“How long have you and Serena been together?” “Is it true you two got married?” “What’s your father up to these days?” “Have you forgiven him?” “Have you seen him?” “When was the last time you even went home to visit?”
I hate the personal questions and never answer them. I hate the prying. I hate the rumors. I hate it all and for good reason—there are too many skeletons in my closet, too many secrets I’ve been concealing. Too many things I can’t let them taint in a world so pure that I’m no longer welcome in it.
Serena appears at my side, ready to go. She smiles, playing it up for the cameras, charming everyone as she answers what she can, answering what I won’t.
We have dinner at some exclusive private club in the Upper Eastside. Serena, having started her career modeling here in Manhattan, always seems to know everybody everywhere she goes. Some of her friends are hanging out, laughing and chatting, socialites and trust-fund assholes, sharing bottles of vintage wine and doing a few lines.
Cocaine.
As soon as the white powder surfaces, I’m making my excuse to go. These people used to be my people, too. Friends. But Serena's the only one who seems to be concerned about my hasty exit. She grabs my hand, trying to stop me when I stand, her green eyes eerily dark. “Please? Stay! Celebrate! We never get to hang out anymore like this.”
“I would... you know I would… if I could,” I say, nudging her chin as she stares up at me. “Don’t party too hard, okay?”
I leave before she can try to stop me again, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact. Instead of taking the awaiting limo and heading straight back to the hotel, I stroll a few blocks, slipping into a small bar. It’s quiet, not very busy despite it being Friday night. I find an empty stool along the edge of the bar as the bartender approaches.
It doesn’t take long, just a few seconds, before recognition happens, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t announce my presence.
“What can I get for you?” he asks, not calling me by name.
“Whatever’s on tap.”
He pours me a beer. I don’t ask what it is. I sit in silence after he slides it in front of me, wrapping my hands around the cold glass. I can smell it. It’s cheap. Not the cheapest shit, but still… cheap. My mouth waters, and I can damn near taste the golden liquid, my tongue tingling from anticipation as I stare at it.
“Something wrong?” the bartender asks after a few minutes, motioning to the beer I’m not drinking. “Would you like something different instead?”
“No, it’s fine. I just… I haven’t had a drink in a while.”
“How long?”
“Twelve months.”
It’s been a long year—longer since I touched anything harder. I’m stuck between steps eight and nine of AA, between admitting I’ve wronged people and making up for what I’ve done. You see, there’s a catch to those steps, one nobody mentions until you get there. It isn’t so cut and dry. There’s a bit of fine print to making amends that says ‘except when doing so would cause further harm’.
“So, I know it’s none of my business,” the bartender says, “but twelve months is one hell of a streak. You sure you want to ruin that?”
“No,” I admit. “Not sure about much these days.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything else. The beer in my hand is snatched away and replaced with Coke.
The soda. Not the drug.
“Been a while since I’ve had one of these, too,” I tell him, but I don’t hesitate to sip this drink. It’s heaven in a plastic pint glass. Soda does hell on the body, though, with the empty calories, the bloating. Or well, at least that’s what the nutritionist says that the studio hired to make sure I stay in shape.
“You wanna talk about it?” the bartender asks.
“About what?”
“About whatever has you almost breaking a twelve-month streak of sobriety tonight.”
I shake my head. I would if I could. It’s been eating me up inside. But what’s bothering me isn’t something I can talk about, because unlike most of what Hollywood Chronicles peddles, this is a real scandal.
“I appreciate it,” I say, taking another sip of the soda before standing up. I toss a few dollars down out of gratitude and turn to leave before I’m tempted to spill my guts and tell the guy a story that could earn him retirement-level money.
Using my phone, I order a car and step out of the bar as it connects me with a driver. Three minutes away. The second the warm night air greets me, something else does, too—a small crowd. A couple girls, just teenagers. Nobody ever gives teenage girls enough credit. They’re smart. They probably aren’t even old enough to hang out at a bar, but they knew how to track me down. No paparazzi yet, but they won’t be far. They never are.