Jace
“Well, that might quite possibly be the most diabolical way I’ve ever been woken up,” he says tightly as he crawls out from under the too small space and pulls on his boxers.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I know he heard everything and I have no idea how he’s going to respond.
“Does she do that often?” he asks, standing fully as he brushes his hands over his torso and boxer briefs, clearing off a couple of dust bunnies.
“She stops by unannounced often, yes. But, she has never barged into my room first thing in the morning like that.” I run my hand around the back of my nape. “I’ve also never brought anyone here before.”
He stares back at me, taking in the words but he’s expressionless. Usually he has some sort of smart ass retort or at least a lop-sided grin. But, he’s just staring back at me and I have no idea how to read him.
“I, um, I understand if you want to leave.”
He tilts his head, confused. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
I just shake my head as I gaze down at the ground. I can’t look at him. Maybe it's the overwhelming feeling of shame. Embarrassment, perhaps. I have no life of my own.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” I admit, even though I hate the words.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope. You don’t get to do that push me away thing again.”
He walks to the reading nook, picks up the blue and yellow velvet chair and carries it to the middle of the room.
His back muscles ripple with the strain and his biceps bulge as he slams it down and turns it to face me.
Then he plops his heavy body down in the middle of it, crossing one leg over the other as he interlaces his fingers together.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Waiting. Listening.”
“You probably heard enough.”
“Of her side, sure. I’d like to hear your version of the story because I don’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her. Actually, she’s like a stick, I could probably throw her pretty far, so that’s a bad analogy. But you get the gist.”
How does he do that? How does he keep things that feel so heavy, light?
There are more emotions rolling through me than I’ve ever experienced.
Fear, worry. The thought that I’m not worth all of this.
The knowledge that more than likely, nothing could ever come out of whatever this is between us.
I remind myself that it’s temporary and once this press tour is over I’ll go back to the monotony of my life, blanketed in pure loneliness until my next film when I can pretend to be someone else who isn’t miserable, isolated and alone.
It’s deeply embedded in me to keep my secrets, to never open up to anyone. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about my life, my past, my desires or wants. Yet, he sits there glued to a chair, waiting patiently—his worst trait, mind you—for me to share my side of the story.
Do I even know what that is anymore?
I cross the room and sit down at the edge of the bed. I have no clue where to start but the words fall out of me, like they’ve been waiting for the right person to listen.
“I co-starred with the guy I told you about, Luca, back when I was sixteen. He was new to the industry, a couple years older than me and incredibly outgoing. We became fast friends. One night, about a month into filming, he suggested going out and it all felt so exciting. I remember always being restricted, not doing anything that would get me in trouble or give the media an excuse to write something about me. So, the idea was liberating. We were on set so my mom wasn’t around and…
we went.” I glance down at my enclosed fingers and rub into the knuckles nervously.
“Sixteen-year-old Jace Wilder actually getting wild? Oh, I’d pay to see it,” he says, playfully.
I shrug, chuckling lightly through my nerves.
“He had a fake ID, got me into a club with him and we drank. I never had any alcohol up to that point so everything hit me pretty hard. One of the guys we met that night was a luxury car dealer, he easily persuaded me to buy a car from him and he took us to his dealership that night. He took advantage of my current state and the fact that he knew I had a lot of money. Still, I remember leaving the club feeling so powerful. Like I could do anything—alcohol talking, of course.” I run my fingers over my eyes and rub my temple.
“Went all in and bought this beautiful charcoal gray Aston Martin. I was in my right mind enough not to drive it home since I had been drinking and Luca said he was fine—he seemed fine to me, but my judgment was complete shit.”
Lennox’s face falls, even though he knows the end result.
“Luca crashed the car. He tried to avoid another vehicle and swerved into a tree on the side of the road. I woke up in the hospital the next day. They said he died on impact.”
“Jace,” he says softly as he leans forward.
I shake my head and avoid looking at him through my watery gaze.
“I never heard about this.” He dips his head trying to find my eyes.
“It was a hiccup story in the media for me because most of the focus was on Luca. My mother managed the media directive like it was her full time job and NDA’s were signed by a lot of people.
The hardest part of all of it was how hushed everything was.
Sweeping what happened to Luca under the rug, like he didn’t matter. ”
The weeks after were a whirlwind of confusion. I was sixteen, confused, scared, distraught. My mother made me see our priest almost daily.
I confessed my sins over and over again.
Every time I stepped into that confessional I grew more anxious.
It made me believe wholeheartedly that everything was entirely my fault and my decision directly caused his death.
By the time I started seeing a therapist, that my mother insisted on, I had retreated so far into myself I feared saying or doing anything.
“I was required to see a therapist, on my mom’s orders, of course.
That therapist felt that I had an over-excessive guilt complex that resulted in my own self-criticism and isolation, ultimately labeling me mentally unstable.
In reality, my mother forced my silence in all areas of my life, except to the priest and therapist, who I spent hours a day with reliving those moments.
Taking ownership, as she would say, admitting fault over and over again, so much that I believed it.
She didn’t allow me to make any public appearances, so all I had were my own self-deprecating thoughts.
“My mother immediately filed a petition with the court, putting me under conservatorship—which she still has full control over—and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-five-year-old celebrity millionaire, a household name and sought out actor, yet, I’m treated like a child that can hardly decide what clothes I can wear or what restaurant I can eat at. ”
It was an accident and I didn’t directly cause his death.
I know that now, but my irrational choices at that time played a major part.
So, I’ve always accepted the circumstances as they are, even though I knew in my heart I wasn’t mentally unstable.
I was just a confused, scared sixteen-year-old kid trying to sort through more emotions than I was capable of handling.
“I’m surprised she let you do this movie,” Lennox says cooly, keeping the conversation easy like he always does.
“The conservatorship gives her a lot of power. Over my finances, my investments and assets, even my medical decisions and public appearances. I’m allowed to work—she would never not let me work—so after I turned eighteen that became mine and mine alone.
But, I still agreed to the movies and shows only she wanted me to do… until this one.”