7
All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! —Persuasion
I forgot how much I hate driving with my father. You’d think with a car this expensive he’d keep his eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, but no. He’s currently inspecting his reflection in the rearview mirror. I don’t know what work he had done today. Was it a facial or a hair appointment or maybe some Botox? Whatever the case, he is pleased with the results. His eyes return to the road just as we approach a slow-moving minivan in the fast lane. He honks and swerves into the next lane without checking his blind spot.
“Daddy! Please keep your eyes on the road.”
“I hardly need to. Older gentleman with a pretty young thing in a red Ferrari. All eyes are on me. Come to think of it. I should have worn a hat. I’m not in the mood for fans.”
“I hardly think anyone will recognize you.”
“Your fans may have dropped you. Kids these days have short attention spans with TikTok and whatnot. But my fans are from a different generation.” Here we go again. “This morning at my aesthetician, a nice older woman asked to have her picture with me.” He looks over at me. “Can you believe that?”
“Daddy! You’re going 92 miles per hour. Keep your eyes on the road.”
“It’s been 20 years since my show was on TV, and my fans still recognize me. This woman said I still look like I’m in my 30s. Imagine that?”
“It’s Netflix, Dad. Everyone watches your show on Netflix.”
“I certainly do.” And that is the gospel truth. My dad watches Kellynch Farms , the heartwarming family drama that made him a star, religiously. He played the reformed bad boy who had to grow up fast when his parents died to keep his three younger siblings under the same roof. It’s schmaltzy family drama at its best. Four teenagers trying to make do on their small midwestern farm. All the while, they still wrestle with the usual struggles of high school—dating, cliques, rude teachers, sports, and choosing careers. It lasted for nine seasons. My dad, who was supposed to be nineteen in the pilot, was 28 when they started filming and 3 when the show ended.
My mother’s parents owned the farm that Kellynch Farms was filmed on. When my mom came home from college the summer after her freshman year, she met my dad behind the barn rehearsing his lines. In so many ways, it was a fairytale romance. Movie star meets small-town girl. He swept her off her feet. They were married at the end of the second season; I was born during the fourth. September showed up during the seventh season. Both my mom and dad always referred to Kellynch Farms as a golden time. From all accounts, they were both happy until they moved to Los Angeles.
After the series ended, they expected my dad’s film career to take off, but it never did. The pressure to keep the family solvent and to keep up with my dad’s spending habits rested on my mom’s shoulders. He remained Buck Harrington, the handsome young rogue who kept the Harrington clan together. Sometimes Dad delivers Buck’s lines to us word for word, with the exact intonation he used in the heartwarming episode the lines were first given. I once pointed this out to him, and he said, “Maybe Buck stole my lines.” Maybe, how would I know? I was five during the last season.
“Who’s coming to this beach party?” he asks as we approach the freeway exit.
“It’s not exactly a party, Dad. Just a few friends getting together at Freddy West’s house.”
“Why does he live so far away?”
“It’s not that far. He bought this house because it has beach access with excellent surfing.”
“Is there anything going on with you two?”
“Nope, not a thing.” I still cannot get over my disappointment yesterday. From the moment Freddy first texted me about working on the song together, I couldn’t help but let my expectations bloom out of control. In my mind, it would be just the two of us. I would begin by telling him how I went to his concert, and how amazing he was, and from there, we would have a heart-to-heart that maybe, hopefully, would end up with lots of kissing and officially getting back together. With those daydreams in mind, I tried on several outfits, sending pics to my cousin Lettie for her opinion. I brushed and flossed my teeth with extra care—because... kissing.
But when I got there, Daisy and Rosie clung to him like barnacles. Benwick was there, and it almost felt like Freddy was trying to set me up with his heartbroken friend. Though, to be fair, Benwick is really nice. And frankly, if that had been my first time meeting Freddy West, I probably would have chosen Benwick over him. Has fame ruined Freddy? But then there were a couple moments when I think I saw the old Freddy. Or maybe I imagined it.
I simply didn’t have enough time because I had to go to lunch with Johnny Love. Which was maybe a date, I still don’t know. I enjoyed it more than I expected. Johnny is an exceptional conversationalist. I laughed a lot and had the great satisfaction of making him laugh, too. The photos of us together during lunch certainly make us look like a happy couple. I can’t decide if I want Freddy to see them. Do I want him to be jealous? Definitely! But do I want him to think I’m taken? Nope. I want to leave that door open.
“What about Johnny Love?” asks my dad.
“That’s not going anywhere.”
“I saw pics of you two at lunch.”
“Janene arranged it. She’s hoping Johnny can help relaunch my career. I don’t know why he agreed to it.” I don’t have the courage to tell my dad, or anyone for that matter, that I don’t know if I want to return to singing.
“April, you may have put on a few pounds and chopped off your hair. But you’re still a fine-looking woman and Johnny Love is no fool.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s true. April.” He turns to me, his eyes full of artificial emotion. He’s ready for his close-up. He really has no idea he said anything hurtful. “You are gorgeous inside and out. I thank God every day that I am your father.” He gives me an over-earnest look as he delivers the Buck Harrington line I’ve heard at least a hundred times, but still kind of love. Though when Buck says it to his troubled little sister, he says “brother” instead of “father.”
“Eyes on the road, Dad!” I grab the steering wheel from him, and we swerve to miss a slow-moving U-Haul. Dad doesn’t even seem fazed. Sometimes I feel like I do all the worrying for the Elliot family. The older I get, the more I understand my mom’s struggles.
As we drive closer to Freddy’s house, I remind my dad to drive responsibly. “You don’t want the paparazzi to get any photos of you doing something reckless.” I’m fairly sure no paparazzi have been following us. They are not that interested in Dean Elliot, late 90s TV star. But I know what motivates my father.
“Don’t be silly, April; we lost the paps miles ago.”
“It’s possible there might be some by Mr. West’s. He was named Sexiest Man.”
“Really? I mean, he’s decent looking. If he could get a haircut by my man, I might not mind being seen with him.”
I have no response to this, arguing with Dad is futile. We pull up to the gate, and I type in the code Freddy sent me, and the metal gate swings open.
I am more than a little curious to see Freddy’s new place. The front door is wide open. After yelling hello and getting no answer, we walk in. The remodel is not finished. They’ve done the drywall, but the floor is not in, and the kitchen cabinets are only partly done. One glance at the spacious rooms and airy views of the ocean, and I’m in love.
My dad takes an appraising look at the drool-worthy California modern home and mutters, “Hmm... not as elegant as Kellynch Hall.” Yep, Dad named our house after his TV show. Our cat, Admiral, is named after Buck’s favorite horse. “But not bad.” He passes through the open sliding glass doors to a patio with an infinity pool that seamlessly slips off the edge into a panoramic view of the ocean. The pool area is no longer under construction and is glossy magazine perfection. Palms and dark green plants border the outdoor kitchen complete with a teak dining table. My errant thoughts imagine eating a casual dinner out here just me and Freddy.
Dad immediately makes himself at home in a lounge chair with a white cushion. I continue to the waist-high gate at the far end of the patio. I open it, following the steps down the small grassy bluff to the beach. Shielding my eyes, I look out at the water where Freddy and Carlos are surfing. It’s nearly five p.m., but it’s June, and we still have several hours of sunlight. The sun creates a wide golden path across the ocean.
I easily spot Freddy as he rides a wave. I spent so many days surfing with him. I wasn’t that good, but he was endlessly patient. A member of my security team liked to surf. So my dad relented, and Freddy gave me lessons. No one ever recognized me in those early morning surf sessions. I went once after we broke up, and I was miserable. Surfing was one of many things I couldn’t stomach after our breakup because it reminded me too much of Freddy. The list grew to include watching sunsets (and sunrises) basically any time at the beach. The whole Pacific Ocean reminded me of him. That’s why I chose to go to school in the Midwest to get as far from the sea as possible. I hoped that without the daily reminder, I wouldn’t constantly miss Freddy. Spoiler: my plan failed.
“April!” My sister’s voice breaks my reverie. She stands by the glass patio doors carrying two enormous tote bags and a bunch of flowers. “Could use some help here?”
“Oh! Hi!” I hurry up the steps and across the patio to unburden her. “I thought you came with Carlos.”
“I would have but, like, there wasn’t room in his car for all of my stuff.” I take one of the canvas bags off her shoulder. It’s enormous and much heavier than I expected. I peer inside. There’s a metal fire ring with firewood and an axe? “What’s all this?”
“Stuff for the bonfire.”
“But there’s a gas fire pit.” I point to the lovely white stuccoed fire bowl at the far end of the patio, surrounded by Adirondack chairs. “Is it not working yet?”
“I think it works. It’s just not the vibe I’m going for.” September planned this evening because she wanted good photos to announce her engagement on social media. In my mind, a picture of her and Carlos together with the shiny rock on her finger should be enough. But what do I know? “I want to take photos of us, like on the beach with a bonfire.”
I nod as if I understand. But I don’t, not really. My sister only recently started her quest to make a living as an influencer. If I recall, she was strongly opposed to social media when she was backpacking around the world, which is too bad because I think that would have been a good way to get started. Not that I know a lot about all of this. My publicist hired someone to manage my social media. When I went to school, I stayed off Instagram completely. I don’t even know the password to my account. But it seems to me that September is a little late to the game and totally unfocused. She has about 45,000 followers. So not too shabby, but my account, which is basically dead, has nearly a million. And Freddy’s has two million.
I’m positive this plan to become an influencer is the main reason September pushed up the timeline for her wedding, even if she won’t say it out loud. She’s counting on all her wedding planning and photos with celebrities, especially Freddy West singing a new song at her reception to increase her following. She’s also counting on me resuming my music career to help lift her. But I am not at all sure if being a pop star is the right path for me. September could never understand why I would want to throw away my music career. It’s what she has always wanted. My sister has many talents, but she can’t sing or act. And though she’s exceptionally pretty, she’s too short to model.
I, on the other hand, have always been comfortable behind a camera. I can be awkward making small talk, but something clicks when I’m on stage. I wish I knew how to separate “rock star” me from “real life” me.
It’s not the performing I ran away from. It’s all the other garbage. The necessary attention to ranking and awards and appearance and feeling pushed and pulled by others’ opinions. I’d like to think I’ve grown since I quit the stage, that I’m more comfortable in my own skin. But maybe that’s only because I haven’t had to deal with a constant barrage of pictures of me and people’s comments about my every choice. I fear that once I return, I will slip back into the warped view I had before. I already feel twitchy about the photos circulating of me since I returned to LA.
I missed Freddy terribly while at school, but overall, I was so much happier NOT being a rock star. So, I’m hesitant to go back on stage. It would be different if music were my passion. But it’s not; it’s just something I stumbled into. I really just want to be a person, not a brand.
I follow my sister down to the beach. Technically, this is not a private beach, but because of the cliffs to the north and the rocky outcropping to the south, this cove is hard to reach. It feels private. Only those living in the handful of mansions bordering the coast can access the sandy shore with excellent surf. This prime location is why Freddy jumped at the chance to buy this property, even if it had a dilapidated house that needed to be torn down to the studs.
According to Carlos, Freddy has lived at the Musgrove’s bungalow for the last year and a half. From his mostly sold-out tours, I’m guessing he has enough money to get a rental. But I also understand the lure of the Musgrove bungalow. Growing up, I spent my fair share of time over there myself. The Musgroves are such a merry bunch.
My sister spends a minute surveying the beach, choosing the most scenic spot to set up her bonfire. I’m not sure what is taking so long. There are no bad spots. The whole cove is a screensaver. There’s a wide swath of golden sand, picturesque cliffs to the north dotted with palm trees, and to the south, a family of seals lounge on an outcropping of rocks.
Some women Google old boyfriends to see what might have been. Standing here, I am getting the full sensory experience. This house. This beach with crashing waves. This sea breeze. Freddy gracefully catching another wave. That man. Yep, I distinctly see what might have been. What I threw away.
“Here!” September declares, pointing to a spot of sand. I deposit the firepit and begin to unload the firewood. “April, will you be a dear and get the rest of the stuff out of my car while I set this up? It’s unlocked.”
“Sure.” I might as well keep busy rather than ruminating about Freddy and his house.
I pass my father sunbathing by the pool before going back through the empty house. I pause for a moment, strongly tempted to snoop through the unfinished building. But I know it would only leave me more discontent. September’s new shiny black Range Rover is parked in the walled courtyard with the tailgate open. And... holy guacamole! My first thought is: Is September moving? My second thought is: Did she clear out a World Market? The car is packed with colorful large pillows, coolers of food and drinks, plastic bins of fabric, tiki torches, bamboo sticks, bundles of solar cafe lights. Plus, a portable wardrobe with a week’s worth of outfits, mainly for September, but some are men’s clothing. So, maybe for Carlos? He has been dressing better lately.
I stack a couple clear plastic bins. They are not heavy but awkward to carry. Why wasn’t September the sister with the great singing voice? She would be happy to live in the spotlight. We’d all be so much happier. When I reach the firepit, Carlos has emerged from the ocean. He’s standing in his wetsuit with the top half stripped down.
“There she is!” September says as I approach. “Did you bring towels?”
I set down the bins, my fingers relieved from the pinching plastic. One bin is full of white mosquito netting, and the other has some silk fabric. I cannot imagine what possible use September will have for any of this fabric, and I’m slightly annoyed with how she’s scowling as if she specifically sent me to get towels and I failed her. She certainly didn’t mention towels.
Freddy runs up. He’s not wearing a wetsuit, just board shorts and a rash guard, which he pulls over his head to reveal a remarkably fine physique. My mind recalls exactly how it feels to touch that bare, wet chest. He looks over at me, and I swear he can read my thoughts. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. The corner of his mouth tilts up. He has a knowing, smug look. That is both irritating and so hot.
“I didn’t bring any towels; I’m sorry.” The apology is out before I can think about it. I’m always reflexively apologizing for things that aren’t my fault.
“I’ve got plenty of towels,” Freddy strides ahead of me. He opens an outdoor cabinet by the pool to reveal shelves of neatly folded white and navy striped towels. With his arms loaded with fluffy towels, he passes me on his way back without as much as a head nod. I continue the thankless task of emptying the Land Rover. Not because I can’t stand up to my little sister, I can, I can–maybe. But because shirtless Freddy West is making me uncomfortable.
I’m balancing a stack of pillows on top of a Yeti cooler.
“Let me take that.” Freddy’s familiar voice startles me.
I turn, and he is behind me (still shirtless).
“I can handle it.”
“Sure. But I’m hosting this event, and you’re my guest.”
I nod. “And,” he adds. “I hate to see her treat you like that.”
“Oh.” I feel oddly touched and insulted at the same time. I will need several hours alone to sort out my conflicting feelings.
As if it were as light as a beachball, he lifts the cooler I was struggling to carry.
I stand riveted to my spot, watching him walk away.
Rosie sidles up to me. “I can’t decide if that man is more gorgeous from behind or in front.”
“Rosie, when did you get here?” I turn and see the twins. Daisy, with her hair in a high ponytail, closes the single gate for those walking on to the property.
“We parked on the street,” she explains. “We weren’t sure if there’d be enough parking.”
The twins are both wearing sunglasses and bikini tops with cut-off shorts. Rosie’s is red and Daisy’s bright yellow. They each carry a straw beach bag. Daisy’s has daisies on it, and Rosie’s has roses. Say what you want about the Musgrove twins, but these two absolutely know how to embrace a theme.
“What do you have here?” Daisy asks as I pick up another load from September’s trunk.
“September is doing a photo shoot.”
The sisters look at each other and laugh. “Enough said. We’ll help,” says Daisy.
“You sure you don’t want to marry Carlos,” Rosie adds. “I think you could still change his mind.”
“You cannot say that!” I say forcefully.
“Hey! It was a possibility,” says Daisy. “At least for him, he really liked you, you know.” I sigh inwardly. I should never have gone out with Carlos in the first place. But I was so heartbroken over Freddy. I thought maybe... We didn’t date long before I knew it would never work.
“He would have married you if you hadn’t ended things,” says Rosie. I have always loved the twins, but lately, I feel like their sole purpose in life is to give me emotional turmoil.
“This topic is closed. Carlos is marrying September, and they are so good together. Please never mention that I dated him again.”
We need to end this conversation. If my sister hears any of this, it will hurt her relationship with her new sisters-in-law and possibly even Carlos. I have always let her believe that he dumped me. September wasn’t around when we dated. When he first asked her out, she called me at school and asked why I broke up with him. I knew what was up. September didn’t want her sister’s hand-me-down. So, I told her that Carlos ended things with me. He found me too nerdy. This little lie worked like a charm, and when I saw Carlos over Thanksgiving, I filled him in on what I had told September. He hugged me and said I probably was too nerdy.
I turn around, my arms laden with more “cute beach bonfire” stuff, and run almost smack into Freddy. How much did he hear? He must have known I dated Carlos; he was my date to the Grammy’s once. Perhaps it’s egotistical of me to think Freddy knows who I took to the Grammys, even if I know who has been on his arm at every red-carpet event for the past five years.
“Freddy!!!” the twins shout in unison.
“Welcome to my disaster zone,” he says with an overbright smile. “If you two take the rest of this crap to September, then I’ll take you on a tour or surf lessons. You choose.”
“Both!” They turn back to the rover.
Freddy reaches to take my load.
“I’ve got this,” I say.
He shakes his head no. “You’ve helped enough.” He sounds almost angry. “Walk with me?”
I shrug. “Okay.”
He sets his load in the kitchen on his white marble counter. An errant part of my mind imagines an alternative reality where he and I are cooking together in this kitchen.
He shifts toward me, his eyes full of urgency. “Is it true?”