“It’s not necessary,” a soft voice interrupts from behind me. I turn to see Kendall, the color drained from her cheeks, standing in the doorway. She’s wearing her dress from last night and an expression on her face that says she’s heard everything.
My dad curses under his breath. “Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry if this all sounds calculated, but we’re in a calculated business.”
“No.” I turn and face my father, my finger pointed at him. “You don’t talk to her.” I tap my finger to my chest. “You talk to me.”
Turning quickly back to Kendall I add, “And you listen to me. Not him. Me. Everything you just overheard? I’m not doing any of it.”
My father barks my name, but I hold up a hand to silence him without taking my eyes off Kendall. For some reason my statement puts a weary smile on her face. She folds her arms and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “You’re not going to let me down easy?”
“No. I mean…” I drag in a deep breath because dammit, this is an unfair situation—to both of us. “I’m not going to let you down at all. I don’t need damage control—”
“I do.” The smile turns sad as she pushes off the door so she’s standing on her own two feet. “You’re strong, Vaughn. You’re so close to perfect it hurts just to look at you sometimes, but I’ve got imperfections—big ones—and they’re mine to keep. Defending myself against scores of people I don’t know?” She shakes her head, a little desperate now. “I’m not up to it. I may never be.”
I take a step toward her. “It wouldn’t be like that.”
“It would be exactly like that,” my father insists.
“You’re fired.”
“What?”
“Vaughn…”
“No.” I cut them both off before everything spins further out of my control. “You need to get out,” I say to my dad. “You’ll always be my father, but as of this minute you’re no longer my manager.”
“Don’t, Vaughn. Your dad is trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection from—”
“I can’t do this.” Kendall backs up, like if she exits the office everything will suddenly snap back to normal. Like she’s the destabilizing force, instead of me, or my father, or our fucked-up relationship that I should have found the strength to fix a long time ago.
“This isn’t your fault,” I assure her.
“Maybe not, but I didn’t think things through when I started seeing you. Spending time with you felt so good, I forgot about the outside world enough to ignore the consequences. I mean”—she lets out a hollow laugh—“there weren’t supposed to be any consequences, right? We’re temporary. Something fun for the summer before we went our separate ways. This thing between us was special because it wasn’t complicated. Neither of us signed up for complicated.”
“Fuck sign ups. Kendall, I care about you.”
“I care about you, too. But it’s not enough. Or maybe it is, and this is where we end things, caring about each other enough to let go.”
“Stop. Stop right there because that’s bullshit. Fuck anybody who thinks our personal lives are any of their business.”
“If you care about her, you’ll listen to what she’s saying,” my father mutters as he rounds the desk. “You might think I’m too prone to expect a crisis and too cold-blooded in the way I choose to avert them. Maybe I’m too protective of you. But this time, Vaughn, your reputation and career are not the only things at stake. The young lady has risks, too. Risks best mitigated by getting in front of the story at just the right moment, picking precisely the right outlets and interviewers to tell your side. Doing it correctly is a goddamn tightrope act, and one slip can mean the media chews you up and spits you out. Are you prepared for that?”
I want to answer, “Hell yes. Make the calls now,” but he’s not asking me. It’s Kendall he directs the question to, and she’s pale as a ghost at the very idea of discussing her most devastating experience with strangers.
“I have to go.” She’s already in motion. “I’m sorry.”
I start to go after her, but she turns tearful eyes to me and freezes me to the spot with four little words.
“I don’t want this.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kendall
Actions speak louder than words.
All morning, I can’t get the thought out of my head. The trite phrase is like an incessant knock on a door that can’t be opened. One monumental teenage mistake and it doesn’t matter what I might say or how sorry I am. Not that I would ever excuse my actions. I take full responsibility for driving under the influence. But to be judged so harshly without the slightest possibility of understanding cuts to the bone.