Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“Do you want to come to Isla Mujeres with me next week?” my mom offered, sensing the dark turn my thoughts had taken. “It’s a music festival. Could get your mind off of…you know, everything.”
The thought was tempting. My mom’s latest passion was a tropical rock band, and my mood could use some uplifting twang. I shook my head reluctantly. “I have to work.”
“Because you need the money?”
I stiffened, knowing where she was going with this. “Yes,” I said shortly, hoping that would stop this conversation in its tracks.
A long pause, and then delicately, “Julian doesn’t just have a right to know about his baby, Willow. He also has a responsibility.”
I don’t know if my mom realized it or not, but she was using the exact same tone of voice she used when she suggested I ask Fletcher for something I needed or trade on his name. I’d taken that advice more times than I should have, and I’d regretted it every time. Never more so than this time, though.
“I’m not going to live off Julian’s child support payments,” I said tensely. “You didn’t live off Fletcher’s.”
My mom inclined her head gracefully. “No. I had too much pride. I often wished that I had taken more from him, though. Every time I had to work instead of chaperoning your field trips. Every time I missed a school play or your spelling bee because I couldn’t take leave. I wished I’d had a little less pride and a little more...” She shrugged, unable to find the right word. “Darla never had to make that choice,” she finished simply.
I considered her words, I really did. Intellectually, I understood her message, but I couldn’t wrap my heart around it. Taking more than I needed would feel like being paid off, and I wouldn’t let Julian pay me off. Not ever.
So I went to work the next day and didn’t say a word about the new addition to our crew. Miller was shooting at the skatepark. The first half of the day was Michio practicing gravity defying tricks that twisted him into the air, high above the concrete, spinning him like something out of a Matrix movie. I’d seen him do similar things a couple dozen times by now, but this time it felt different. I watched his mother’s face instead of his and wondered how she could stand it.
The second half of the day was shooting a scene between Michio and Brendan. They were both tightlipped about the specifics, but apparently it was a recreation of a real fight they’d had. They’d had it three years ago when Michio was just starting to eclipse Brendan in talent and prestige, but Miller wanted to use the energy to heighten the drama before the Olympics.
Afterward, watching the dailies, Miller said triumphantly, “You can always tell when it feels real to him. The kid isn’t a good actor, but he’s a natural at recreating his own emotions.”
I nodded. I’d noticed the same thing. “It’s a strange thing to do,” I mused. “It’s like you’re fictionalizing his life as he’s living it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Miller said. “But it’s not strange. People do it all the time. They just do it to their own lives through social media with a bullshit filter and no narrative. Michio’s doing it with a director extraordinaire–” he paused to preen for a moment “--and he’s actually telling a story instead of just showing a highlight reel.”
“Kind of like reality television,” I needled, unable to help myself.
Miller gave me a black look. “Watch it. I know you’re hungry to be part of the All the Dying Light crew.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat. He was right. I had been dying for that opportunity. I’d wondered a hundred times whether I’d get to do it or whether the charade would be up by then. I’d known it probably would be, but I’d hoped. I’d really, really hoped that somehow things worked out for the best. I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined them turning out like this.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” Miller said, annoyed at having to spell this out. He didn’t like too much emotion unless it was happening in front of the camera. “You know I don’t care if your last name is Laurier or James or fucking Putin.”
“Maybe you don’t, but the boss does.” I got a grip on my emotions and pulled the lid over them tightly. I managed a careless smile, like it was no big deal. “Besides–” I started, then hesitated. Now was the ideal time to tell Miller I was pregnant, but something in me wouldn’t let me say the words. Once Miller knew, all bets were off. It could stay my secret for as long as I kept it, or he could casually mention it to the next person he saw. Discretion wasn’t exactly his strong suit.