Chapter 40
forty
. . .
Grant
I've spent more than a decade in Hollywood, learning to ignore the press.
I've weathered flops, public criticism, and endless speculation about my relationships with the calculated indifference that's become second nature.
But nothing in all those years prepared me for the sight of three photographers tracking Hazel's walk from the car to her elementary school entrance.
They are camped out to see who is dropping off and picking up in an attempt to pit Geneva and Sophia against one another—or rather, to urge the public to choose sides when there is no side to pick. Can't they see what this is doing to my little girl?
"Daddy, they're back again," Hazel says quietly, clutching her backpack strap. She's started wearing hoodies to school and keeping her head down. My confident, bright-eyed girl, trying to make herself smaller—the sight makes my chest ache.
"I'll handle it," I tell her, keeping my voice steady.
Back at the studio, I barely make it through two meetings before my phone buzzes. The school principal's voice is apologetic but firm. "Mr. Hall, we've received complaints from several parents about the increased media presence. While we understand this is beyond your control—"
"I'll take care of it," I say, cutting her off.
All of this chaos is turning into another full-time job. I'm pacing my office, halfway through arranging security details for the school, when Geneva calls. Her timing has always been impeccable.
"Before you go nuclear," she says in that knowing way of hers, "maybe we should talk strategy."
"They're following our daughter to school, Gen."
"I know." Her voice softens. "And it's infuriating. Maybe we should stick to only you or Sarah for drop-off and pick-up. I can plan to pick up Hazel at your house this week. It's only one more week, and then school is out for the summer."
I recognize her tone—it's the same one she used when I wanted to pull Hazel from her first sleepover after having a panic attack about being too far away if something happened. "You think I'm overreacting."
"I think you're scared," she says gently. "And I think, before you react, remember that Hazel has two parents who love her, an amazing support system, plus a bonus adult in Sophia, who would move heaven and earth to protect her. That's three more people than you had at her age."
Her words sting, mostly because they're true. But before I can respond, my assistant buzzes through to let me know Hazel's teacher is on the other line.
"You're right. I'll have Sarah pick her up today, and you can meet them at the house. The school is on the other line, probably wanting to know my solution to keep the paparazzi away. I'll catch up with you later. And thanks, Geneva."
I switch from my cell phone to my desk phone, hoping for some good news.
"Mr. Hall," her teacher says, her voice careful like she's trying not to overstep. "I wanted to let you know Hazel was a little off today. Some of the kids…well, they weren't being so kind. I thought you should be aware."
The words hang heavy in the air long after the call ends. I cancel my afternoon meetings and head home early, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
When I finally make it to the house, I find Hazel in her room with her face buried in her pillow, still wearing her school clothes. My heart cracks at the sight.
"Hey, nugget." I sit on the edge of her bed and reach out to stroke her hair like I used to when she was little. "Want to talk about it?"
She turns her tear-streaked face toward me, and I have to fight the urge to bundle her up and run far away from all of this.
"Hannah said…she said I only got a part in the play because of Sophia." Her voice cracks. "And Charlie said his mom says we're attention seekers." She hiccups slightly, and more tears fall. "I don't like school anymore."
The weight of her pain settles in my chest like lead. This is exactly the kind of pain I was trying to protect her from.
"Is Sophia coming over tonight?" Hazel asks, wiping her eyes.
The question hits me like a physical blow.
Since the play, I've been making excuses to avoid Sophia, telling myself that it's in both of our interests to take a beat until the press frenzy blows over.
She finally opted to stay at her house tonight.
Some gave some excuse about meeting the new housekeeper early, but I think she feels me pulling back.
“Actually your mom is on her way,” I tell her. “She wanted to spend time with you tonight.”
Hazel nods. “Ok, maybe tomorrow.”
My phone buzzes for what feels like the hundredth time today.
Sophia's name lights up the screen, and I let it go to voicemail, just like I have with her previous calls and texts.
With each ignored message, I'm doing what needs to be done—what any father would do.
It's as simple as that. Except it's not simple at all because my finger keeps finding its way back to her name, and the tightness in my chest won't go away.
But then I see Hazel's backpack by the door, the one she didn't want to take to school this morning.
Six years old is too young for this. She's too young to understand why her classmates are suddenly so interested in her father's personal life and too young to process why some kids are treating her differently.
The simple joy of first grade shouldn't come with this kind of baggage.
God, I'm being a coward, letting Sophia face this alone while I hide behind my daughter as an excuse.
But isn't that what parents do? Make the hard choices, be the bad guy, sacrifice what they want for what their kid needs?
I'm not being fair to Sophia, shutting her out without a word, but I know that if I hear her voice, if I try to explain, my resolve will crumble, and I can't afford to question this—not when Hazel needs me.
Later, after getting Hazel settled in bed with her favorite stuffed animal and three bedtime stories, I flip through the photos on my phone from the past couple of months.
Shots of Sophia and Hazel baking cookies, all three of us at the beach, and other candid moments of happiness I'd started to take for granted.
My finger hovers over Sophia's last text.
SOPHIA
Haven't heard from you all day. Everything ok? I'm worried about you both.
The words blur as I remember Hazel's tears, the photographers' cameras, the way my daughter is learning to hide. I let myself forget the most important lesson my father's death taught me: the more you love, the more you have to lose. I can't lose anything else. I won't let Hazel lose anything else.
I set my phone down without responding and turn away from the photos. The happiness they capture feels like a threat now, like a promise I can't keep.