Page 84 of Sixty Days Of Summer

When we arrive at the back entrance of the studio, I spot Daisy right away, nervously biting her nails as she waits. Her anxious energy radiates off her, and it’s clear this is hitting her just as hard as it’s hitting me. The urge to shield her kicks in—she’s doing all this for me, willing to step into the spotlight and dig up painful truths just to set things straight, to finally lay everything bare.

“Are you okay?” Scarlet asks, just as the driver steps out and approaches our door.

I shift my gaze from Daisy to Scarlet, and the worry etched on her face hits me hard. I know she’d rather I walk away if this is just going to open old wounds, and that makes me love her all the more. But the truth is, I’m already carrying the weight of this pain, whether I confront it or not. Facing it head-on might be brutal, but it’s something I need to do if I’m ever going to find some peace.

“Yes,” I say softly as I lean in to kiss her on the lips. Just the feel of her warmth makes everything a little less heavy. If she wasn’t right here beside me, I know this would be so much fucking harder.

Stepping out of the car, I automatically extend my hand to assist Scarlet, a gesture that has become second nature for me recently. Once she’s out, our fingers intertwine as we walk towards Daisy.

In the past two weeks since reconnecting with Daisy, we’ve been talking every couple of nights, and that old childhood bond is starting to resurface, bridging the years and distance between us. It’s like we’re slowly piecing together what we once had, finding familiarity in each other all over again.

Daisy flashes me a smile, and I can’t help but return it, even though my cheeks ache from the effort. That’s another thing I can’t quite wrap my head around—I’m actually smiling more these days. The grumpy asshole I used to be seems to be fading away, and I know it’s all because of the woman standing beside me. Scarlet. She’s broken down the walls I used to hide behind, and, somehow, I’m starting to believe it’s okay to let this happiness in.

I let go of Scarlet’s hand and stride over to Daisy. The moment I’m in front of her, I pull her into a tight hug, holding her close as if I can absorb some of her tension.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, trying to convince myself as much as her.

“Yeah, I know,” she replies, her voice steady. “We’ll get through it.”

With Daisy by my side and Scarlet right behind us, we enter the studio. The place has that all-too-familiar, clinical vibe—cold, bright lights glaring down and an overwhelming silence hanging in the air. A few crew members mill about, setting upequipment. A young girl clutching a clipboard approaches and asks us to follow her.

Once we’re ushered into a private room, the tension in the air thickens. I sink into a chair, and Scarlet sits beside me, her hand resting gently on my knee. But I can’t bring myself to look at her; the anxiety is gnawing at me, coiling tighter with each second, dragging me inward. It’s like there’s this restless beast clawing from the inside, making it harder to breathe.

Daisy sits in the chair opposite, her leg bouncing up and down like she’s trying to shake off the nerves. The room feels too small, too stuffy. Then, the door creaks open, and a woman walks in, holding two small microphone packs.

“Hey, I’ll get you both wired up,” she says, her smile practiced but failing to reach her eyes.

She starts with Daisy, clipping the mic to her blouse and adjusting it until it’s just right. Daisy shoots me a nervous glance, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

When the woman turns her attention to me, I force myself to sit still as she attaches the mic to my shirt. Her hands are quick and efficient, but she keeps talking, her voice fading into the background as my focus drifts elsewhere—on what’s about to happen and the messy reality we’re about to step into.

“There you go,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “You’re all set.”

I nod, afraid that if I speak, I'll lose control. My mind races with a million thoughts, and all I can do is hold onto the hope that I'll keep it together long enough to make it through this.

A few minutes later, a crew member pops into the room, giving us a quick nod. “Follow me, please.”

I take a deep breath and stand up, squeezing Scarlet’s hand one last time, needing that connection before we step into the unknown. Daisy falls in step beside me, while Scarlet hangs back, her worried gaze lingering on me as we begin to walk.

The harsh lights hit me the moment we step onto the set. Everything is blindingly bright, and the layout is typical of every talk show—simple, pristine, crafted to make you feel utterly exposed. My eyes settle on Jerry Goldman, already perched at the big desk with that smug expression glued to his face. But then I look to the side—and freeze.

Sitting to Jerry’s left is the woman responsible for all my pain—my mother, with her wannabe biker husband beside her. She’s perched there like she belongs, and my breath snags in my throat. No one warned me she’d be here. No one mentioned she’d be part of this. The thought of facing her through all this twists something deep inside me.

A crew member guides Scarlet to the side where she can watch the shit that's about to unfold.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” the same crew member says, approaching Daisy and me, snapping me out of my thoughts. He gestures to the two empty chairs on Jerry’s right, and I feel Daisy’s hand slip into mine.

She gives me a gentle tug, guiding me toward the seats. I let her lead, my eyes still darting between my mother and the man beside her. Each glance only heightens the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

When we finally reach the chairs, I sink into the one closest to Jerry, while Daisy takes the seat next to me. I can’t tear my gaze away from my mother, the questions and raw anger churning violently inside me like a storm ready to erupt. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—this wasn’t the moment I envisioned. But here we are, trapped in this nightmare, and there’s no turning back now.

She sits there with a chilling casualness, that smug smile etched on her face as if she’s relishing every second of my torment. It’s a smile that twists my insides, igniting a deep, consuming rage that threatens to break free. Just seeing hermakes my skin crawl, every beat of my heart pounding with fury and betrayal I’ve kept buried for far too long.

The studio lights are blinding, and the noise around me fades into a low hum as the crew finishes setting up. I try to focus on anything but the fact that she’s right there, watching me. My fingers dig into the armrest, gripping it tight as I fight to stay grounded. I feel Daisy shift beside me, her discomfort palpable as she glances at our so-called mother.

The crew moves around us, barking quick instructions and adjusting equipment as they prep for the show. A producer steps into my line of sight, holding up a hand and counting down with their fingers—five, four, three, two, one. The countdown looms like a dark cloud, and I brace myself for the shitstorm about to hit.

The red light on the camera flicks on, and Jerry Goldman’s voice slices through my thoughts.

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