Grabbing the juice, I poke my way through the cabinets before I find the glasses and pour him something to drink. His lips lift in an attempt to smile, but it doesn’t climb very high.
After emptying the bags, I shove some of it into the fridge and then turn on his oven. While I wouldn’t normally make myself comfortable in someone else’s space like this, it’s clear that Felton likely hasn’t eaten much in days, and the vegetables are on their way out. With that in mind, I throw together a salad and set it in front of him.
Felton stares at it absently.
“Eat, Felton,” I direct.
He sighs and does as I tell him. By the time he’s finished the salad, I push a plate in front of him with the contents I’d brought for lunch and tell him to eat again. Taking my seat next to him, I eat with him.
We’re silent. I watch him as I eat. He’s rhythmic, following instructions but not tasting it at all. His mind isn’t here. He’s not seeing the spot he’s staring at.
When we’re finished, I clean the dishes and the counters. Finished, I look at Felton. He’s watching me this time. The helpless, desperately sad look he’s giving me makes my chest feel tight. I don’t know what to do with this.
“Want to talk about this?” I ask.
Felton scratches his head, swallows, and nods.
“Here? Or want to go back into the living room?”
His eyes move around the space, as if just now recognizing where we are. “Yes,” he answers in a whisper.
I follow him in and we take seats on the couch. Before I can ask him anything further, his phone rings. Felton flinches almost violently. I can see him curl in on himself as he reaches for it where it sits on the coffee table. He looks sick as he answers it.
SIX
FELTON
The sick knotthat forms in my stomach when I look at the name on my screen makes me regret eating. There’s a very real chance that I’m going to be sick. But I answer the phone. I have to.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Badcock,” Price Davies says. I cringe at his voice. He’s angry. Always so angry. But this time, I earned his anger. “I’ve just finished with the directors and I’m passing your contract on to someone else. I will no longer be representing you. Your behavior is unacceptable and disgusting, Mr. Badcock.”
I don’t answer. My tongue feels too big.
“Silvan Vorslick will be in touch over the next few days to go over a new contract with you. There will be stronger stipulations and expectations from you, as well as a higher agent fee, because you’re a problematic client with personality conflicts. We’re taking on a larger risk with you, and that affects our public image.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
I can hear his disapproval in the sound he makes, and the phone call ends without anything further.
Closing my eyes, I try to get my breathing under control. This is fine. I still have an agent, just a different one. Is it too much to hope for a nicer one?
Before I can set the phone down, it rings again, and I nearly drop it. I haven’t heard from my father yet. I’d like to say that maybe he hasn’t seen my blurry ass all over the news, but that’s probably not it. He’s probably been too angry to call me. Too disgusted.
Until now.
Again, I debate not answering. Talking to him is stressful on a good day. But I know he’ll just keep calling if I don’t. So I hit the green button to accept the call.
“Hi, Dad,” I say.
“That’s it?” he stammers. I imagine him red in the face. “That’s how you’re greeting me? Not an apology for debasing this family? For making us all feel ashamed?”
I squeeze my eyes closed and listen to him berate me for the next several minutes. Each word is a blow I feel as if someone’s punching me. I can taste bile in my mouth now. There’s a very good chance I’m going to be sick before this call ends.
Trying to tune out his voice into background rants, I concentrate on the quiet whispers of my wind chimes. My father is louder, though. His voice drowns them out. My head spins as his voice, filled with disgust and disappointment, hammers into me like little spikes, one after another, until I’m a pincushion.
I’m going to be sick.
