Maybe going out doesn’t sound so bad after all, even if it means seeing my father.
I startat the first party, which is just a bunch of guys lounging around a pool, with women in swimsuits taking selfies.
That leads to another party. I only stay for an hour.
Which leads to the Chateau Marmont event at happy hour. This is my third event and it’s not even dark out.
A girl hands me a shot. I don’t remember her name. She’s a friend of a friend of an acquaintance.
She leans close. “Drink up, handsome.” She does her shot without a wince. Without expression. She’s wasted. I can tell it’s not just alcohol she’s had.
I recognize it. Because I spent years doing the exact same.
Instead of tossing back the shot, I take a sip of the beer I’ve been nursing. She gets even closer and blatantly rubs me through my jeans. “Or we could go somewhere else more private,” she suggests.
“Thanks, but no.” I step away from her. Even if I weren’t dating Allegra, I wouldn’t take this woman up on her offer. I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the years, but I’ve tried to learn from them.
I turn away from Sammy? Sandi?
And that’s when I see my dad. He’s standing by the bar, still with his famous tan and golden hair, nursing what I already know is a whisky. It’s the family drink of choice.
I force myself to take one step after another until I’m standing before him.
“Sebastian! This is a surprise.” His face is set in the same expression it always is when he sees me. I’ve analyzed that look a thousand times, hoping to find a glimmer of warmth, a flicker of love there. But today, as usual, it’s closed, guarded, a familiar, strange sort of resentment somewhere beneath the surface.
“Not really. I live in LA,” I remind him lightly.
“It’s you at a critic’s event that’s surprising.” He laughs as if what he said was a joke.
Which it’s not. My father has always been derisive about my acting career. He earned his first Academy Award at the old age of twenty-four. My grandparents were also critics’ darlings, also earning their Oscars early. An Academy Award is a rite of passage in my family, and my father has never let me forget it. For him,Rebels Academywas low-brow plebeian entertainment, and my status as a teen heartthrob was beneath the Blakes. He feels the same aboutThe Wanderersfranchise.
But then again, he resents most everything about me. It only got worse after I inherited my grandparents’ estate.
And why might that be? His resentment would make sense if…I cut off that thought before it fully forms.
“I was invited for the movie I did with Herzan,” I say, trying to sound blasé about working with the prestigious director. Trying not to sound like I want to impress my father.
“Oh. That little film. You weren’t the lead, were you?”
I really should study the many and myriad ways he has to make me feel small. It’s impressive.
I take a breath and pray for patience. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m leaving for Paris in the morning. So there’s no time to get together.”
I wave my hand. “This will be quick. I want to talk about Mom. She says you two are thinking about trying again. But she doesn’t need another toxic go-around with you.”
His lip tilts up into what should be a smile, but isn’t. “You will be happy, then, that your mother is quite mistaken. But you know her, she believes what she wants to believe. Anyway, why do you even care?”
It’s a good question. One that I don’t answer. I sip my beer, wishing to hell that it were stronger. I’m sick of this game that my parents play with each other and with me. Talking to my father only leads to blunt-force trauma and more questions than answers.
He leans back against the bar and eyes the scantily clad women walking by.
An event photographer interrupts our reunion, wanting to take photos of the rare father-son sighting. When the photographer is done, my dad rushes away with one last cutting remark and a cursory goodbye.
An hour later, I still feel… dirty… as if I need to jump into a fresh lake to get clean.
I’m about to leave when Brett Danners walks toward me with an uneven gait.
