"So, what's your escape plan?"
"This movie. They agreed to let me executive produce it if I would also star in it. I figured if I could get my name in as a producer, it would help build my credibility, and eventually, someone might sign me in some role that doesn't require being in front of the camera."
"Well, I hope it works out for you, Hotshot. Everyone deserves happiness, especially if that means doing the one thing you were put on this earth to do."
I smiled, silently thanking her, before saying, "And what about you? What were you put on this earth to do?"
"I don't know yet. I'm still figuring that out."
Chapter Six
~Leah~
The piles of dried leaves scattered all over the curb crunched under my tires as I pulled off the street. I looked out onto the disheveled yard. Mountains of acorns and twigs were scattered everywhere —reminders that winter was just around the corner. The grass was a mile high, and I knew my father probably hadn't stepped foot outside since the last time I'd visited. Or if he had, he had just been too drunk to notice his yard looked like a scene from The Addams Family.
I hated visiting my father. It was just one giant reminder of my childhood and how much it had utterly sucked. I was constantly being compared to a woman who he had both hated and loved with every fiber of his being. I was a never-ending reminder of the wife who had left him behind and the mother who hadn't wanted me. But it was Thanksgiving Day, and as much as I hated the man, he was my only family. Someone should check on him, and unfortunately, that someone was me. This was the part of my life I didn't share with most people. Not even Clare knew everything that went on in this house, and I intended to keep it that way.
Bundled up in a long wool sweater to combat the cooler temperatures, I hiked up the driveway and let myself in, not bothering to knock. He wouldn't hear me anyway. He was probably still passed out from the night before. The familiar stale stench of alcohol filled my nostrils, and I tried not to gag. God, I hated that smell.
When growing up, most children usually attributed certain memories with scents —the intoxicating aroma of their mother's homemade cookies, the way the house smelled after the freshly cut Christmas tree was brought in. For me, this pungent aroma of alcohol summed up my entire youth in one poignant statement. Booze was my father's best friend, lover, and soul mate. There was no other room for anything else in his life after my mother had left. He used it to fill the emptiness, regret, and anger that had consumed him.
I was just the byproduct that had come from it all, and I had been left to raise myself from the age of seven. If it weren't for Clare and her family, I didn't know how I would have survived. They had shown me what love was, and I had sought solace in their arms every second I could.
"Dad?" I called out into the silence.
No answer.
After dropping groceries and supplies off in the kitchen, I made my way through the dingy house, picking up trash along the way before depositing it into the overflowing trash can. As I went, I made a mental list of the things I needed to do before I left. Emptying the trash was the first on the list. I finally found my hero of a father slumped face-first on his twenty-year-old faded orange sofa. His clothes looked about two days old, and from the smell, he probably hadn't bathed in at least four days.
"Dad, wake up," I said a bit louder, reaching down to shake him.
He finally stirred, looking confused through his bloodshot eyes. He cocked his head toward me, taking a few moments for his sight and brain to sync before he figured out it was me.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too, Dad."
"Come to rag on me some more, girl? That's all you do when you come around here," he muttered.
"I brought you groceries. Today is Thanksgiving Day. Did you know that?"
"Why the hell would I care about that? Do I look like I got anything to be thankful for?"
I ignored that question. Instead, I decided to go and unload the groceries. I first went through the fridge and pulled out all the expired items, which was mostly everything. I put in the lunch meat, cheese, and milk I'd bought, and then I placed the bread on top of the refrigerator. I took out the trash next and replaced all the liners with fresh ones, knowing they would all be full of bottles and empty take-out containers the next time I came. Social security being spent wisely no doubt.
Hearing shuffling, I turned to see my dad enter the kitchen. He seated himself in one of the old wooden bar stools at the counter.
"You bring me any liquor, girl?"
"No, Dad. You know I don't buy you alcohol."
"You got any money then?"
"I'm not giving you any money, Dad," I said calmly, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
"Then, what the hell good are you?" he roared.
I flinched, knowing it was now time for me to leave. No good had ever come from this argument, and I'd learned my lesson before. I folded up the grocery bags and headed for the door. As I turned the handle, I took one last look at my father, seeing him hunched over the counter. His face was buried in his hands, and he looked about twenty years older than his actual age. I'd always wondered what life would have been like if he had just let her go. If he had been able to man up and be the father I so desperately needed him to be...but he hadn't. And this was the life we'd both ended up with.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Dad," I whispered before quickly walking out the door and taking my first full breath in minutes.
I cried the entire way home.
Hands covered in sticky dough and flour, I groaned when the sound of "SexyBack" by Justin Timberlake filled the tiny space of my kitchen. It was Declan's ringtone.
"Great," I muttered, looking down at my dough-covered hands. I tried to clean off at least one hand, so I could answer the phone without getting dough permanently stuck in the crevices.
"Hello?"
"What are you doing?" Declan's sultry voice asked.
"Making an apple pie."
"Mmm...from scratch? That's kind of kinky."
I laughed, loving the American Pie reference. "You and your manly parts stay the hell away from my pie, Hotshot!"
He chuckled, and we delved into a longer than necessary conversation about how the original movie was the best and none of the other ever compared. We were definitely products of our generation if we could have a ten-minute conversation about American Pie.
After our movie discussion was done, a silence took over, and I suddenly wondered why he was calling. Since our evening of babysitting, our arrangement had gone back to normal. We hadn't hung out or had any lengthy conversations. I got the hint that Declan was trying to keep space between us after last week, and as much as it had kind of stung, I understood. He was someone I was quickly starting to see as more than just a f**k buddy, and that could definitely complicate everything. He was easy to talk to and fun to be around. I felt at ease around him now, and I guessed he was probably feeling the same thing.