Chapter 60 New Year’s Eve
“Why did we go to Vegas to get drunk at dinner and go back to the room to play cards? It’s only nine o’clock!” Whitney complains.
“Because our room is amazing!” Mom squeals.
Someone on the writing team knew someone who could get us upgraded to a suite full of windows at the Venetian, and I have to agree, the view up here is kind of worth the hang.
“And because we’re old,” Aunt Teresa snarks. “We already went to a day club and Cirque du Soleil—what else do you want from us? We need sleep.”
The four of us are in matching sparkly sequined dresses, and we’ve all got dog doodles on our faces.
I did them with waterproof eyeliner before we went out to dinner: An ode to our mutual love of the Friends episode where Ross and Rachel get married, and also dogs.
It’s been a fun, exhausting day of bachelorette-ing my mother.
“You know what we should all go do right now?” Whitney says as my aunt doles out a new round of cards. “The SkyJump off the Stratosphere!”
Oh god. “That’s not on the itinerary,” I tell her. “You know how I feel about jumping off shit on a rope.”
“Is it a bungee jump?” Mom asks.
“No thank you!” Aunt Teresa comments.
“It’s not a bungee jump. It’s just a vertical zipline!”
I eye her flatly. “Is there a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference. Come on, this trip is supposed to be spicy!”
“I’m listening,” my mother says.
I throw out my arms. “How about we do something ‘spicy,’ here in the room, group of drunk people I’m caring for. What about truth or dare?”
“Oh, I like that better! I vote truth or dare,” my aunt says.
Whitney grabs the wine from the little kitchenette. “Fine! But only if we make it a drinking game.” She drops four glasses on our table and fills them all with wine before flinging herself back into a chair. “Rules are you drink when you’re truthed or dared.”
“That’s not a game,” I argue.
“That’s the game. Live with it, Rick.”
“I’ll go first!” my mom exclaims, throwing back half her wine. “Teresa! Are you and Dr. Flanagan heading down a marriage path? Should Rikki quit her job and start a wedding planning business already?” She giggles.
“Mom, that’s not how you play truth or dare. You have to ask ‘truth or dare?’”
My aunt puts up her hand. “It’s fine. I’ll go.” She takes a chug. “I think we might be.” We all whoop. “But don’t worry, Rikki, I won’t be enlisting you. I know it’s burning you out.”
I shoot her a grateful look.
“What are you talking about?” My mom smiles. “Rikki loves doing this stuff! You should get her ideas. She thinks of everything!”
Teresa sighs. “No, she doesn’t, Kelli. She’s good at it, but she doesn’t enjoy it. She’s working at all hours, and you’re adding a lot of stress on her day-to-day.”
An awkward silence settles over us as I stare into my drink.
“Rikki, is that true?” Mom asks.
She’s not going to hate you for telling the truth. So says my therapist. “I mean . . .”
“You mean what?” Mom prods emotionally.
“I mean, Aunt Teresa’s right. I’m happy to help you with some wedding things, but I wish you’d hire someone instead of leaning on me for everything.”
“I thought you loved weddings!”
An irritated noise drawls out of me. “I do love weddings. I just don’t have time for another job on top of the ones I already have. And I don’t love planning them. I love witnessing them.”
My aunt nods. “She went from Whitney to you with like a week’s break in between.”
My mother’s mouth falls open. “Rikki, why didn’t you tell Layla and me when we asked you?”
“Because I couldn’t disappoint you. You and Aunt Teresa and Whit are the only family I talk to, and I don’t want to lose you.”
I haven’t spoken to my father since the incident, but I still get texts every day apologizing, telling me I need to get over this, asking me to come to his house, taking back his apologies, apologizing again.
Multiple voicemails when I ignore his calls.
Each one hits like a pinprick, a shallow needle sliding under my skin, making me feel like a terrible daughter.
To top it all off, every couple weeks my mom shoots me a text urging me to hear him out. Telling me how sorry he is about the apartment.
I never told her my side of that story.
Aunt Teresa reaches out and grabs my wrist. “You’re never going to lose us, Rikki. You can tell us anything. Our love isn’t conditional. If you murdered someone, we’d help you bury the body.”
“I’ve told her that a thousand times!” Whitney drawls. “My turn.” She chugs some wine. “Okay, Rikki, truth or dare.”
I sigh. “Truth.”
“When are you going to get back on the dating scene? You’ve been in a mood for months. You need to get laid and stop wearing that creepy coat.”
“Can we not, in front of our parents? The coat is not creepy. It’s comfortable. And I have not been in a mood. I’m very happy. I love my job.”
Whitney’s trying not to laugh as she exchanges a look with my aunt.
“It’s called truth for a reason, honey. You gotta be honest,” Aunt Teresa says.
“You’ve been so fucking mean the last two months,” Whitney says.
I scoff. “I’ve been mean because I’m tired and overworked! I can’t believe I’m still giving you free couples therapy, five months later. I’m out of bandwidth, Whitney. I can’t perpetually do endless favors for you.”
Whitney bulges her eyes. “Rick, again, what the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me you felt like that?”
“Because I love you, and I want to help you out. I thought when you said a couple sessions you meant two to three sessions! A couple means two!”
“Wow, this is not as lighthearted as I was expecting it to be.” My aunt throws back the rest of her wine.
My mom snorts. “I dare you to lower your voice, Rikki.”
I bark a humorless laugh. “I dare you to stop fucking talking to Dad.”
“Whoaaaa.” Whitney grabs her wine. “This is why I don’t like hanging out with sober people at a party.”
“Shut up, Whitney,” I mumble, exhausted.
“He’s you’re father, Rikki, he loves you. He’s just trying to make things right, he’s family,” my mom pleads.
I drop against the chair, banging my torso against the wooden backrest. “Mom! He never makes things right! He only makes it worse! When are you gonna see that? When are you going to stop choosing him over me? He’s not any better! He’s not changing!”
My mom gasps. “Rikki!”
I snicker. “You know he evicted me, right?”
“He said you had a disagreement—”
“No, let me clear this up, because we’ve been politely skirting around it for the last three and a half months.
He had someone come and toss all my shit from his apartment into the hallway.
He came to my office and verbally assaulted my superiors.
He told them I was moonlighting as a sex worker because he saw me bringing men into the apartment, over his fucking Ring camera—I was conducting interviews for a Love Today piece!
He destroyed property in The Minute office and almost got me fired.
He called me a whore . . . Oh, and he would show up out of nowhere like a scary overlord in the one-bedroom apartment and decide he was sleeping over. ”
Whitney and my aunt exchange a look.
My mom blinks at me, lips wobbling. “Rikki, I didn’t—”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to upset you. But I guess I’m finally moving past that hurdle!
He still texts me every day. Every. Day.
And I haven’t been able to press the block button because I know it would disappoint you.
Because you so badly want him to be someone else.
You act like he’s never crossed the line into irredeemable!
When he’s crossed it a hundred thousand times.
He continues to be toxic in every way that counts.
You choose him over me, and you choose him over yourself. Over and over again.
“I want to stop letting him back in. But I need your support on that, Mom. I need you to acknowledge that my life would be better if I stopped inviting him into it.”
My mom looks away as her brows pull together.
Aunt Teresa reaches across the table and grabs my wrist again. “Hon, block him. You have my full blessing. Please do it. Do it now.”
Whitney pumps her wine in the air. “I thought you already blocked him! Block that fucker.”
My mom’s lips are quivering now. “Rikki, I know he’s troubled, but there are such wonderful pockets of him too. You know. I’ve tried so hard for so long to remember those. I . . .”
“You’re allowed to let him go,” Teresa says to her firmly. “I’ve been trying to tell you this same shit your daughter’s saying for years. You don’t owe him anything. You’re moving on with Layla. Why do you still tolerate him?”
My mom blinks slowly, tears gathering in her eyes. “I don’t know. A part of me has trouble accepting that I chose so poorly. It’s hard to live in that reality. I hate feeling like . . . a failure.”
“Mom.” Tears bloom in my own eyes. “You’re not a failure. You’ve rebuilt yourself a beautiful life. And I think you did pretty okay with me.”
A wet laugh blows out of her. “Are you kidding? You are my biggest triumph. I would choose it all again for you.”
I wipe at my eyes. “Then why do you talk to him?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I felt like I made my bed, you know.”
“Fuck the bed!” Aunt Teresa roars. “You left the bed. It’s gone. You have a new one!”
“Yeah, fuck the bed!” Whitney roars drunkenly.
Mom turns her watery gaze on me. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking of it the way you described. Like I was choosing. Rikki, I choose you always.” Something hardens in her eyes. She pulls out her phone. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat, confused.
She sucks a tooth. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. Let’s block him.”
“Fuck yeah!” Whitney encourages.
I blink at her in disbelief. “What? You’re—you’re going to block him too?”
My mom smiles, nodding now. “Yeah. Fuck yeah,” she says, parroting Whitney.
“Just like that?” I squeak.
Mom peers into my eyes, her gray ones bright with resolve. “Just like that,” she says simply.
Tears spill down my cheeks.
“Block him. Block him. Block him!” Whitney’s chanting. My (now-emotional) aunt joins in.
I tap open the text thread with my father. There are hundreds of unanswered messages. I open his contact info. My mom hands me her phone. I pull up the same window and hand it back to her.
“Ready?” she says.
I nod.
“One,” she starts.
“Two.”
“Three.”
We press the block button. Whitney and my aunt scream like Taylor Swift just walked into the room.
My mom grins, pushing her chair out, swiping at her eyes. “Honesty is hard, and we should all do it more! It’s only 9:20—we should go do the Stratosphere jump! Let’s start off the New Year fearlessly, bitches!”
I snort. “Mom, you did not just call us bitches.”
By 10:30 we’re all decked out in green jumpsuits and a plethora of different harnesses to jump off the top of the tallest hotel in Vegas. I’m sweating in a way that can only be described as profusely.
Whitney goes first. Then my aunt. While my aunt is going, my mom pulls me into a tight hug.
She tells me she’ll love me no matter how mean I am to her, and that no matter how uncomfortable or upset she gets when I tell her things she doesn’t want to hear, she still wants to hear them.
I laugh and tell her I love her too. And apologize for being moody tonight.
I’m not usually a moody person.
I’m not usually one to snap at people I love.
I’m not usually one to wear a trench coat around the house.
When it’s my turn to jump, I step out onto the ledge and pause, taking a second to acknowledge the incredible view of the strip 835 feet up.
I’m not afraid of views. I’m simply afraid of jumping from them. I’m afraid of the integrity of the ropes. Ropes aren’t people. They don’t care about saving us.
I wonder where Reed is right now. Probably at a supercool party full of celebrities with hit movies and shows. I haven’t heard from him since the night of his premiere. Not an email. A double tap on the ’gram. Nothing.
All thirteen episodes of Elizabeth Ross were spectacular.
It’s got a lot of award buzz. Rome Overland’s been on every damn talk show (I’ve watched them all).
He’s been seen around a lot with his costar Eliza (the beautiful, super nice woman I met at the wedding, who plays Elizabeth).
Paparazzi photos of them pop up in my fucking “Suggested” on Instagram.
Sometimes I imagine I can smell him when I walk into the office in LA, and then I wander around, sniffing like a deranged human bloodhound.
And then I remind myself what we could have right now was not what I wanted. What we could have was making me perpetually sad. I told him to let us go.
I don’t want to let go.
But I can stop moping. I can stop being mad at myself for doing the healthy thing. I can give myself a fresh start. A fresh chance to be happy.
I close my eyes as the wind tousles my hair.
Universe, you were really generous with me this year. Thank you for the good times.
I learned a lot of shit. I teleported. I confronted people. I fell in love. I sold a show. I’m running a show.
I’m sorry I ever doubted you. Here’s to more in the new year. Here’s to being ridiculously honest with everyone I care about. Or might end up caring about.
Dating’s always going to be scary. There’s no controlling that. So what do I really have to lose? Here’s to being fucking fearless.
My own frenzied heartbeat fills my ears. I open my eyes, step off the platform, and scream.
At 11:59 p.m. the four of us are back in the hotel room, gathered around the TV to watch the ball drop. At 12:01 a.m. my phone pings with an email.