Chapter 25
Turns out our reservation is at a trendy new dining spot a couple of blocks up Melrose, an Italian-rustic-meets-California-cool place that grows their own vegetables in the adjacent lot. My father has us practically jogging to get there on time.
“I’m pretty sure they’ll hold the table for at least fifteen minutes,” I say.
Dad gives me one of his classic withering looks, total judgment in his eyes. “Oh, is that how you do things in the service industry?” he asks.
I don’t bother answering. I just roll my eyes and pick up my pace.
A few minutes later, we’re seated at a table in a spacious room that’s all blond wood with black and white accents. And I have to admit, the place smells absolutely delicious. The air is fragrant with garlic and tomato and just-picked herbs. Our table even has a view of the open kitchen, so we can see the staff making pasta from scratch. Dinner and a show, I guess.
We order and our drinks arrive. Wine for my parents, just water for me. My mother takes a sip of her chianti, then leans back in her chair and aims a serious gaze across the table at me. “Sweetheart,” she says, “this isn’t just a dinner. This is an intervention.”
I almost burst out laughing. Not that interventions are a joke. They’re actually quite serious business, I know, and in some cases, they can even be lifesaving. But in my case? Recent girls’ night aside, I don’t generally overimbibe. And do my folks really not see the perverse irony of conducting a supposed intervention while drinking alcohol themselves?
The two of them just continue to peer at me, somber and unsmiling. So I take the hint and keep my amusement to myself. I disguise my rising laugh with a cough and take a sip of water.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“We’re not just in town for a bar association conference,” says my father. “We’re here to see you, to conduct an intervention.”
I’m flummoxed, to say the least. “I don’t understand,” I say, looking from one of them to the other. “I don’t have a problem with alcohol.”
“This isn’t about a problem with alcohol,” says my mother. “This is about a problem with your life choices.”
Aaand there it is.
In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. After all, I’m not doing what they want me to do. I’m not pursuing the life they envision for me, and in over two years of weekly Zoom chats, they haven’t been able to convince me to change my course. So now here they are, live and in-person, trying to disguise their controlling ways with this sick, twisted version of what’s usually a selfless act of love and concern for someone’s well-being.
Deep inside, my anger starts to simmer.
“No,” I say evenly. “This is about your problem with my life choices.”
“Can you blame us for having a problem?” asks my mother. “When we sent you to all the best schools in hopes that you’d join the bar, we certainly didn’t mean Pete’s. According to Jonathan—”
“Wait, what?” I interrupt. “Are you kidding me?” My anger levels up. Did Jonathan go back to Philadelphia and basically tattle on me to my mother? Is this his way of getting even with me for breaking things off with him? “So my whining, sniveling excuse for an ex-boyfriend went crying to you because I don’t want to be with him?” I demand. “And now you’re here taking his side?”
“This isn’t about sides,” says my mother. “We’re all just very concerned about you, dear.”
“Look at the evidence,” interjects my father, shifting into lawyer mode. “You’re barely scraping by, working a job that’s far below your potential.”
“I’m working a job that pays my bills and gives me enough flexibility to pursue an acting career,” I counter.
“In over two years of trying,” says my father, “you haven’t booked a significant acting job.”
“I just auditioned for a role on Robbery-Homicide Division ,” I shoot back. “A lead role. On a hit TV series. And it went really well.”
My father blinks. He’s not used to getting this kind of pushback. Not from me anyway.
“And what about this bartender person?” my mom chimes in.
“ Bartender person? ” I ask.
“I’m not advocating for Jonathan,” she says. “If you don’t want to be with Jonathan, fine. But do you really think that coworker of yours is an appropriate partner?”
My anger is like an express elevator shooting straight up to the penthouse.
Do I think Nick is an appropriate partner?
I certainly didn’t at first, and now I have to wonder if that was partly because of my parents, because I let them get inside my head. I knew they wouldn’t approve of him. And considering how hardwired I was to please them, maybe that’s why I didn’t approve of him. Maybe that’s why, as Nick said, I was always on his case.
But the more I got to know Nick, the more I got to like him. The more I got to like us . And the more I could see the possibility of a real future for the two of us.
Except now, with all these questions between us…
“I don’t know,” I say, answering honestly. “But that’s for me to decide. Not you.”
“Are you using steroids?” asks my father.
For a moment, I just stare at him, speechless. “What?” I finally manage.
“Well, look at yourself,” he says, gesturing across the table at me. I’m wearing another outfit that Heather put together to conceal my buff slayer bod, although it apparently hasn’t fooled my dad’s critical eye. Or did Jonathan go squealing to them about this as well?
“Sweetheart, your body didn’t just change like this on its own,” says my mother.
Oh no? I think. That’s how much you know.
I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from saying it out loud.
“And steroid abuse can result in cognitive deterioration,” adds my father. “It would explain all these poor decisions you’ve been making lately.”
That’s it. I’ve heard just about enough.
The server approaches with our food, but while the aroma of the pasta is mouthwatering, I simply don’t have the appetite for any more of this BS. My anger is a burning fuse, ready to detonate. So before the guy can put the plates down on our table, I slide my chair back and get to my feet.
“I’m going to say this one more time,” I say to my parents. “And I hope this time, you’ll actually listen and hear me. I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m not going to law school. Ever. I only took the LSAT to make you happy. My whole life, I’ve only ever done what I thought would make you happy. But now I’m almost twenty-five years old. I’m an adult. And I need to do what makes me happy. So yes, right now, I’m working as a bartender. I’m sorry if you don’t approve.” I stop and consider what I just said. “You know what? I’m not sorry. I don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m not robbing banks or stealing cars or running some shady internet scam. I’m tending bar while I try to get an acting career going. And okay, maybe that’ll never happen. Maybe I’ll be in the service industry for the rest of my life. But if I’m okay with that, then you have to be too. Because what I do with my life is my choice,” I continue. “And who I date is my choice. And for the record, I’m not taking steroids. This isn’t some kind of ’roid rage you’re witnessing right now. This is just me finally— finally —being honest with you.”
My parents are both looking at me, mouths agape, eyes practically popping out of their sockets. I don’t think they could look any more surprised, not even if I whipped out my big flaming sword and took flight, crashing straight through the restaurant’s skylight and disappearing into the Los Angeles night sky.
“Intervention’s over,” I tell them. “Enjoy your dinner.”
As I walk toward the exit, the server—maybe an aspiring actor like me—catches my eye and gives me a discreet thumbs-up.
***
I walk back down Melrose toward the bar. I feel strange, but at the same time, I also feel entirely like myself. Maybe that’s what’s so strange. Usually I’m not entirely myself—especially not with my parents. But starting now, for better or worse, I’m done acting like the me that they want me to be. That’s one role I really don’t want to be playing. Not anymore.
As I get closer to Pete’s, I entertain the idea of going back to work. Since I skipped out on dinner with my folks, there’s still time to clock in again and finish out the rest of my shift. In retrospect, I do feel bad about ditching on Nick and leaving him to work the whole bar on his own, even if it is a slow night. Plus, maybe he and I could pick up our conversation where we left off.
I hesitate when I arrive at my car, still debating. Then, shoving my keys back in my pocket, I walk the last half block to the bar.
As I head for the door, I peer into Pete’s front window, checking the crowd. If anything, it’s even less busy than it was when my parents showed up to bully me into joining them for that outrageous sham of an intervention. Aside from a couple of occupied tables, there are only two people seated at the bar.
It’s Heather. And Quentin .
So not two people . One person. One vampire.
Aaand cue my slayer.
My alter ego, quiet for most of the night, suddenly starts to stir. I become consumed with an overwhelming instinct to protect humans, only this time, it’s different. It’s stronger. Because now, it’s personal .
What in the actual hell is going on in there? I wonder as I continue to watch the vampire with my friend through the glass.
Quentin must have expected me to be working tonight. I’m betting he came back to the bar to spy on me, to resume his quest to discover if I’m a slayer or not. After all, the last time he was here, his objective was interrupted. When I cut myself on that wineglass, he was forced to stop observing me and help Nick control his bloodlust. But since then, maybe he’s started to wonder just how that glass broke in the first place, how an ordinary human woman could have shattered it with her bare hand.
What’s not clear, though, is what Quentin is doing with Heather. Does the vampire know that she’s my friend, my good friend? Is he trying to pump her for information about me? And to make her more forthcoming, is he perhaps using his influence on her?
I’m on the verge of seeing red as my hand wraps tightly around the door handle.
But I can’t go in there like this. I’m already struggling with my slayer for control. If I put myself in the middle of all that vampire energy, I’ll reveal what I am in a flash, and that’ll be the end of that. And maybe the end of me.
But my slayer and I do agree on one thing: we need to make sure Heather is all right.
My eyes meet Nick’s through the window.
We haven’t exactly been connecting lately, but still, we’ve got a connection—partly supernatural but also partly us .
Jenn talked about the link between vampires and slayers as being forged by hate but broken by love . Assuming that’s true, you’d think the further I got from hating Nick, the weaker that bond would get.
And I don’t hate Nick. I don’t. I’m not sure what I feel for him, but it’s definitely not anything even close to hatred. Yet this connection between us seems to be more powerful than ever.
He’s gotten through to my slayer before, usually by shouting. This time, though, he’s able to pull me back from the brink with just a look. For a moment, I worry that this might be Nick using his vampire hypnosis on me. Logically, though, if I were under his influence, I probably wouldn’t be worried about being under his influence, right? Besides, I don’t feel like I’m being manipulated. As my slayer retreats, I once again feel entirely like myself.
And because I am entirely myself, I have to go in there. I have to make sure my friend is safe.
I decide to look at facing Quentin now as a way to test myself. It can be practice for tomorrow night at the Whisky. A kind of a dress rehearsal.
In the theater, there’s a saying: Bad dress rehearsal, good show. Except I can’t have a bad dress rehearsal. If I do, I might not even make it to the show.
With a deep breath, I strengthen my hold on my slayer and open the door.