Page 76 of Taking It To Overtime

I open my mouth to protest and then snap it shut. She probably did, out of some misguided attempt to protect me.

“I disagreed with her Vera. I thought you should know, but, well, there were a number of reasons I didn’t push the issue.”

This time I turn, ready to demand more of an explanation, the list of reasons in writing so I can refute each one, but I can’t bring myself to speak. My father is slumped over in the chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His eyes are shut and his face is pale. There’s so muchpainthere, etched into every wrinkle, that I want to sob.

“You were in LA, living your dream. So far your mother has still been up for traveling and she was sure if we told you, that you’d—”

“Come home,” I finish for him. Because she’s right. I would have.

“You’re so happy out there, living your life, taking the fashion world by storm,” Dad sucks in a breath. “We couldn’t take that from you.”

“But Alzheimer’s is progressive.” They robbed me of time.

“We were never going to keep it a secret indefinitely.” Dad says, “The intention was to tell you before things got worse.”

I scoff. “Clearly that was a fail. Things are already worse. She thought I wassixteen, Dad.”

My words visibly hit my father and he shudders.

“I think things have moved faster than we anticipated.”

She’s getting worse. That’s what he means.

“You have to understand Vera. Denial is part of the process. Alzheimer’s is a living death sentence. Your mother knows that she’s going to lose so much of what makes herher.She’s scared. She didn’t want it to be true, and holding back her diagnosis allowed her a bit of room to pretend. At least for a little while.”

“That’s not healthy, Dad.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not, but it’s still natural. She got to make decisions that she thought would help her baby, as opposed to her disease making them for her.”

“It was the wrong decision,” I say. Dad flinches again, but shrugs.

“No,” he says. “If you got to be happy and live the life you’ve worked so hard for, then no. It wasn’t wrong. Not for your mother or me.”

I can feel the rage bubbling in my gut. I know it’s fear disguised as anger—I know that even without a call to my overpaid therapist—but I still let the words fall out, aiming them at my dad like daggers.

“I’m not happy in Los Angeles.” I say, wanting to punch holes in his moral superiority. “I don’t like my job.”

It’s like the floodgates have opened and I can’t stop, ticking off reasons on my fingers, as Robbie holds me anchored in place with his arms around my waist.

“I hate travel, but especially flying. I’m terrified of planes. I hate having to smile and be polite to every random person who assumes they know me because they’ve seen my pictures in a magazine. I hate that I’m so far away from you and Dad. I hate that I don’t know what to do next, but that my days are dwindling because my industry isn’t forgiving to women my age. And,” my voice cracks. “I hate that the cost of getting everything I thought I wanted was the one man I don’t want to live without.”

Robbie’s hands turn viselike on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh before he releases me. His breath wafts over the curve of my neck and—quiet enough that I almost believe I imagined it—he whispers three small words into my skin.

I

Love

You

Dad looks stricken, like I told him he backed over me with his truck.

“You hate your life?” He pulls his hands through his hair until the gray and white strands stand up on end.

Every single thing I said to him was true, but it’s also not the complete picture. I have Tandy. And Cooper and his husband. I have a yoga studio I like, and the weather is nice. I might hate the travel, but I love the luxury hotels. The intense grind of modeling when I just started out has slowed down. I have a lot more say in what I do and when. The personal chef is nice. If I don’t think about the meal plan she makes me follow. I have time to sleep in, read a book on my private balcony, grab lunch at Nobu, rub elbows with other famous people. And if some of those celebrities aren’t nearly as nice as people might think they are, others are wonderful.

“Hate is a strong word,” I say, “but I haven’t been happy in a while. In fact, I was trying to figure out what I should do next. There are worse things than coming home and spending time with my family.”

There’s a knock on the door and Dad straightens as a young woman in scrubs and a white coat peers inside.

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