Page 16 of Dream On

That’s not entirely true.

Acting was…everything.

But the thought of stepping back in that city is a tumor in my lungs. A terminal weight.

“I wish you’d talk to me,” Mom says, her voice lowering to a whisper as her golden curls sparkle under the midday sun. “You’ve changed.”

Maybe I have. But it wasn’t by choice.

The world changed me.

Leaning back on my palms, I glance up at the sky again, ignoring the statement.

“Acting rebellious,” she continues. “Skipping classes, getting into collisions only a month into relocating. That McLaren was not cheap.”

“I saw the price tag.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so careless with these gifts we’ve given you.”

My head jerks toward her, my gaze thinning. I wave my hand around at the four-story mansion behind us, the brick and limestone and cedar glimmering with superficial prestige. “I’m supposed to be grateful for all this? It’s just a shell. A pretty lie.”

She winces. “Love comes in many forms.”

“That’s just a piss-poor excuse to relieve your conscience of your failures.”

“Stop it. You’re being ridiculous,” she dismisses, a new bite to her tone. “That’s insomnia talking. I know you’ve been up all night, doing God knows what.”

“It doesn’t surprise me you have cameras in my room.”

My mother shakes her head, her features hardening. “I don’t have cameras in your bedroom, Lexington. Your light is always on. I hear you up and about, playing your music, probably summoning spirits from the underworld.”

“Right. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Are you hanging around with those satanic kids at school?”

“I’m not hanging around with anyone.”Fuck this—I’m out. I pull myself to my feet and shake the water out of my hair, watching my mother flinch under the icy spray. “For the record, I’m not on a mission to make friends. With parents like you and Dad, who needs them?”

“Lex—”

“Tell Bianca I appreciate her selfless string pulling, but I’ll pass on the audition.” Then I mumble under my breath, “And tell her she can fuck right off.”

Mom’s voice follows me, carrying across the lush yard. “I love you.”

I wave a hand over my shoulder. “I know.”

Then I storm into the house, snatch up my key fob, and plow through the arched front door.

***

I’m not sure why I end up here. Parked in front of a cozy red farmhouse with chipped paint and droopy shutters. The acreage is vast, the trees towering, so my newly restored McLaren is mostly camouflaged by the dense foliage.

I wonder what it’s like to live like this.

To live, period.

As I crack the window, the scent of fresh hay and earth fills my nose. Chickens peck at the ground near a weathered shed, its roof sagging slightly under the weight of winter storms. The fields stretch out in a patchwork of green and gold, dotted with pastel wildflowers.

I see a figure in the distance, moving with purpose. A middle-aged woman. Her straw hat casts a shadow over her face as she tends to a garden lined with rows of vegetables. Tomatoes, corn, beans; who the fuck knows. My dietconsists of DoorDash and the occasional chef’s cuisine when Mom throws her insufferable martini mixers.