Chapter 12
CONFESSIONAL 1179
Yang, Dal (Head Chef, Serenade: Juniper Ridge)
Sometimes, my dad talks to me in dreams.
Stupid, I know. This notion that dreams mean something. Like some foggy midnight brain film where I’m naked, flipping burgers on a spaceship, is supposed to reveal my life’s meaning? That’s not how dreams work.
Still.
My dad says stuff to me. “Take care of Ji-Hoon. It’s our duty as strong men to care for the people who need us.”
I’ve had that dream more than once.
It might be less weird if Dad wasn’t wearing a chili pepper costume.
* * *
No wonder Shirleen Judson’s so famous.
That’s what I’m thinking as I stand just offstage and watch Lana’s mother charm the pants off Jamila Jarrett.
“You did not just say that.” Jamila’s doing her bit as every woman’s best girlfriend, while Shirleen flirts with the camera.
“You’d better believe I did.” Lana’s mom waves a manicured hand. “Oh, and that’s not all.”
Beside me offstage, Cassidy Brooks shifts closer. Shirleen’s assistant joined us for the taping, and she leans in now to whisper. “The producer specifically asked her to share that story,” she says. “Then everyone acts all shocked and scandalized.”
I watch Shirleen, who’s playing her part as the saucy septuagenarian. Not that she looks her age. “Ten bucks says they’d never have a male actor do this schtick,” I mutter. “The oversexualized senior citizen bit.”
“You’re right.” Cassidy blinks with surprise. “Tell me you know Hollywood without telling me you know Hollywood.”
We both fall silent as Shirleen wraps up her tale and Jamila shakes her head in feigned disbelief. “Girl.”
“What?” Shirleen flutters her lashes, casting a glance at her daughter. Lana smiles easily, her mother’s little savior. “All my children grew up knowing Mommy doesn’t use a body double. Breasts are just breasts, Jamila.”
A laughing Jamila looks at the audience with her trademark droll smile. “I don’t know about you all, but I never went on a movie date where my mama might show up topless on the screen.”
The audience laughs, and Lana laughs with them. She’s wearing a sundress with fluttery sleeves in the palest peach lace. To the untrained observer, she looks breezy and calm and completely at ease with the cameras.
I’m no untrained observer.
There’s a stiffness in her shoulders, a dullness in her eyes, that tells me Lana would rather be anywhere else than onstage filming the Jamila Jarrett show. Even her fingers—the tips painted pale peach—seem to be resting so lightly on the arms of her chair, but I see what cameras don’t show. Her knuckles, white as the bone china teacup on the table beside her.
But Shirleen doesn’t catch that.
She keeps going with her story, slaying the audience with saucy humor. “If you want to know the rest of that little tale,” she says with a wink at the audience, “that’s in chapter seventeen. I’ve titled it, ‘Why You Should Always Check Limos for Hidden Cameras.’”
The audience laughs like the teleprompter says to. Beside me, Cass sighs with relief. “We weren’t sure how that would go over.”
“She’s charming. Clever, too,” I admit. “I never really knew that about her.”
“She’s had to be.” Cassidy’s voice shifts with conviction. “An actress who rose as a seventies-era sexpot doesn’t get the option of letting herself go all gray and grumpy and wrinkly like the rest of us. Not if she wants to stay relevant.”
It’s a truth that makes me grateful Lana escaped that world. That I only danced on the fringes of fame and never got fully sucked in.
Jamila shifts into book promo mode. “Now Shirleen, that story comes from your forthcoming memoir, Lemon Light, isn’t that right?”
“It sure does.” Shirleen smiles at Lana, who picks up her cue.
“It’s out next week from Preston Publishing.” My girl’s at ease, smiling at the camera like it’s her closest friend. “Have you guys seen the cover? Isn’t this gorgeous?”
She holds it up, and the audience ooohs their appreciation. It’s an image of Shirleen in a yellow gown, bathed in golden sun rays as she strolls a forest path, fingers outstretched to skim a dewy pine bough. Cassidy told me the picture was taken near Cherry Blossom Lake.
“I love that photo,” she whispers, and I nod my agreement.
“I can see why.” Say what you will about Shirleen, but I’m impressed she lets Cassidy stay on the Oregon Coast. Not all celebs would feel great having their full-time assistant stuck in a small town so far from Hollywood. “It’s a great picture of her. Very ethereal.”
Jamila slides seamlessly into the pitch portion of the show. “Shirleen, I understand you have an exclusive excerpt you’d like to share with our viewers.”
“That’s right, Jamila. I do.” She takes the hardcover book Lana hands her, making sure to flash the cover again. “It’s a chapter about my sweet little Lemon Drop right here.”
Did Lana just flinch at the nickname? I’m not sure Shirleen noticed. When I met Lana’s parents last night, that’s what her father called her. He looked after Lana as she went down the hall to go over today’s schedule with her mother.
Turning to me, Laurence Judson looked nostalgic. “My little Lemon Drop is something else, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” I cleared my throat. “Lana’s amazing.”
“She is.” He studied me steadily, and I did my best not to blink. “She tells me you’re very protective of your brother.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “We look after each other.” It’s the truth, but it made Lana’s father smile.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “Your parents must be proud.”
I had to swallow a few times to force words up my throat. “My parents are dead.”
He didn’t flinch. “I know.” He held my gaze a beat longer, letting me know he wasn’t bluffing. “And I don’t doubt they’re proud.”
Thank God Lana came back right after that. Did she notice her father shook me up? I’m not sure, and we didn’t get a chance to talk about it.
Her mother’s reading now, so I order myself to pay attention. It’s a story of Lana as an infant.
“Hard to believe,”Shirleen reads, “but this was the first time in six children that my husband had to pack the diaper bag.”
The audience chuckles on cue, like they all relate to a charmingly inept dad. Shirleen bumps a pair of fashionable reading glasses up her nose, looking a lot like Mari.
“And on this occasion, I wasn’t checking his work.”She smiles and licks a finger before flipping the page. “You can imagine my surprise when my sweet little innocent newborn turned up on set with a nursing pad nestled against her nether region.”
Guffaws from the audience cue Lana to laugh along with them. Shirleen laughs, too, and so does Jamila, so I manage a chuckle from my perch on the side of the stage.
Cassidy snickers beside me. “You’ve gotta give her credit,” she whispers. “Shirleen, she loves her kids.”
I nod but don’t say anything. What’s Cassidy’s mother like? Because Shirleen’s brand of mothering looks nothing like my mom’s. Jenny Yang loved us with every fiber of her being. Until the moment she died, Mom gave us her all. Korain even told me the doctors swore her love for Ji-Hoon and me was the reason she held on as long as she did in that coma.
“Lana recovered from that bit of parental neglect.” Shirleen chuckles and closes the book, her daughter smiling beside her. “That’s a chapter from my new memoir, Lemon Light.”
Jamila holds up her copy as the audience claps. “A reference to your breakout film, The House on Lemon Lane.”
“That’s right.” Shirleen looks at Lana and puts a hand over hers. “Seems like ages ago. This little sweetheart wasn’t even a twinkle in her daddy’s eye back then. We didn’t start having kids right away, and Lana’s the youngest of six.”
“Six babies, hoo boy.” Jamila pretends to faint. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Lana pipes up there. “And doesn’t she look gorgeous?” She gestures to her mother, and the audience erupts with applause. I don’t think the teleprompter ordered it. That’s all Lana. “My mom cornered the market on aging gracefully.”
“I’ll say.” Jamila shifts to a more serious tone. “You and Laurence Judson are one of Hollywood’s longest married couples. What’s the secret?”
Lana stiffens, and so does Shirleen. Something tells me they didn’t prepare for this.
“Not on the approved question list,” Cassidy whispers.
“No kidding.”
“Mutual respect, Jamila.” Shirleen’s improv answer isn’t half bad. “That, and a sense of humor.”
“I hear you.” Jamila keeps going, all serious now. “I imagine you’ve had some bumps along the way?”
“Haven’t we all?” Shirleen laughs, but there’s a brittleness in her voice that wasn’t there before. “You can’t be married as long as we have without wanting to kill each other every now and then.”
Another chuckle from the audience and I think maybe we’ll get through this. Maybe things won’t turn awkward.
“I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise,” Jamila says, though it’s clear from Lana’s posture that it does. “But Christie Chaplin has a few things to say about your marriage in her upcoming memoir.”
“Does she now?” Shirleen’s still smiling, but the daggers in her eyes could stab Jamila Jarrett dead. “Well. We go way back, Christie and me.”
That’s the host’s chance to let it go, but she keeps pushing. “Not very nice things, I’m afraid.”
Lana rests a hand on her mom’s arm. It’s a subtle touch, something meant to keep her mom in line.
“Well.” Shirleen smiles stiffly. “I’m sure it’s not a shock to anyone to hear Christie Chaplin was sorely disappointed not to get my part in Lemon Lane. We all got over it, though. Water under the bridge.”
Lana steps in to steer us back on track. “Hollywood had no shortage of catty stories back in the day,” she says smoothly, smiling at the audience. “That’s why it’s so important to Mom to lift up other women through her work with?—”
“Hang on, hang on.” Jamila holds up a hand, and I know whatever’s next won’t be a softball. “I just need to find this chapter in Upstage.”
As she pulls out another book, I see an image of Christie Chaplin smiling from the creased cover of a hardback. My father was a fan, so I’ve seen my share of Christie Chaplin films. This must be her memoir.
And from the look on Lana’s face, she didn’t expect this.
“Christie’s coming on the show tomorrow.” Jamila flips to a bookmarked page as Lana goes pale. “A last-minute treat for all our viewers out there.”
“Oh,” says Shirleen, with a glance at her daughter.
Lana’s jaw clenches, but her smile doesn’t waver. “What a treat.”
“I know we had Trixie Penfold scheduled as tomorrow’s guest,” Jamila continues, still flipping through the pages of Christie’s book. “But wouldn’t you know she went into labor this morning? Let’s have a round of applause for Trixie and her new bundle of joy.”
The audience claps, and Lana claps, too, nudging her mom to do likewise. Shirleen might be scowling if her face functioned like a normal one. Her forehead looks like someone ironed it.
“Ah, here we go.” Jamila clears her throat. “This is from Christie’s chapter called, ‘Skanks Gonna Skank.’” She surveys the viewers with a meaningful look over the spine of the book. “We can ask her more about that title tomorrow.”
Another chuckle from the audience as Jamila begins to read.
“I know polyamory and ethical non-monogamy are all the rage these days, but that wasn’t a thing when Rick and I married.”
The audience chuckles again, probably knowing that’s tongue-in-cheek. At what point in Hollywood hasn’t it been normal for celebrities to bounce from one bed to the next?
Jamila keeps going. “He was on Maui, filming Jungle Thunder. Now I’m not one to spread rumors, but let’s just say I read the gossip right along with the rest of America when tabloids started buzzing about Rick sleeping with his co-star.”
Even I know Rick Roland played Shirleen Judson’s hot-tempered boss in Jungle Thunder. Shirleen sits beside Lana, looking ever-so-slightly green. I miss most of what Jamila reads next because I’m watching Lana. Watching her fingers uncurl from the armrest as she draws a deep and fortifying breath in the last moments of Jamila’s reading.
“For the record, I never knew for sure. But has anyone else noticed one of six Hollywood darlings who looks an awful lot like my late husband?”
The audience gasps and titters. In the front row, two women lean close to whisper. Beside her mother, Lana goes even paler.
“Well now.” Jamila closes her book, then pretends to be wiping sweat from her brow. “Christie doesn’t name names.”
“She doesn’t,” Shirleen says through gritted teeth.
Jamila chuckles like this is all fun girls’ chat. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to piece together who she’s talking about there.”
“No it doesn’t, Jamila.” Lana smiles sweetly with her hand still resting on Shirleen’s arm. “And you know, let me just say it’s refreshing reading my mother’s book and seeing her take the high road. I’m sure you noticed she held off on spilling any tea that wasn’t hers to spill?”
She’s giving Jamila a chance to course correct. To steer the discussion in a slightly less scandalous direction.
Jamila doesn’t bite. “I don’t know about you, honey,” she says as the audience chuckles. “But I’m dying to hear more of what Christie’s hinting at.”
“She’s always been bitter,” Shirleen snaps, and I watch Lana flinch. “She really wanted the part of Leslie.”
“And it sounds like you wanted her man.” Jamila laughs like everyone’s in on the joke.
A joke at my girlfriend’s expense.
“It’ll be okay,” Cassidy whispers beside me. “They’re professionals. They’ve navigated worse.”
But I’m not sure they have. Does Cassidy know the truth? Somehow, I doubt it. She thinks it’s all just some baseless Hollywood rumor.
“Now come on, Shirleen,” Jamila coaxes. “It’s been decades since Jungle Thunder came out. Spill for me, girl.” She leans in close, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “It’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”
An uncomfortable laugh slips out of Shirleen. No words, though. Lana’s mom looks deeply unsettled.
Even Lana seems to be struggling. “Come on, now.” Her lighthearted laugh gives Jamila a chance to ease up. “Let’s not go picking on my mama, okay?” She turns to the crowd with steel in her eyes. I see it behind the smile. “Has anyone noticed how no one ever grills male celebs like this?”
It’s a risky move, one I’m hoping Jamila respects. She’s giving Jamila a chance to come down on the side of fighting Hollywood patriarchy. To make allies not just of the Judsons, but all women.
But ratings must call louder, or maybe that’s Jamila’s producer. He’s on the other side of the stage, signaling something to his host. Keep pushing, he mouths. Then he holds up a thick sheaf of papers.
Ratings? Fan mail? It might be his lunch order.
Whatever it is puts a clench in Jamila’s jaw. As her gaze locks back on Shirleen, she sits up straighter. “I think I’m gonna go with what our audience wants on this one.” She turns to the crowd and waves like she’s on a parade float. “How about it, friends? Do we want to hear more?”
At the edge of the stage, I watch the teleprompter blink.
Applause!
They obey the command, a cheerful ocean of clapping. Of hyaenas howling for strangers’ secrets. My hands ball in fists at my side.
“Steady,” Cassidy murmurs. I’m not sure if she means me or Shirleen.
But Jamila just laughs and turns back to the awkward mother/daughter duo. “You heard it, girls. It looks like our friends want a little more detail.” She leans in again, still trying to play the “we’re all friends here” card. “Give us something, Shirleen. Anything. Maybe just?—”
“She’s a jealous bitch.” Fire sparks to life in Shirleen’s eyes. “Maybe if she’d bothered to?—”
“—to fact-check her story,” Lana interrupts, digging her nails into Shirleen’s arm, “she’d know that Mom filmed Jungle Thunder in Bermuda and not Maui. And it was the year after Christie described in her story.” She turns to the audience, open and smiling and perfectly poised. “So I think we can all agree Ms. Chaplin has a shaky grasp on the truth.”
Jamila picks up her book. She’s frowning as she flips to the bookmark, visibly ruffled by this shift. When she looks up at Lana, uncertainty fills her eyes. “What year were you born, Lana?” She presses on as the audience titters. “You’re—what? Twenty-seven years old?”
A murmur rolls through the audience. Someone in the front row pulls out a phone, and I watch her toggle to the calculator app.
“A lady never tells her age,” says Shirleen, but Lana interrupts.
“I’m not ashamed to say I’m twenty-seven and found my first gray hair last week.” She smiles and tosses her sleek blond waves. “Guess there’ll be more where those came from, huh?”
It’s a chance for viewers to sympathize. To see her as human, as the daughter of someone being picked on. A few women in the front row nod supportively, but then someone shouts.
“Who’s your daddy, Lana?”
It’s a faint call, coming from close to the back row. The person’s not miked, but the audience laughs just the same. Jamila cups a hand to her ear and widens her eyes dramatically. “Hold up now. What was that?”
Lana’s eyes blaze. She sits straighter in her chair, assessing. Calculating. What’s happening here?
Uncurling her fingers, Lana clears her throat. “She asked, and I quote, ‘Who’s your daddy, Lana?’” She smiles like the question doesn’t shake her, and I’m baffled. How is she doing this?
Then she glances my way and I get it. Oh, shit.
“Which I’m taking to mean the cat’s out of the bag about my new romance.” Lana gives me a wave and my gut clenches. “You all know Dal Yang as the head chef at Serenade on Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. Well, now you know him as the man I’m hopelessly in love with. Dal, honey? Wave to the camera.”
Holy shit. She’s taking me up on my offer. To deflect from Shirleen’s drama, Lana’s thrown us both in the spotlight. She’s there in her tutu, twirling on the red carpet for the world’s amusement.
But I play my part, goddammit. With a wave and a smile, I let the cameraman get his shot. This will all be over in a minute. They have to cut to commercial soon.
“Just a minute, now.” Jamila gives me a great big wave. “Dal Yang, world-famous chef, son of Yang’s Spicy Sauce Blend’s empire—you’re dating?”
Someone sticks a mic in my face as I nod. “That’s right.”
Lana gives me a grateful look, and I clear my throat. “I doubt anyone will be surprised to know I’m madly in love with this woman.”
The audience applauds, and that’s it. Lana’s done it. She’s successfully diverted the limelight from her family drama. But at what cost?
“Come out here a minute.” Beckoning me, Jamila points at her producer. “Have we got time? We’ve got time! Come on out here, Dal. Let’s get this man a mic.”
Someone springs out from backstage and fixes a lavalier mic to my collar. With my palms sweating, I’m led to a chair someone’s parked beside Lana. She stands up to kiss me, quickly tapping the mute switch on our mics. “Thank you,” she whispers, shielding our mouths so the audience thinks we’re just kissing. “We’ve got one minute and thirty-three seconds ‘til commercial break. Just let me handle this, and it’ll be over quickly.”
I nod so she knows I’ve heard her, then catch her hand before she unmutes my mic. “Are you okay?”
She smiles, and it almost looks genuine. “I will be.”
We take our seats and Lana makes sure both our mics are hot. “My apologies to Dal for dragging him out here like this.” She laces her fingers through mine and smiles at Jamila. “It’s still pretty new, but we’re really happy.”
“I’ll say.” Jamila slips into bestie mode now. “Look at you two—you’re glowing.”
That’s anger she sees in my eyes, but whatever. All I need to do is sit here and support Lana.
“Well.” Shirleen settles back in her chair, at ease now that Lana’s taken the heat off. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Lana laughs like we’re all in on a joke together. I can’t make myself chuckle, but I manage a look that’s nearly a smile. Her hand feels sweaty in mine, and I give hers a squeeze so she knows I’ve got her.
“What do you think, Mama Judson?” Jamila winks at Shirleen. “Or should I say ‘grandma’? At least a couple of your kids have babies now, don’t they?”
“Gigi.” There’s ice in Shirleen’s voice. “In our family, I go by Gigi, not grandma.”
Jamila winks. “Right, I’ve got you, Gigi.”
I don’t know what makes me say it. “Jiji in Korean means support or sustenance.” I pause for a moment too long. “It can also mean shove.”
The audience laughs and Shirleen’s eyes narrow. “Well,” she huffs, directing a halfhearted smile at Jamila. “My children certainly have spirited taste in partners.”
“I’ll say.” Jamila lifts a hand and starts ticking off fingers. “Let’s see, we’ve got a wildlife biology professor—that’s Gabe’s wife, right?”
“Gretchen’s the sweetest.” Lana relaxes, squeezing my hand. “They’re such a great couple.”
Jamila keeps going as Shirleen gives me a look I can’t read. “Cooper married a police chief,” Jamila says. “Dean married the accounting gal at Juniper Ridge, Mari married the brewer, and Lauren got hitched to Nick Armbrust of Armbrust Resorts. Come to think of it, Lana, you’re the only unmarried one in the family. Do I hear wedding bells in the future?”
The audience ooohs as Lana demurs and I can almost taste freedom. Just a minute to go and we’re safe.
“Let’s not be hasty.” Shirleen Judson shoots me a skeptical smile. “Based on that temper you showed at the end of last season, I hope Lana’s safe with you.”
Is she kidding me right now? I open my mouth to fire a retort, but Lana steps in. “Dal’s the most kindhearted human I know.” She squeezes my hand, and my shoulders relax. “And very passionate.”
“Hmm.” Shirleen regards me with a calculating look. “A mother’s protective of her babies. It’s hard seeing them get into new relationships.”
Such bullshit. So what if she’s working the motherhood theme of the show? She’s doing it at my expense. At Lana’s.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mom.” Lana flashes her sweetest smile. “I’m in good hands with Dal.”
“I hope you’re right, Lemon Drop.” Shirleen pats Lana’s hand, playing the doting mother. “I just want you to be safe, sweetheart.”
Like a goddamn grownup, Lana does not roll her eyes. “I’m perfectly safe, Mother.” She squeezes my hand and I squeeze hers right back. “And very happy.”
“Good. That’s good.” Shirleen’s eyes get misty, and I wonder where she’s going with this. Why she doesn’t just shut the fuck up. “As I talk about in Lemon Light, I escaped an emotionally abusive relationship.”
“That’s right,” Jamila says, picking up her book. “Chapter four, right?”
“That’s right.” Shirleen sniffles and looks at her daughter. “I was only nineteen,” she continues. “And I thought he was just passionate, too. But he was only using me to help his career. That’s why women in my position…” she pauses to shoot a meaningful look at Lana, “in my daughter’s position, we need to be careful about the men we choose to tie ourselves to in case their intentions aren’t?—”
“What the hell, lady?” Yeah, I said it.
But it’s true, so I don’t take it back. All eyes swing to me and I soften my tone. “I’m glad you escaped that relationship,” I say to Shirleen. “No one deserves to be treated like that.”
The blaze in her eyes says I’ve just declared war. This won’t end well.
“I have to say, Dal, I hope my daughter knows what she’s doing.” Shirleen pets Lana’s hand like she’s soothing a child. “Our baby angel hasn’t always had the best taste in men. We’ve tried to protect her, Laurence and I. To have her best interests at heart. Her siblings, too.” There’s a little more patting, and with every touch, Lana sinks low in her chair. “Such a sweet, trusting soul, our little Lana. Maybe a bit na?ve sometimes.”
Fuck this.
How dare she talk about Lana like some idiot child. Like someone who can’t think for herself.
“Lady, I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Thunderclouds churn in my chest as Lana gasps. “This woman beside me is the savviest person I know when it comes to reading people. Knowing who to trust, and who doesn’t have her best interest at heart.” I stare hard at Shirleen, letting those words sink in. “But you’re right, some people try to take advantage.”
Lana draws a breath beside me. “Why don’t we?—?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Shirleen demands. She waves a hand at Jamila, whose eyes ping-pong between us. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.” My heart hammers as Lana squirms beside me. “I’m outright stating you’ve leaned awfully damn hard on your daughter to tidy your dirty laundry.”
“Hold on now.” Jamila faces the camera. “We’re due for a commercial break, but when we come b?—”
“I cannot believe you have the nerve to talk to me like this.” Shirleen’s leaning forward, blue eyes flaming. “Just who do you think you are?”
To hell with this. No more Mr. Nice Guy. “I’m the man who loves your daughter,” I shout right back at her. “A man tired of seeing her twist herself in knots to guard your reputation. To hide things from her own siblings because you care more about appearances than the fact that your child has to cover up your?—”
“Okay, let’s take a breather.” Lana digs her nails into the back of my hand. “Dal, honey? Let’s let Jamila call commercial break, all right?” She turns to our hostess and smiles. “Sorry that got a little heated, but we’re eager to talk more about Mom’s book.”
Jamila blinks, then recovers to smile at the camera. “Right after this.”
The camera pans away, and Lana yanks off her lavalier mic. “We’ll be right back.” She snatches my mic and grabs my hand, tugging me off of the stage. We keep going past Cassidy, past the producer who’s pretty much pissing himself with delight.
Lana pulls me into a dressing room and slams the door shut. Her eyes blaze as she faces me. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” I drag a hand through my hair, not entirely sure what I said back there. “Your mother kept throwing you under the bus.”
“And I’m more than capable of dodging the wheels, thank you very much.” She folds her arms and glares. “Do not patronize me, Dal. I’ve had quite enough of that in my life.”
“You don’t think it’s long past time to stand up to her?” I try to shut up, but my temper gets the best of me. “To stop using yourself as a human shield.”
“Yes, Dal.” She throws up her arms with a shout. “I do plan to take control of the story. But I’ll do it my way. Not with you dramatically outing my whole family on live television. I invited my siblings to dinner tonight. Do you know why?”
“Why?” A roll of my belly says I’ve got a good guess.
“I planned to tell them,” she says. “Tonight. I took your advice and asked them all to come over because there’s something I wanted to share. My story—I wanted to own it, Dal. Not you, not Jamila Jarrett’s viewers, not my parents—me.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little bit shitty. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mouthed off.”
“You think?” She’s pacing now, stomping back and forth in the dressing room. Someone knocks on the door, and Lana whirls to face it. “What?”
A male voice rumbles uneasily. “Ma’am, we need you back on stage in one minute.”
“Fuck off!” I shout at the same moment Lana cheerfully calls, “Be right out!”
Whirling to face me, she growls. “How is this better?”
“What?”
“If your chief concern is having someone else run roughshod over me, how is your plan better? You stomped all over my right to tell my story my way—to handle it how I saw fit.”
She’s probably got a point. “It seemed way past time for the truth.”
“You are not the person who gets to make that call.” Her hands tremble as she crosses her arms again. “I shared my secret in confidence, Dal.”
“I—” Damn, she’s right. “You said it felt good to share it.”
“Which does not give you the right to offer it up secondhand.” Tears fill her eyes, equal parts rage and dismay. “How am I ever supposed to trust you?”
“I’m sorry.” But hell, what’s done is done. “At least it’s out there now, right? The secret can’t sneak up and hurt you anymore.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps and steps back. “You’re hardly the expert on what hurts me.”
Ouch. Hell, maybe I did make a mistake. “I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just…move on.” I reach for her hand, but Lana jerks back.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It can be.” My hands start to prickle, and I reach for her, but Lana steps back. “Babe?”
“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Dal.” She takes another step back, the goodbye in her eyes looking more than a little bit grave. “There’s a difference between making a mistake and deliberately throwing someone to the wolves.”
“I didn’t mean to do that.” Damn, I’ve screwed up worse than I thought. “Listen, Lana?—”
“I’m done listening.” She pulls open the door, eyes locked with mine as she takes another step back. “And I’m done with this.”
No. “With this?”
“With us, Dal.” She stares in my eyes and I see she’s not bluffing. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she skims it away. “I can’t be with a man who lets his ego run the show. Who thinks he knows what’s best for me.”
“Lana—” Fuck, I have to fix this. “Look, the story’s out now. I loosened the lid. Now open the jar.” I need her to see the upside of my dick move. “Seize the chance to take charge of the story.”
“I am.” Squaring her shoulders, she takes a breath. “By ending things with you.”
As she closes the door, I feel my stupid heart smash in a thousand sharp bits.