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Marlow

The house was left open, a cheese sandwich sits like old times on the counter, and my room is just the same. Not that I expected much to change in a ten-thousand-square-foot house. I doubt my dad or Lorie have visited this wing of the house in years.

But it’s still weird being here, especially alone.

Since the hospital said visiting hours were over, I had to decide between a hotel and home . . . is this my home?

I know the answer. This isn’t my life anymore. Jackson isn’t here, so it’s not home.

I set the plate on the vanity and push my suitcase sideways on the floor.

It’s just after nine o’clock, but I’m exhausted from traveling.

And I missed a call from Jackson while in flight.

I call him back, but it goes straight to his voicemail.

I don’t like this game of phone tag. It leaves me confused and a little hurt.

Flying into LA is one of my least favorite things to do. With the paparazzi everywhere, I usually mentally prepare as well as physically, but this time, I don’t give a crap. Let them get their awful pictures if they want. I don’t care. I’m only here for one reason. My dad.

I don’t eat carbs much, though Jackson’s gotten a few in me, but I take a big bite of the sandwich. I haven’t had one of these sandwiches in years. As I bite into it, I’m reminded of the simple pleasures in life, like cheese between two slices of white bread with just a little butter on the inside.

When I left the city in such a hurry, I grabbed what I had on hand, pulling the clothes from hangers without much thought. Throwing them in the suitcase without being choosy was probably not my best move. Standing in front of the open suitcase, though, I realize I didn’t pack any pajamas.

My dresser is still against the far wall. It makes me wonder if the clothes are still folded neatly inside, just how I left them behind. I don’t even know if I could fit into anything I wore back in high school, but it’s worth a try.

I settle on a T-shirt I bought at a music festival and a pair of shorts that have the word spoiled written across the ass.

Holding them in front of me, they look small, but it’s my only hope, or I’m sleeping in my underwear.

It’s better if I’m dressed in something more rather than risk the staff walking in on me in the morning.

After stripping off my pants and blouse, I rub my feet. Traveling in heels is not ideal, but my mind was muddled when I was rushing to get to the airport. Once I brush my teeth, I wash my face, keeping my routine. Routine is good, but this isn’t mine anymore. The routine, sure, but not the place.

My emotions have been running rampant, bouncing between the fear for my dad’s health to how Jackson and I left things. Leaving without talking to him wasn’t something I wanted, but I tried my best before almost missing my flight.

It’s the anger, though, the pain my dad caused that kept me from calling him over the past six months, suddenly feeling like a privilege I shouldn’t have assumed I had.

Guilt answered that call from the housekeeper.

Otherwise, I would have let it go to voicemail.

It’s been out of sight, out of mind for the past few months.

The distractions were a nice reprieve, but were they just doing more damage in the long run? I had to face my father sometime. I just wish it wasn’t under these conditions.

It’s so hard for me to reconcile the pain he’s caused. I thought it was about the money, that the money being ripped away under lies and manipulations was when I hit rock bottom.

It wasn’t.

It was living without any family.

Somehow, I manage to smile through all this chaotic mess just from the thought of Jackson. He’s done his best to fill the holes my parents left. But that was never his job, and he shouldn’t have been stuck doing it.

I climb under the covers of my childhood bed and rest my head back on the pillow.

As I stare up at the white canopy, the little plastic stars I attached when I was eleven still glow for me.

I didn’t have many creature comforts despite being raised in luxury.

There was a nanny down the hall, but I had the stars to keep me company at night.

Now I’m alone.

In this room.

In Los Angeles.

On this journey.

I miss the constant that is Jackson.

There was too much time to think on the flight, but the nugget I pulled from the chaos is that for the past two months, I’ve been trying to make up for all the years we lost. Was it my way of telling him thank you? Maybe.

Selfishly, I regret not giving him a chance sooner.

Highly probable.

Jackson St. James is so much more than I could have ever asked for, but I think I failed.

I failed to realize that he wasn’t loving me because I existed, or because I was simply there living in his space.

He loved me because our connection has been built over the years.

The stones we started laying from the moment we met have paved the way for us to be together.

What happened last night?

I don’t understand why he felt he couldn’t tell me. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt because I know he’s always trying to protect me. He made a decision, though, and instead of letting me in, he chose to keep me out.

Where does that leave us?

It’s a conversation we’ll have sooner rather than later and an issue we’ll need to address because this doesn’t leave me any less confused on where we stand.

We have to be there for each other when one of us needs help.

That’s what he’s done for me. He’s been there, so I don’t understand why he didn’t allow me to return the favor.

Closing my eyes, I try to settle my mind. It’s easier to give in to it than face the worries that I might lose my dad.

The long day takes hold, and sleep drags me under.

I add the tip in the app and get out of the car in front of the hospital. Tucking my phone into my purse, I take two steps toward the door before stopping. It’s early, not even seven o’clock, but I wanted to be here before visitation hours.

Now I’m questioning if I’m still dreaming.

I look up at the hospital sign and then back down at my mom standing at the entrance—hair pulled back away from her face and wearing an army-green jumpsuit with flats. It’s a casual look for what I’m used to when it comes to her.

I put on light makeup with jeans and a sweatshirt, so she’s more dressed up than I am.

“Hi,” she says with a slight wave of her hand. She remains where she is, looking out of place.

“Hi,” I reply, walking closer but stopping with a few feet between us. “What are you doing here?”

She’s not quick to answer. Talia always did things on her own timeline. I tuck my hair behind my ear and lift my sunglasses to the top of my head. Huffing, I say, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to check in.”

As soon as I pass, she says, “I loved him. Just so you know.”

I stop or rather my feet do. Maybe my breath does a little, too.

She says, “I didn’t marry him for money. I know you think I did. That gold-digger story wasn’t worth the effort it would have taken to clear it up. Your dad used to laugh about it because he knew the truth.”

I still have an hour before visitation opens, so I turn around and ask, “Do you want to get a coffee?”

It’s not big, but there’s relief in her smile. We walk to the corner and cross the street. As if the conversation was never interrupted, she says, “We met when he was a struggling film student. I know this information is out there, but I want you to know what’s real and what the truth is.”

We place our coffee order, and then we move off to the side.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around that my mom is here, even after how our meeting in New York ended.

When our names are called, I grab our cups and head back outside to sit at a table on the sidewalk.

She says, “You have always had so much more to offer than I ever did.” Sitting forward as if she’s going to confess a sin, she takes the top off the cup, and then says.

“I saw you as competition instead of my daughter.”

She looks at me and then to the paper coffee cup again. The confidence and swagger she carried the last time I saw her has all but vanished. I might even detect a note of humility. It’s not a characteristic I’d usually associate with her, but it’s a nice change.

“That’s too bad.” I’m not sure what else to say to her.

“He cheated on me. That’s why I left. There were many over the years. I’m not telling you so you hate him or to justify my actions. I own everything I’ve done. I left because I felt like nothing. I was a supermodel, and a man managed to make me feel like I was nothing inside.”

“His cheating had nothing to do with how you looked. It had to do with how he felt. I’m not defending him, but when you left him, you left me.”

“You’re stronger because of it.”

“I don’t want to be stronger. I wanted your love.” I stand, looking at the hospital until I can calm down. When I do, I turn back to her. “You got what you wanted. I’m stronger, strong enough not to need your love anymore.”

I only get five feet away when she says, “I’m sorry, Marlow. I’m sorry for hurting you and not realizing it at the time. After that, it was too late.”

Whipping around, I ask, “Was it? Was it really too late to make the effort for your own daughter?”

“You tell me. Is it too late for us to start over?”

The question throws me off-kilter. I wasn’t expecting to see her, much less deal with our issues in a public confrontation this morning. And before coffee.

I’d love to give her an answer right now, to lighten the burden even if she is the one who saddled it around herself. I just don’t know if I’m in a place to do that just yet.

“I need to go because I want to be the first visitor to see him. But I’ll think about what you said and that you made the effort to be here.”

She stands and comes to me. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes, I’d like that.” We embrace, and at that moment, I have clarity. “Everybody deserves a second chance, but don’t blow it.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I start walking again but stop once more and turn back. “Will you be here later?”

“No, honey. I won’t.” She sounds more unsure than she’s ever been, but I believe her words. “Life can be hard sometimes, Marlow. No matter what happens, make sure you can stand on your own. Because you’ll end up alone with nothing.”

I think she needs to work on her words of wisdom. We part ways, and I cross the street to return to the hospital. This time, I check and then go to the waiting room until my name is called.

It’s eight o’clock, and I stand to go check in with the nurses at the main desk again. “Can I see him?”

“Let’s get you back there quickly,” the nurse says, coming around the desk. “We’re about to take him into surgery, but I think it’ll be good for him to see you.”

We rush down the hall on a mission. She’s giving me an overview of his condition, but I’ll have to wait to talk to the doctor to get the details. When she opens the door, she lets me enter, and then says, “He needs to remain calm.”

“I’ll make sure he does.”

As soon as the door closes, I hurry to his bedside and take hold of his hand. Memories of when he would take me to movie sets come flooding back. We would walk around holding hands while he introduced me to everyone. He was as proud as a peacock back then.

Not much about his hand has changed other than the size of mine tucked inside it. His eyes slowly open, and when he sees me, he says, “Marlow?”

“I’m here,” I say, pushing all the pain away and focusing on this moment instead.

He cracks a smile. “They’re not letting me out of this place today.”

“No. You’re going into surgery shortly, but I’ll be here waiting for you to return.”

“You always were a good girl.” This time, there’s a pause. I’m not sure if he’s thirsty or thinking about other things. I can’t help him because he can’t have water before surgery, and I don’t know how to fix his problems or heal him. I just know how to be here.

A nurse comes in, greeting both of us as she starts prepping him.

Our time is winding down, so I say, “I’ll be waiting. I’ll be here until you’re out, and then I’ll come see you. Okay?” I get choked up, and tears start filling my eyes.

I’m about to take a step back, but his hand tightens. “Just in case I don’t make it?—”

“You’ll make it. For me, you’ll fight. Will you fight for me?” I know what I was asking, but the double meaning feels right to ask of him now.

I’m not granted the words or promise, just a hand squeeze in return before he says, “My legal team protected your trust fund since it was never opened, and I was only a secondary beneficiary.” Shock comes in many forms, but for me, I’m standing here speechless.

His other hand covers mine, and he adds, “It’s available to you to claim, so you can have the money and start over on your own terms.”

My own terms? I’m not even sure what that is anymore or what that means for Jackson and me. There’s so much to sort through.

My mom’s words bobbing around my head don’t make it any easier to determine.

The nurse looks at me and then nods once. “You’ll have to return to the waiting room, ma’am. We’re on a very tight schedule.”

I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I love you, Dad.”

Now he’s the one with tears in his eyes. “I love you, too, Marlow.”

I walk through the sliding doors. I have hours to worry about him and don’t know where to go. In the small garden by the corner of the hospital, I sit on a bench and stare up at the blue sky that reminds me of Jackson’s eyes.

“Is this seat taken?”

I look over to see him sitting down beside me. “I’m saving it.”

“Oh, yeah? For whom?” Jackson nudges my leg.

“You.”