Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
PHOENIX
Mabie stands at the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal in front of her, spoon suspended halfway to her mouth.
She freezes when I walk through the doorway, eyes going wide like I’ve caught her doing something illicit. Milk drips from the spoon back into the bowl with a soft plop.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“Hey, there,” I say a little nervously.”Welcome back and thanks for letting us take over your house for a few days.”
“Phoenix Riviera is in my kitchen.”
“She is.” I head for the refrigerator, operating on muscle memory at this point. The urge to cook breakfast for everyone has become a strange new habit over the past few days, one I’m not ready to examine too closely. “Do you want her to make you an omelet?”
Mabie opens her mouth and closes it again. “It’s weird to talk about you in third person, isn’t it?”
“Just a little.”
“Okay, let’s start over. I can be normal.” She takes a deep breath. “Good morning, nice to see you today. How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I reply with a chuckle. I set the carton of eggs down on the counter. “You’re up early.”
“I could say the same about you.” She sets down the spoon, but nervously drums her fingers on the metal handle. “I thought you’d still be, um. Occupied.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Occupied. Such a polite word for what’s been happening in that bedroom.
“We’re all pretty much back to normal.” I take a bowl down out of the cabinet, glad for something to occupy myself so I don’t have to look at her face. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
Mabie nods slowly, but she’s still staring at me with that particular expression. Like I’m a zoo animal that’s wandered out of its enclosure. Part fascination, part disbelief, part I-can’t-believe-this-is-actually-happening.
“You really don’t have to do that,” she says. “Cook, I mean. You’re a guest.”
“I like cooking.” The words surprise me even as I say them. Do I like cooking? I’ve only really discovered this about myself in the past week. “Besides, it’s omelets. Hard to mess up.”
“Right.” She picks up her spoon again, swirling it through the cereal without actually eating. “It’s just weird, you know? Having Phoenix Riviera making breakfast in my kitchen. Like, I watched you solve mysteries with a talking cat when I was nine.”
“The cat was CGI,” I say, cracking an egg into a bowl. “And kind of a nightmare to work with, actually. I had to pretend to talk to a tennis ball on a stick for fourteen hours straight.”
Mabie laughs, and some of the starstruck tension bleeds out of her posture. “That sounds awful.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I was super lucky to have the opportunity.” I whisk the eggs with more force than strictly necessary. “Being on television is every kid’s dream, right?”
“Right,” Mabie repeats, giving me an odd look.
“And I’m just grateful for the opportunity.”
I know these are the talking points that have been drilled into me for year, and I hate myself a little bit for parroting them right now.
Mabie pushes the cereal bowl aside and leans her elbows on the counter. “Can I ask you something? You totally don’t have to answer if it’s weird.”
“Sure.”
“What’s it like? Being famous, I mean. Like, do you ever feel…” She trails off, searching for the word. “Normal?”
I consider the question while I dice the tomato.
The knife is slightly dull, and I have to saw through the skin more than slice.
“I guess that depends on your definition of normal. I’m just a person, but there’s a lot of things I’ve gotten to do that other people haven’t.
There are also a lot of typical life things I didn’t get to do. ”
“Like what?”
I consider that. “I’ve always been homeschooled, so I’ve never been on a school bus. Never went shopping for a prom dress. A lot of the friends I made as a kid left Hollywood, so it’s hard to stay connected.”
“That sounds lonely.”
I set down the knife, staring at the scattered tomato pieces on the cutting board. “It can be.”
“Well,” she says, sliding off her stool to cross to the coffee maker, “if it helps, you seem pretty normal to me. Aside from the whole movie-star thing.”
“I am very average at making omelets, if that helps.”
She peers over my shoulder into the pan. “It does, actually.”
I slide the slightly misshapen, but at least fully cooked, omelet onto a plate. “So what about you? Tell me about yourself.”
Mabie shrugs. “Not much to tell, really.”
“Do you work with Judah?”
“God, no. I love being out on the water, but coming home smelling like low tide is where I absolutely draw the line.”
“School?”
“I took some vocational classes last year and very quickly realized college is not for me.” She settles back in her chair at the bar, a rueful smile on her face. “Geez, I must sound like a total waste of space.”
“Not at all,” I assure her. “You’re young. You’re still figuring things out.”
“Actually…and don’t tell Judah I told you this because I’m still trying to figure out how to manage his crash out, but…” She lowers her voice with a glance back at the door. “I got offered a job. Not just a job, really. It’s a pretty big opportunity.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“There’s this luxury yacht company that offers chartered cruises. They need experienced crew members. Hospitality staff, mostly, but also event planning, guest relations, that kind of thing.”
Her whole face lights up as she describes it, excitement obvious.
“That sounds amazing. When do you start?”
Mabie grimaces. “That’s the thing. I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Why not?”
She picks up her spoon again, stirring the soggy cereal she’s clearly not going to eat. “It would mean leaving. For months at a time, maybe longer. And with everything that’s been going on with Mason coming back and probably leaving again…now is the worst time for me to just pick up and go.”
“You’re worried about leaving Judah and Dom,” I say, understanding clicking into place.
She shrugs, the motion too casual to be genuine. “I know they can take care of themselves. But I’ve spent my whole life in this house, in this town. The thought of just…leaving is hard.”
Mabie looks away, obviously hoping I won’t see the tears in her eyes.
The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken things. I think about Mason, spending years catering to me because he was afraid to come back here. I think about myself, trapped in a career I never chose because I was too scared to walk away.
I think about all the ways we convince ourselves that staying stuck is the same as staying safe.
“Judah and Dom love you, which means they’ll understand,” I say finally. “Even if it takes awhile, they’ll figure out how to support you.”
Mabie nods slowly, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re pretty good at this advice thing. For a movie star.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She laughs, wet and shaky but genuine. “Thanks, Phoenix. Really.”
“Anytime.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. I pull it out, already bracing myself for whatever fresh disaster awaits.
The caller ID shows one word: VICTORIA.
Of course.
I let out a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul. “Speaking of family…”
I answer the call, holding the phone slightly away from my ear in anticipation of the volume that’s about to assault me.
Victoria’s voice comes through mid-sentence, as if she’s been talking for hours and I just happened to tune in.
“—absolutely unacceptable that I had to hear this from the studio rather than from you directly, Phoenix. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have producers calling me asking about my daughter’s health when I didn’t even know there was a problem?”
“Good morning to you too, Mother.”
“Don’t give me that attitude. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, knowing I sound anything but that.
“You really should be, Phoenix.”
I sigh. “Was there a reason you called? Specifically?”
“Of course there’s a reason. My time is very valuable, you know.” Her voice shifts, taking on that particular tone she uses when she’s about to deliver news she thinks I should be excited about and so she won’t tolerate anything less. “I have wonderful news. Simply amazing.”
I wait, knowing better than to prompt her. Victoria loves a dramatic pause.
“I knew putting you out as offer-only was a good idea. I just got a call. You’ve been cast in a new franchise,” she announces. “Three-picture deal with points and a producer credit.”
Maybe I should be excited, this is supposed to be my dream.
Instead, I just feel tired.
“When does filming start?”
“That’s the best part. They want you immediately. As soon as the European press tour wraps, we’ll fly out directly for principal photography.”
So not even a small break. No breathing room. Just one obligation bleeding into the next, an endless chain of commitments that leaves no space for anything resembling an actual life.
“Who’s directing?” I ask, mostly to buy myself time to process.
Victoria’s answer comes almost too casually. Like she’s been rehearsing how to deliver this particular piece of information.
“Laurence Starling.”
My vision tunnels. The kitchen, the morning light, Mabie’s concerned face, all of it fades to white noise as blood rushes in my ears.
Laurence Starling.
The man who locked me in a hotel room when I was seventeen. The man whose brand of cologne still makes me gag ten years later if I smell it on anyone else. The man I’ve spent my entire adult life avoiding, dodging, maneuvering around like he’s a landmine buried in the landscape of my career.
And Victoria just casually drops his name like it means nothing. Like he’s just another director. Like she doesn’t know exactly what he did.
I’m going to be sick.
Mabie appears at my elbow, close but not touching, her face creased with concern. Something on my face must really concern her because she silently mouths you okay?
I give the weakest possible nod, my hand white-knuckling around my phone. “You can’t be serious.”
Victoria gives a long suffering sigh. “This is the price of being taken seriously, Phoenix. You need to learn how to rise above the noise.”
A hundred possible responses crash through my mind. Screaming. Crying. Telling her exactly what I think of her, what I’ve always thought of her, every bitter resentment I’ve swallowed for the past two decades.
But my throat has closed up entirely. No words will come.
Victoria fills the silence with more talking, because Victoria always fills silence with more talking.
“Anyway, I still need to run out and find something appropriate to wear for the press tour kickoff. You’d think they would provide wardrobe for the mother of the star, but apparently that’s too much to ask. I’ll see you in Paris.”
The line goes dead.
It takes a few seconds for me to pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen, not quite believing she ended the call so abruptly despite the evidence right in front of my face.
Mabie’s hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching, the way someone might approach a bird they’re afraid of startling into flight.
“I know we literally just met,” she says quietly. “And you absolutely don’t have to tell me anything. But you look like a kid who just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.”
I set the phone face-down on the counter. My fingers leave damp prints on the case.
For a long moment I just stand there, staring at the peeling wallpaper on the wall behind the stove.
“My mother is also my manager,” I hear myself say. “She just signed me up for a three-picture franchise without asking me. Directed by someone I…someone who she knows has hurt me very badly in the past.”
“Sounds like you should fire her,” Mabie declares.
Her eyes go wide a second later, like she didn’t mean to say it so bluntly.
“Oh God. I’m sorry. That was…she’s your mom, I get it—I mean, it’s not my place to—actually, you know what, I said what I said.
You shouldn’t have to let anyone treat you like that.
I loved my mom, but I would be so done if it were me.
Fire her. That’s all I’ll say about it.”
Mabie clamps her mouth shut, miming the action of locking it with a key.
Fire her.
Two words. So simple that a twenty-one-year-old who’s known me for less than a week can see the obvious answer that I’ve been too tangled up in guilt and obligation to reach for myself.
Victoria arranged the meeting with Laurence when I was seventeen. My mother buried what happened afterward. And now my mother has signed me up to walk right back into his orbit—casually, cheerfully, without so much as a flicker of hesitation.
But can I really fire my own mother?
The back door bangs open before I can spiral any further.
Dom fills the doorway, hair still damp, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He seems surprised to see both Mabie and me in the kitchen, but recovers quickly. The demeanor of a guy who is perpetually unbothered quickly settles back over him.
“Morning,” he says, sweeping a casual hand through his hair.
Mabie grabs his arm. “Phoenix needs cheering up.”
Dom’s dark eyes settle on my face. Some of the typical dourness in his face softens.
He glances at Mabie. And back at me.
Then he says the last thing I expect.
“You want to go to the lobster festival?”