Page 56 of For The Record

I toss her wallet between either hand. Giving it to her feels like surrender, a betrayal. But of what, of whom, I’m not sure. “Aren’t you the director of Isabelle’s new movie, Mr. Perez? I wasn’t aware that directors were in the habit of showering in their stars’ hotel rooms.”

“Skye…” My sister sounds defeated. Every defence smashed to rubble, every guard slain. Just… hollowed-out. Empty.

“I’m not leaving yet,” I say.Is he trying to get her to sleep with him?“There are some things I’d like to discuss with my sister, in private.”

Silence, I’m sure, fills the room, as neither of their mouths moves. But all I hear is the roaring in my ears, the pulse that thunders in my veins.

“My shower wasn’t working,” Antonio Perez, addressing me at last. I was wrong again. His eyes are nothing like his son’s: they’re cold and jaded whereas Leo’s are warm. “Ms. Holland was kind enough to let me use hers.”

Translation: think twice before you accuse me of anything.

Isabelle’s wallet is heavy in my hands. I pass it to her like it’s a white flag, and she still doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, she pulls me into a tight hug and whispers, “I love you, sis.”

She lets me go after a moment, leaving me with the smell of vanilla and an expression of utter bewilderment.

“We should get dinner sometime,” I say, wishing there was something I could do. Right here. Right now.You don’t have to do this, Isabelle.

I bet Antonio Perez brings women here all the time. To this hotel. This floor. No wonder I got so many looks. Yet no one said a thing. I bet it’s an open secret.

“Totally.” She nods, too good of an actress. “Well, I’ll see you. Gotta get ready for the awards show tonight.”

A broken shower in one of the most expensive hotels in L.A.? Tell me another lie, Antonio.

My flip-flops slap against the marble floor as I run down the hall, hands shaking and lungs burning. Throwing myself into the empty elevator, I push the button before typing out a text with trembling fingers.Can we meet? It’s an emergency.

#

“What is it?” Leo says when I sit down in the sticky vinyl booth of the ancient McDonald’s off the interstate that I asked him to meet me at. My stomach growls. I’ve been so consumed by my sister and Antonio Perez that I forgot it was dinnertime. “Skye?”

Leo grabs my hand. I let him, trying to wash away the images of my sister in the hotel room. She looked so lost. So lonely. We’ve never been particularly close, but whose fault was that? Hers, or mine and all the comparisons I made between us?

I take a deep breath. “Antonio Perez is your father. Right?”

I don’t know why I’m begging him to deny what he’s told me before.

His fingers tighten around mine. “Skye, you know it’s true.”

“The movie director, award-winning filmmaker,” I say, rambling on as though his response is because of a lack of knowledge or clarity, not my completely blindsiding him.

“Yes,” he says, rubbing his free hand over his face. “I’ve told you he is.”

I steal one of his fries, holding it to my lips like a cigarette. I haven’t smoked in years, but I feel like I could use a hit now. “Don’t be mad, but…”

Leo’s shoulders stiffen beneath his rumpled white button-down. His tense posture contrasts with the forced levity of his next words. “Mad at you for taking my food? Always.”

“I think your father is a perv.”

“A womanizer, you mean? I know his fiancee is twenty-two or whatever, but that’s scraping the age of consent.” Leo looks bemused, but his tone drips with bitterness, the sound steeped in years of resentment.

“My sister works on the set of his latest movie. I went to her hotel room to drop off her wallet, and…”

Leo’s expression darkens. He looks like he might punch someone, even as he gestures for me to continue, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He might frighten me if I didn’t know who he was, a far cry from the easy-going guy I know. Family brings out the worst in each of us.

“He was there. Taking a shower. He said his bathroom had issues or something, but… I’m not dumb, you know?”

“Do you think he was…” The words hang in the air between us, too heavy to be said out loud. Too toxic to materialize.

“I can’t accuse him of anything based on circumstantial evidence,” I say.

---