Jace
Ipick at the blue and yellow velvet fabric of my reading chair.
I hate this fucking chair.
My mom picked it out, obviously.
It’s fucking hideous.
And now, the only good memory I have of it is Lennox sitting in it comfortably while I shared all my secrets with him.
The chair never made sense here but it was like it was meant for him.
Like he made the nonsense of it work with the odd pattern and clashing colors.
Just like he did in my life. He brought color and light to my bland world in ways I never knew I needed.
It wasn’t real though. None of it was, not with how easy it was for him to turn on me when things got tough.
“Jace.” Howard steps in my room. I hear him but my gaze is still trained to the same spot on the wall. “We have to be at the courthouse in one hour. You should probably put yourself together. Get dressed.”
I glance down at myself. “I am dressed.”
“Yes. In the same suit from yesterday. You should probably wash up, change perhaps.”
“Why? It won’t make any difference.”
He lets out a long winded breath then steps in front of me, blocking the view of my favorite spot on the wall.
“I know you feel defeated right now and yeah…the outcome probably won’t be in your favor.
” He crouches down so we’re level. “But you have to show up. You show up, because that’s what you do.
Even if it’s hard. Even if you know you’re going to lose.
You fucking show up with your head held high, proud and ready.
Even in the worst times. The one thing you can control is how you respond and your dignity is everything. ”
Without moving my head, my eyes swivel to meet his. “You never say anything and then you say that?”
He scoffs and smiles.
“Glad you were listening.” He stands and tilts his chin to my bathroom.
Pressing my hands into the armrest, I use the base to push myself to stand. I’ve been sitting for so long my body aches and my joints scream in protest.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says as he steps around me but stops in the doorway.
“I am surprised though,” he says pausing, then glances back at me. “The way he looked at you, I would have never suspected.”
“How did he look at me?” I hate that I’m asking. This is not something I need reassurance on. I start my walk to the bathroom, waving my hand. “You know what, forget—”
“Like you gave him purpose.”
My body halts in place as I absorb his words. I close my eyes, shutting out the heartbreak and continue walking.
“Yeah, well. He’s an actor.”
An hour later, I’m exiting the car and finding myself ducking through a horde of reporters to get inside the courthouse.
Goddamnit. Of course they’re all here.
I turn to Howard. “Can you find us a discreet way out of here when we need to leave?” That’s definitely something I don’t want to deal with.
He nods curtly as we walk into the courtroom.
My mother and her attorney are already here.
She lifts her gaze, holding that unamused, appraising glare she typically pins me with but there’s a joyous squint behind her eyes and twitch in her lip.
Holding the expression of someone who looks like they already won.
My court-appointed attorney is already seated at our table on the opposite side of the courtroom. He stands, shaking my hand, and we sit down together.
“I submitted everything the judge requested. Financials, assets, work contracts, and I even provided your calendar showing the court how much you comply with your mother’s demands.” I nod. “She had to do the same. The judge will take everything into consideration.”
“Including the public articles of me breaking the NDA?” I say with a sarcastic bite but it is a genuine question.
He nods, keeping emotion out of it and replies, “Yeah, that too. But the therapist you met with had positive notes about your mental capacity, so we have that in our favor.”
“All rise. Honorable Judge Fortier presiding,” the bailiff calls out as the judge steps in and takes his seat.
“You may be seated.” His glasses are low on his nose as he glances between both our tables. “Mr. Wilder, do you know what a gag order is?”
I stand, pulling the front of my jacket straight. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you know what NDA stands for?”
I internally roll my eyes at his condescending tone.
“Yes, your honor.”
“Is there a reason why you felt the need to rebel against the court and my ruling on that?”
I’d love to be honest and tell him Lennox was hiding under my bed and overheard my mother, but I can’t do that. This might be a closed courtroom, but information like that about two celebrities will spread like wildfire regardless of NDA's and gag orders.
“Not a good one, sir,” I say, honestly.
My mother hums a pleased tone loud enough for all of us to hear.
The judge turns to her and asks, “Does that please you, Mrs. Wilder?”
She stands, stoic and confident. The tilt of her chin forces her nose higher in the air than usual.
“He’s always had a difficult-to-manage rebellious streak which is one of the reasons why this conservatorship was put in place. I’m glad to see you witness it here today.”
The judge hums back in the same sarcastic tone that I’m unsure how to read.
My mother—easy to read—stands there proud. Wearing layers of makeup that acts more like a mask of who she is than a coverup for her skin. She’s got an arrogant purse in her lips and a patronizing lift in her eyebrow, looking as self righteous as they come.
I want to say more to defend myself but as I go to open my mouth no words come out. The creaking of the heavy wooden door at the main entrance grabs the attention of everyone in the courtroom as another bailiff steps in.
“Your honor, Joseph Wilder is asking permission to enter the courtroom.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” My mother breathes out with a sigh of relief because my father will agree with anything my mother says and she knows it.
The judge looks down at his clipboard.
“I didn’t realize your father was the same General Contractor for the county when everything was being rebuilt.” He glances over to me.
“Yes, sir. He managed the entire rebuild for all the county buildings and still consults with them.”
It was a twenty-year project and the biggest of his career.
He met a lot of people and worked with a lot of the higher ups and political figures for the county court houses and clerk’s office.
He spent more time here than he did at home.
I mean, I wasn’t home much either with my acting schedule.
Regardless, he’s well respected in the community.
I think that project was considered more of his pride and joy than I ever was. Not that he had much choice. He worked. My mother took care of me. He was so far removed from what was going on in my life because his life revolved around work.
Even when he was present, my mother was so overbearing and even controlled when and how I could speak with him, managing yet another relationship in my life.
It’s always just been easier for him to just let her have her way and run the show.
“Granted,” Judge Fortier tells the bailiff and my father enters the courtroom.
He walks up the middle aisle and stops in front of the horizontal swinging barrier door. My mother holds her hand out silently beckoning him. His eyes shift to her wiggling fingers then up to her face before he looks back to the judge.
“I have some items to address before you make your final decision, your honor,” my father announces and I’ve never heard him so stern.
“Of course, Mr. Wilder, please step in. Please note, for purposes of the court and to avoid confusion, I will refer to Joseph Wilder as Mr. Wilder and Jace Wilder as Jace.”
The court reporter, not missing a beat, continues to type out everything Judge Fortier said before she looks up in our direction.
My father is a spitting image of myself. He’s got the same textured blond hair like mine but it’s dulled slightly with age. The same shade of blue eyes that are kind and understanding. He’s never been mean or unreasonable, just compliant to my mother’s demands.
I guess we’re very much the same in more ways than I’ve realized.
He swings the small door open and steps through, shocking me by stepping to the left, taking a stance at my table, directly between me and my attorney.
“Hey, Son.”
“Hey, Dad,” I reply skeptically because I wasn’t expecting him to stand next to me.
My mother’s face falls as she glares in our direction. Her eyes are locked on my father, giving him a disapproving look before her brow ticks up with a silent warning.
I’ve seen that look many times before.
She turns her attention to the judge but she can’t hide the anger. Her fists are clenched at her sides and her ears are bright red, furious and practically steaming.
“Mr. Wilder, do you have an opinion or information to share with the court today?”
“My son doesn’t need a conservatorship, your honor. Frankly speaking, he never did.”
Mother gasps, slamming her hand against her chest, and I can’t blame her. My father has never stood up to her, not that I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
“Why do you think that, Mr. Wilder?” the judge asks genuinely curious.
“I’d like to—”
“The question wasn’t addressed to you, Mrs. Wilder,” the judge interrupts, putting his palm in her direction, scolding her and man-oh-man, is it a sight. “Please continue, Mr. Wilder.”
“I always felt my wife’s intentions were of goodwill and genuine concern for my son.
She oversaw and managed all of the difficulties that came with having an incredibly famous child star.
She shielded him well from the negative aspects of Hollywood.
" He turns to gaze at her with a sort of admiration and she practically has hearts beaming from her eyes.
“But something changed when my son was a teenager.”
She tilts her head with a mixed expression. She’s confused as to where he’s going, but intent on hearing what he has to say, like it’s the first time she’s heard it.