorry for my overreaction.
Since I’ve been ignoring Sierra’s calls all morning, still too pissed off and emotionally drained to even think of dealing with her, my plan is to shower and then head to Donahue Motors so I can see Jackson and apologize. I don’t want him to go through the entire day with thoughts of last night running through his head.
Hopping off the treadmill, I make my way to the kitchen, unease swimming through me at the thought of eating.
I’m not sure what I expected to walk into. Maybe for the evidence of my late-night binge to be strewn across the counters, making me atone for my mistakes in real time. But everything has vanished. Disappeared like it was never there in the first place. A pang hits the center of my chest, wishing I could erase my memories just as easily.
What I don’t expect is my father, sitting at the kitchen island, his laptop open in front of him, his jaw tense and his brow furrowed.
I had forgotten he was here.
Nerves jumble in my stomach.
“Good morning.” I peer at him from my peripheral. My heart spasms when his eyes meet mine, a darkness swirling in them that I haven’t seen in years.
It makes me feel like I’m about to get in trouble, which is absurd because I don’t know what I’ve done, other than eat ten thousand calories and rush out of the room without answering his questions.
My stomach curdles at the thought. Stupid, Blakely.
“Feeling better this morning?” He lifts his chin.
I force a timid smile. “Much, thank you. I’m sorry, I just…I had a rough day.”
“Hmm.” He nods, his fingers rubbing the stubble on his jaw.
My stomach sinks.
Something’s off.
But if he isn’t going to come out and say whatever’s bothering him, I’m not going to pry it out, so I move farther into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a fresh water. I glance around for Eric, wanting him to make me an egg-white omelet.
“Where’s Eric?”
Dad sips from a coffee cup before gingerly placing it down on the counter. “I gave him the morning off.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t; he just sits there, staring.
“Okay.” I spin back around to grab the eggs and spinach, a tense energy crackling through the silence.
“What did you do last night?”
My hand freezes on the fridge handle, my heart stalling in my chest. Clearing my throat, I turn toward him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean before you came home and…” He gestures to the counter. “Did you do anything fun?”
“I, uh…” My heartbeat slams against my ribs, a bite of foreboding snapping at my stomach. “The usual, I guess.” I shrug. “Why do you ask?”
He graces me with a closed-mouth smile, beckoning me over to his side of the counter, turning his laptop.
“You know, I had the most interesting conversation with Karen the other day. She was convinced that you and Jackson Rhoades were friendlier than what she felt was appropriate.”
My breath catches, and as I walk toward him, my steps are slow, wary of his eerie calmness, not sure what to expect when I reach his side. But out of all the scenarios that raced through my mind, this wasn’t one of them. My stomach plummets, my hands dropping the bag of spinach to the floor as I see what’s on the screen.
Pictures. Lots of pictures, all of Jackson and me.
Embracing in his car. Holding hands. Kissing on his front porch.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
“There’s an article, too, if you’re curious. An anonymous source and a driver, both eager to part with your secrets for what I’m sure was a hefty check.”
His voice is cutting and I feel every slice as he knifes lacerations into my chest.
“Dad, I?—”
“How long, Blakely?”
“Look, it’s not?—”
“I asked how long ?” His hand smacks the counter.
Swallowing thickly, my fists curl into themselves, my eyes glancing down. “Not that long,” I murmur.
“Before or after I asked him to watch out for you?”
My heart clenches. “After.”
His eyes flare. “Did he force you?”
“What?” I gasp. “No, Dad, it isn’t like that. I love him.”
He laughs, running a hand through his dark locks. “You love him. Of course you do. Well, I hope you can love him from afar because after I’m through with him, he’ll never step foot in California again.”
My breath stutters, his words reaching in and clamping down on my soul, a different type of panic rising up inside of me. No.
“Dad, no. This has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me,” he snaps. “I’m your father. I trusted him, and he disrespected me by going behind my back and taking advantage of a child.”
I scoff, resentment billowing in my gut. “Oh please,” I bite out. “I’m not a child anymore. But you’re gone so often, I’m not surprised that you haven’t noticed.”
He stiffens. “That’s not fair.”
“That your favorite phrase?” My eyebrow rises. “You’re unbelievable, you know? You jet around to your fancy business meetings and stay gone for weeks at a time doing God knows what, avoiding this house and everything in it. Including me . And now, suddenly I’m a child? Suddenly I need protecting?”
He opens his mouth, but I slash my hand through the air, continuing. “I am so sick of everyone thinking they get to determine the outcome of my life. None of you have spent a single second trying to understand what it’s like to live in my shoes.”
“Blakely.”
“Did you know that I have panic attacks?”
His mouth parts, shock flickering through his eyes. “What?”
I bite my lip, my nostrils flaring. Maybe I shouldn’t have blurted it out that way, shouldn’t use my troubles as a weapon to prove a point. But if my father has the audacity to walk in here and act like he has any right to judge Jackson and my relationship, then he can sit and listen to everything else he hasn’t taken the time to see over the years.
“Yeah.” I lift a shoulder. “Terrible ones actually. So debilitating that I struggle to do anything that’s not scheduled in advance. So intense when they hit that sometimes they make me feel like I’m physically going to die.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I swallow, ignoring the painful squeezing of my lungs. “And everyone around me watches it happen, calling it ‘an episode’ and brushing it to the side. Calling me melodramatic. A perfectionist. Do you know what that’s like? To have your mind collapse in front of everyone and have them ignore the fall?”
“Blakely, honey, I didn’t know. We can?—”
“ Jackson ,” I say, interrupting again, “is the only person who has ever given a damn. He’s the only one who saw through the bullshit.” I pull at my designer workout clothes. “He saw the real me. The one I forgot existed. He held me when I was drowning, every time , and he loved me through every fall.” My voice catches, regret for how things went last night swarming like a thousand bees, the sting radiating through my body.
Something flashes in my dad’s eyes, and for just a moment, I think what I’ve said has gotten through. But then he stands and closes his laptop. “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s twenty-eight. And my employee. I can’t just give him a pass.”
Fear clamps down on my shoulders, its icy fingers trailing along my neck. “Are you saying you’re going to fire him?”
“I’m saying he’s never going to set foot on a Hollywood set again, Blakely. And neither will his cars. He’s lucky that’s all I’m going to do.” His phone rings, buzzing across the counter, and I watch in frozen disbelief as he picks it up and answers.
“Tom, just a moment.” He presses a button and looks toward me. “Stick around for a bit, okay? I want to talk more about what you just told me. About the…attacks. But I’m not going to change my mind on Jax. And you need to stay away from him.”
“If I do, will you keep him on?” The words rush out before I’ve even registered that I’ve said them, but I don’t take them back. I can’t. I refuse to be the reason that Jackson loses out on his dream—on his father’s dream. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered to him.
Resolution flows through me, filling me with a melancholy confidence, and my spine straightens as I stare my father down. “Dad, if I stay away from him, if I make it clear that we’ll never speak again, will you keep him?”
He sighs, his lips pursing as he looks at me for long, strained moments. And then he nods.
Relief pours through me, mixing with the heavy acknowledgment that what I have to do will shatter me entirely. But I’ve lived years of my life alone, and I’d rather live a hundred more than be the reason why Jackson’s dreams don’t come true.
“Okay.” Blowing out a breath, I shake my head through the ache that’s piercing through my chest. “Okay.”
And just like that, I’ve lost my father’s attention. He’s already gone back to his full-time life, leaving me alone and forgotten in the dust.
There’s a weight pressing down on my chest as I come to terms with what I’ve just done. What I’ve agreed to. The realization that, in order to give Jackson his dream, I have to break both our hearts reaching up and clawing at my throat, strangling me in its choke hold.
Closing my eyes, I breathe.
One. Two. Three.
And then I call Sierra and tell her to contact DJ Andelo.