Page 76 of Love You Always

My siblings and I look at each other and Jax points to me. “You go.”

I nod, having no idea what to say to my dad, and fearful that he won’t even recognize me like last time. I take the stairs two at a time toward his room.

My dad doesn’t move or give any indication he knows I’m in the room. His meal sits untouched on a tray by his bed, which confirms that he hasn’t lifted his head off the pillow. Even in his most confused and agitated state, he always had an appetite.

Betsy wheels the ergonomic desk chair over to me and leaves the room wordlessly. I sit in the proffered chair and stare at my dad, who looks like he’s sleeping peacefully, which feels like a relief after so many interactions when he was angry. It also feels like a sad surrender for a man with his kind of strength and loud voice to be still and quiet. It’s not the real him.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do right now. Talking to aman who probably can’t hear me seems like something people do in movies—an unburdening, a forgiving.

The TV is turned to an animal documentary channel without the sound, and a cheetah on screen is walking through the African tundra hunting its next meal. I wonder if my dad expressed an interest in animals at one point or if his nurse just decided it was a safe thing to have on in the background. If it were me, seeing animals gnaw at the carcasses of other animals would not be relaxing, but my dad seems relaxed, so I don’t question it.

Walking over to the bed, I look for signs that my dad is uncomfortable with me coming closer to him. Sometimes he holds up a hand to keep me out of his personal space, but not today.

I take a seat on the end of his bed so I can talk with him out of earshot of Betsy, who knows enough to walk outside and give us some time alone. “Dad,” I say, watching him for a glimmer of recognition that I’m speaking to him. Even if he thinks I’m one of my brothers, it’s something. He doesn’t move. “I read your letter.”

Moving a bit closer, I think about what I want to say. I used to know when my dad was ignoring me. There were always subtle signs that he was annoyed—the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw—the same things Ella says she sees in me.

Now, he doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t understand why you did what you did with the money and the fire,” I tell him. Even if he doesn’t acknowledge that he hears me, I tell myself he does. “But, Dad, we’ve got this. We have your back. We’ll keep this place going because it’s our legacy. You built it and that’s worth something to me. I know I haven’t always said so. I mean, I guess I’ve pretty much said the opposite, but that’s just me being grouchy. It’s not that I don’t love it here.” I take a long, deep breath. “I do love it here. And I love you. But I think this place isn’t for me. Maybe it never was. And as much as I want to keep your dream alive, I think my time—mylife—would be better spent doing something else. I’ll be happier, and that’s gotta make for a better situation here. So…I guess that’s it.”

I close my eyes for a moment because I feel the hot sting of tears and I will not cry in front of my dad, even if he’s not aware I’m even here. He raised me to keep my shit together. The bed shifts, and my dad’s hand reaches out and covers mine. My eyes pop open, but he looks exactly the same as he has the whole time I’ve been talking. Serene. Expressionless. Void of personality. But his hand stays on mine—I didn’t imagine that.

Then the tears come. And I don’t care if he knows it.

CHAPTER 38

Ella

Two WeeksLater

Klieg lights sitbeneath the marquee of the movie theater in Westwood, still one of the best places for a premiere, as far as I’m concerned. The wordShimmeris exactly that in large lights adorned with flashing sequins.

A red carpet runs down the middle of Broxton Avenue, which is closed to traffic and blocked off by fake ivy-covered walls covered in sparkly lights. Overhead, an arch of champagne-colored balloons bounce against the darkening blue sky. Night can’t come soon enough for me. I need to get through the gamut of photographers and fans and slip into the dark movie theater, where I don’t have to smile and pretend I’m not coming apart on the inside.

When I invited Archer to be my date to this premiere a monthago, I never imagined the weeks that would follow, the ripping out of my heart, the sadness it’s taken all my acting training to hide.

“Ella, who are you wearing?” “Ella, I’m hearing relationship rumors. Can you comment?” “Ella, who are you dating?”

I’ve steeled myself against these questions and politely given a well-trained Mona Lisa smile. “I’ll be happy to talk about the film during the Q and A afterward.”

I pose for a few pictures against the movie backdrop, all glitter and flowers to conjure the rom-com vibe that hasn’t changed since my first starring role. I’ve made this walk from town car to theater entrance down dozens of red carpets in dozens of cities around the world. I barely need to think about what to say now, and I can focus all my attention on not tripping on the carpet.

Same old, same old.

But tonight, everything feels different.

I went back to my lawyer’s office after Archer walked away and told her she needs to lobby hard for me as a perfectly competent adoptive mother. I’m done apologizing for bad judgement calls I made in the past, and I’ve stopped berating myself for them as well.

Everyone does dumb shit when they’re young. It’s unfair for me to be held to a different standard just because of my career. And because I’m a woman.

Archer was right, even if I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and my lawyer has been doing her best to move forward with the adoption. I can do it as a single mother. No one will love a baby more than I will.

I glance up at Nancy, my publicist, who is waiting by the door of the theater to intercept me on the way in. She nods, letting me know I’ve posed for enough photos and can slip in beside her, so she can escort me to a private room. I’ll wait there while the filmis screened and enter the theater at the end for the question-and-answer session with the director.

Tonight, it all feels harder than usual. Normally, I like seeing fans who’ve come early to stand outside the velvet ropes and take photos. They wave and shout and I wave back, always grateful that they support me and my career. I’ll never take them for granted. But sometimes, a girl is just worn-out, and tonight I’m finding it hard to hide behind my smile and pretend my heart isn’t broken.

It’s not that I expected to hear from Archer after I left. And I know the last thing he has time for is to surf social media looking for tabloid stories about Callum and me, so he probably hasn’t even seen the photos that seem to be plastered everywhere and our joint statement about how our careers put too much strain on our relationship for it to work out. Evidence for all the world to see that I want more than what we had.

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