Chapter 30 #2
One of the guys, Sullivan Sinclair, kept touching my butt, even though he had a girlfriend who went to boarding school in Connecticut. When we got drinks, he “accidentally” splashed his seltzer down the front of my white shirt, making it sheer and clingy. I pretended it was funny.
I remembered my mom’s favorite saying:
“A girl’s first rule of survival is to make your man happy. Give him what he wants, and he’ll give you what you want.”
But what did I want, exactly?
We were hurtling down the sidewalk, seven or eight of us, past the Beekman Hotel, being obnoxious teenage theater kids, when I saw it.
I saw him.
I saw them.
My father, with a woman who was not my mother, walking arm in arm into the hotel. The wind stirred her short blonde hair, above a leather bomber jacket that my mother would never wear. They made no attempt to hide. They were laughing, intimately, and he bent to kiss her mouth.
“Oh.” The breath hissed out of me.
“Hey,” Sullivan whispered, “that’s Eli’s mom going in. And that is…not Eli’s dad.”
“Right.” I tossed my hair back, trying to toss this off. “Well. Sucks for Eli’s dad.”
“Sure does.” Sullivan leaned in to kiss me, blotting out the view of my father. He pulled me away from the group.
I let him. I let him do whatever he wanted. I was flattered he wanted me enough to cheat on his girlfriend. He’d witnessed this betrayal; I wanted him to make me forget it.
When my mother commented on my puffy eyes the next day, the truth leapt out of me.
She said when I was older, I’d understand. That my father might be running around the city, but he’d always come home to her. That I needed to learn this was the way to handle men. She had a beautiful penthouse and a closet full of clothes; what more could she ask for?
I felt like I was underwater. Everything sounded different and looked blurry and moved more slowly, as she told me she and I were cut from the same cloth. That I should be grateful for what I get.
Beyond my mother, the mirrored wall of the dining room showed us both. We looked like sisters. Faced with my reflection, I saw her.
I’d always loved that, because my mother was beautiful and glamorous. But as I got older and saw more, it was yet another reason to disappear into a role.
Groaning, I rolled over until my cheek hit the wooden floor. My college bedroom loomed overhead, the posters on the walls mocking me, all my dreams so hollow and false.
My body was a lump, my head throbbing. Sweat stuck my hair to my neck and plastered Gavin’s shirt to my back.
I wanted to disappear.
To black out.
But I couldn’t.
I was here, and I had to fucking contend with myself.
I stared at the wallpaper of theater posters, their bright colors and proud fonts, their promise of a magical world just beyond the footlights.
There was no escape for me, no magic, no illusion.
No amount of acting, or glamorous photos, or fucking, or tequila could make me anyone other than Jordana Green.
I reached toward a poster of Streetcar, then let my hand fall. It hit something hard, flat — my phone.
Picking it up, I stared at Dad on the list of calls. Such a rare occurrence. For him to call, instead of email or text.
I pressed his name, waited for him to pick up.
“Dad? We’re not done. I’m not done talking to you.”
I was feeling so many emotions at once: sadness, anger, a weird and wild elation at finally saying what was on my mind.
“So talk,” he said stiffly.
“If you come to Hawthorne, you won’t see me in the show. Okay? I got kicked out.”
“What? Why?” he spluttered.
“I got involved with the lighting designer and the director found us having sex on the prop bed. Yeah, that’s right.
Sex. On the prop bed.” I stabbed my finger in the air.
“Just another Saturday night. So she fired me. Oh, and guess what? The lighting designer took nudes of me. He’s publishing them in a book. ”
The line was so dead, I held the phone away from my face to see if he was still there.
“It’s okay, Dad. You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m a disappointment to you.” The words were painful. You’re a disappointment to me too. “But at least I’m honest about it! I’m not pretending everything is okay.”
“A book?” He sounded like his brain was short-circuiting. “Is this a joke?”
“No. Signed a contract and everything. Don’t worry, it’s totally legal. I’m even getting paid! Which is great, because it looks like my acting days at Hawthorne are over.”
Another silence followed — heavy, prickling. I pulled my knees up to my chest. Was the conversation over, too?
“Say something,” I pleaded. “Aren’t you happy? You always hated my acting. Well, it’s done. I’ve been fired and I’ve lost whatever reputation I had. I-I’ll apply for those legal internships.” My stomach twisted. “No one needs to know about the book. Who knows if it’ll happen now, anyway.”
“Jorie. Give me her number.” Dad was using his hard-charging lawyer voice now.
“What? Whose number?”
“Give me the phone number for your director.”
“Dad, why?”
“Because you’re my daughter, and she can’t kick you out of the show. She needs to reinstate you by tomorrow morning. With all the money I’ve donated to Hawthorne —”
I struggled to my feet, my head spinning. “No, no, no. You can’t call Rachel and force her to put me back in. That’s not how this works; it’s not how anything should work. What are you thinking? I’m asking, Dad. I really want to know.”
I longed, with my whole body, for a real answer.
“Well, what were you thinking when you took pictures for this book?” he snapped.
I braced myself against the desk, the old despair curling through me. My gaze fell on my collaged notebook of ideas, and it gave me a surge of strength.
“Don’t change the subject —”
“Did you consider how it would reflect on your family? On you? This will follow you around for the rest of your life. What an impulsive move, Jorie. I’ve spared no expense in giving you the best education. Setting you up for success, for your future —”
“My future? How about my past?” My hand closed over my notebook, clutching it. “Dad, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”
“To you?” He sounded bewildered.
I dropped into my desk chair. My throat closed, trying to choke the words back.
Not now. I need to speak.
“You hurt me.” My voice trembled, but it came out.
“You tried to control me, but you were never there. You took my acting career away. You had all your women and you thought I’d never know.
But I knew, Dad. I saw you with Eli’s mom.
I know there were others. Did you consider how that would reflect on your family?
Will that follow you around the rest of your life? ”
“That had…nothing to do with you,” he mumbled. “Jordana, listen to me.”
“Don’t call me that! You don’t get to call me that. It’s Jorie or nothing.”
“Jorie…” He spoke with great effort. “I never meant to hurt you. Never. I-I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t remember ever receiving an apology from my father.
“And now you’re having more kids with your new girlfriend,” I muttered.
“Fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” My eyes popped open, and I stared at the gold watch on my wrist. What’s past is prologue. I’d always thought my father meant that quote for me, but maybe he’d meant it for himself. “That’s… that’s so fast.”
“Your mother never — well. We didn’t…” He cleared his throat. “We had our problems, Jorie. You know that.”
The tragedy of my parents struck me with sudden force: my father, choosing a beautiful wife without ever going deeper than the surface. My mother, wanting my father’s validation so badly that she lost herself.
“How old is she?” I asked heavily. “Your fiancée.”
There was a pause. “She’s turning thirty soon.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The room wobbled. Pushing my chair back, I rested my head on the desk. I started to laugh, because there was nothing else to do.
My dad was fifty-two. For his fiancée to be the same age as Gavin — it was too much.
“Jorie, when two people are right for each other, age doesn’t matter.”
“Really?” I mumbled. “I’ve been seeing a thirty-year-old who would beg to differ.”
“You? Was this the clown who took pictures of you? What are you doing with a thirty-year-old?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He exhaled. “It’s a second chance. I can start over.”
I thought of Gavin moving to Hawthorne for a fresh start. “Dad, I don’t think we get do-overs.”
“Jordana — Jorie — I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“With your new sister coming—”
“Sister?”
In all this mess, I’d barely spared a thought for the baby on the way. But now, I pictured her wrapped in a blanket. I pictured her growing up. I pictured the girl dancing at the Fall Leaf Festival, full of hope toward the magic around her.
And I pictured my father taking that hope away, because why would he change?
“Dad, I need to go.”
“Jorie, wait.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t right now.”
Hanging up, I retreated to my heap of blankets on the floor, but it wasn’t possible to hide any longer.
With shaking fingers, I dialed my mother’s number. Now that I was speaking up, I couldn’t stop.
She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Jorie, it's so late,” she complained through a yawn. “You woke me up. Can’t this wait until the morning?”
I closed my eyes. My mom had woken me many times, calling with her problems. I wanted it to be my turn now.
“Mom, listen. I fucked things up at school.”
“Language—”
“There was a guy — I love him, and it’s so stupid of me to love him, but I can’t help it. I do. I love him. And the play, Streetcar, if you remember that… I got kicked out tonight. Dad was going to come see it tomorrow, like it was this big gift, and I told him not to.”
“Your father? Was going to come?”