Now I’m pissed. I’ve bent over backward, apologized for the stupid fucking night that got me sent here until I’m blue in the face, but it doesn’t matter. Tossing the pizza crust in the box, I stand up.
“I made one mistake, Brenna. One. And it really wasn’t even my fault, yet you make it out as though I’m the worst daughter in the entire world.”
“Leni—”
“No. You know what? I’m done. I can’t do this with you right now. I have a hair appointment I need to get to.” I don’t really have a hair appointment, but I plan on making one so it’s a legitimate excuse. “Plus it’s been a long, shitty day, and the last thing I need is to be lectured by you. I’m a grown woman, Brenna. I left because my father asked me to, and I don’t want to cause him any more problems. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and listen to you try to tell me what to do.”
Right before I hang up, I lay the guilt on thick, mostly because I can…and I’m upset. “I know you work for my dad, but we were friends first, Brenna, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have the damn job.”
She says something, but I don’t hear a word of it because I mash my thumb against the screen, ending the call. Within seconds, my phone chimes with an incoming text, but I ignore it because I know it’s Brenna, demanding that I call her back.
Instead, I power my phone off, stack a few pieces of pizza on a paper plate, and cover it with plastic wrap. After I left Noah’s house earlier, I went grocery shopping and then splurged on a large pizza. I ate half of it, and knowing Noah probably hasn’t eaten anything, I planned to drop the rest off. I also picked up a box of chocolate chip cookies as a peace offering. I’m hoping if I can talk to him again, I can convince him to let me help out.
Grabbing my purse, I stack the pizza on top of the cookie box and make the short walk across the yard to his front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Then I wait some more.
Good grief. I figured he’d be slow, but this is a little exaggerated.
“Noah?” This time I knock. “It’s me, Lennon.” Nothing. The crickets might as well be chirping because I don’t hear a damn thing coming from his house—not even a big thud signaling that he’s fallen while trying to get up. I knock once more before calling it quits.
“I’m leaving some food out here for you,” I say, hoping he can hear me. Setting the box and plate down on the porch swing, I pull an old receipt and pen out of my purse and scribble a quick note.
Thought you might be hungry. Don’t eat it all at once and save me a cookie ; )
Call if you need anything.
Lennon
I scribble my number on the note, situate it under the cookie box, and reluctantly walk away.
Going home isn’t really an option. That little house is way too quiet for my liking. A few minutes later here I am, driving through town, looking for something to occupy my evening. There are all sorts of quaint shops and restaurants lining the strip, but it’s a bright neon sign off to the left that catches my attention. Whipping my car down a side street, I pull into the empty lot. A bright pink neon sign flashes TEASE.
A bell dings when I open the front door. A large, wooden desk takes up the front entrance area. A mahogany shelf is tucked in the corner, stocked with a wide variety of hair products. The walls are bright pink, and Michael Bublé wafts from the speakers, his soulful voice in stark contrast to the bright, fun environment of the salon. There are four stations set up for stylists, but no one around. I stand for a few seconds before calling out, “Hello?”
“Be right there,” a delicate voice hollers. Before I know it, a young woman, probably close to my age, walks around the corner and stops in her tracks as soon as she sees me. What I expect is a warm greeting. What I’m not prepared for is the high-pitched squeal that comes out of her mouth.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, rushing toward me. “You’re Leni Barrick! I can’t believe this.” Stopping in front of me, she looks me over as if trying to convince herself that it’s really me standing here.
For a split second I’m hopeful that I can convince her otherwise, because this is exactly what I wanted to avoid by coming here.
I shake my head no. “I get that a lot, but I’m not Leni.”
“Yes, you are,” she insists. “I would know. I watched every single episode of Raising Ellen.”
Raising Ellen was a tiny little show I starred in from the ages of thirteen to fifteen before ratings plummeted, ending my short-lived acting career—something I was absolutely okay with, but my A-list-celebrity mother was not.
How this woman recognizes me all of these years later, I have no idea. I shake my head again, but she’s having none of it.
“I’d recognize you anywhere. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Leni Barrick is standing in my salon. I have to call Rachel,” she says, swiping her phone off of the front counter. “She’s gonna freak!”
“Wait.” Without thinking, I yank the phone out of her hand and hold it to my chest. “Please don’t call Rachel,” I plead. “No one can know I’m here.”
The woman smiles. “That’s gonna be sort of hard, don’t you think?”
“Not really, no. That show ended years ago.”
Her smile drops, a look of panic washing across her face. “Yes, but people still know who you are,” she says, stepping behind the counter. She digs and digs before jumping up and tossing a People magazine in my face. “Right here you made the front page!”
“Okay, yes, I’m aware,” I say, shoving the magazine away because Lord knows I don’t want to relive that horrific memory. “That’s why I’m here.”