21. Cash #2
She was wearing baggy jeans that didn’t even fit around her waist, and her hair was flung up into a ponytail. Three weeks later, she was mine.
I adore everything about her, from the way she smiles to the way she crinkles her nose when she’s behind her laptop stuck on a sentence.
“I wanna be a writer,” is what she told me when we first met. “A memorable one, like the next Suzanne Collins or something. Famous, you know. I want to work hard and be known for something.”
I couldn’t relate.
I never dream big.
I guess that’s because I saw how big dreams tore apart my family.
But Rachel isn’t like my parents. She’s grounded. She throws on the first clothes she finds every morning. Cares more about good coffee than luxury perfume and fancy clothes.
She looks good effortlessly.
“Oh, shoot. Look at the time.” Rachel taps on her watch and jumps up. She buttons her shorts in a hurry. Doesn’t bother with a shirt. “I have to get back.”
“Why? You’re not working at the bar until six, right?”
“Exactly. Which means I only have three hours to finish the rest of act three.”
I tug on my own shirt and grab our things. I’m happy to get any time I can with Rachel, even if that means watching her write in a room that doesn’t have any AC.
“I’ll come with you.”
She kisses me on the lips. “Thank you for being my number one supporter.”
“Rachel, I’m your number one everything. Not just when it comes to you writing a book.”
Her smile fades a little. “Thanks. But I’ve been dreaming of becoming an author ever since I was a little girl.”
And I’ve been dreaming of a simple, carefree life ever since my parents abandoned me and each other, for money and fame.
“God,” exclaims Rachel, looking back out to the ocean. “Imagine being able to afford one of those things.”
I glance at the yacht.
“I sailed the Bahamas with my parents on one of those things. It was actually twice that size.”
“Stop! You’re making me jealous.”
“Not much to be jealous about. It was the most miserable summer of my life.”
Rachel doesn’t look at me with pity. She never does when I talk about how dreadful my teenage years were, growing up with rags-to-riches parents.
Her fascination isn’t really with the yacht. It’s with me.
As if the most interesting part about me is my backstory.
“I cannot deal with him any longer.”
No doubt she’s talking about me.
It’s late at night, and I’m adding logs to the fire to keep the cabin warm. Sienna’s talking on the phone, her voice loud enough to wake up China.
I creep down the hallway and position myself outside of her door. The ranting continues.
“Like I said earlier, they’ll have to find somebody else to take over my role in the sequel.
It’s mortifying… I don’t care how good my ass looks…
I’m not curtsying in front of the cameras and telling everyone how much I loved foursomes…
to hell with sexual liberation and empowering the oppressed.
Let them be oppressed… Nope. You’ll have to drag me by my hair if you want me back…
Yeah, he’s an ass, and I’m sick of him hitting me where it hurts, but I’d rather be in the same room as him than be hounded by the press. ”
Hitting her where it hurts? Goddamn.
I lean into the door, my ear pressed to the wood. I begin to feel the guilt rise in my chest.
“I don’t even know if that’s what I want anymore, Jules… Yeah. No. Fuck. I don’t know… I’m so used to being around cameras that I don’t know who I am without being watched.”
I straighten up, this last sentence catching me off guard.
What a peculiar thing to say.
“Okay,” sighs Sienna. “I’ll speak to you later.”
I head back into the main room to finish stoking the fire.
I’m all out of logs. I decide to go outside to grab more wood since sleeping doesn’t seem to be an option.
I’ve been wide awake all night, and that was before Sienna started ranting on the phone to her Hollywood friend.
For once, they were actually discussing something other than clothes and fucking green juice.
I imagined that’s as far as their conversations usually went.
“I cannot deal with him any longer.”
Ouch. I carry that comment with me out into the night as I head into the woods to the pile of firewood.
I shine my flashlight on an abandoned axe.
Looks like someone’s been chopping up logs, getting a certain somebody out of their system.
I was the same when I first moved up here.
Chopping wood is quite therapeutic, especially when you have a wild imagination and can pretend you’re cutting off the heads of people who have wronged you.
I throw logs into the basket, focusing on the fresh smell of pine.
I couldn’t get over the smell. Still can’t years later.
I’d take this over that artificial junk they sell in the department stores.
Rachel got an advance on her first book and treated herself to some Chanel shit that cost almost as much as our rent.
That should’ve been the first warning sign.
I load up the basket and head back around to the front of the cabin. That’s when I catch movement in the corner of my eye.
I step closer. I swear on my life, I just heard humming.
I drop the basket, and the closed drapes lift in the wind, revealing Sienna. Her arms are extended, and she’s gliding through Knox’s room like an airplane, humming softly with her eyes shut.
The half-open window lets in the wind, causing the drapes to lift again. Her hands are now above her head as she twirls and twirls.
She keeps her arms arched above her head, humming a melody only she knows. Around and around she goes, like a ballerina.
Her eyes open, and they’re focused. She stares at the wall in front of her, keeping her balance, stretching one leg out to keep momentum.
This is not normal. Not for most people. But it appears to be no biggie for her to spin on the spot for minutes at a time.
She exits the twirl and resumes gliding, dropping one arm to snap to a rhythm her feet move in time with.
Fuck, that was a high leg kick. She moves fluidly through the room, reaching up and down and out while making sure to exhale deeply through each movement.
I stare at her through the moving drapes, mesmerized.
And then I notice a tear in her eye. It falls down her pink cheek, with others following, but she doesn’t wipe them away. She just keeps dancing.
Her arms reach above her head, and she starts twirling again, going faster this time as she hums. I hear a little whimper—but very different from the kind she made last night.
I forget about my surroundings, zeroing in on Sienna. It’s so easy to get lost in her movements. But this isn’t her performing. She’s not doing this for fame or to be celebrated. She’s dancing for the same reasons I used to chop firewood. To cope.
I tilt my head as I watch her move like an angel.
I thought I had Sienna figured out, but what if I’m completely wrong? She flows through the room, moving with passion. It’s coming straight from the heart, and I know this because I feel the fire in mine, all the way from the other side of the window.
She says she doesn’t know who she is when the cameras stop rolling. But this is her. She does know who she is when she’s not being watched. If only she could recognize what’s going on.