It wasn’t. I’d been planning on proposing to her that night. Instead, I broke up with her while her audience watched live. I hoped she’d received thousands of the likes she loved so much. And I’d made sure to like that video myself to show “support,” since that had been what she wanted more than anything else in the world.
Still… It didn’t look like Emily was trying to be an influencer. She only talked about her books and engaged her fans. I shouldn’t judge her for being so different in person. She wasn’t like Caitlyn, who had been image-conscious all the time and puked after meals when she thought I wouldn’t notice, then lied about it when I asked her to seek help. (I’d learned after the breakup that she wanted to tell her followers about all the rich, sumptuous meals she was enjoying while “effortlessly” maintaining a size-two body.) Emily ate ice cream, drank beer, crunched on crackers full of carbs and obviously didn’t care that her body wasn’t anywhere close to a size two. A decent publicist would’ve advised her to clean up before appearing in public so she wouldn’t scare away potential readers.
My eyes landed on framed photos of the family on the fireplace mantel. Grandma was smiling in many of them, looking happy and proud, her arms looped around the younger me and Mir. I was smiling in one, showing my braces and looking slightly dorky, even though I was doing my best to hide that from the world with a confident grin.
Nowadays, that same grin on stage made women scream and throw themselves at me. I was still me—Killian Axelrod—but Killian the Rock Star was very different from Killian the Teenager or Killian the Private Citizen.
I looked back at the photos, at my grandmother. She’d always known I’d make it big, even though some of the more pessimistic people in Kingstree told her most artists never make enough to pay phone bills. “Don’t judge my grandson’s future based on what happened to other people. He’s different. He’ll be a success,” she’d said all the time, in an indomitable tone that told everyone she knew she was right.
I should follow her advice. I shouldn’t judge Emily based on what Caitlyn did. They were different people.
Chapter Ten
Emily
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.”
I did a little shoulder dance as I hit six thousand words for the day. I could finally hear myself think now that the annoying noise had stopped. I blew on my fingers, ’cause they were smokin’!
I checked the time. Nine thirty p.m. My stomach let out a growl, begging for food. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything except some crackers in the morning. But it was hard to remember to get off the couch when I was busy with scenes pouring out of me. I never interrupted my flow when I was on fire.
But now that my belly had gotten my attention, I couldn’t ignore it. I opened the fridge. Beer. More beer. Wine coolers. Ooh, a strawberry one! I pulled it out and put it on the counter. A tub of peach yogurt…ugh. Expired a month earlier and undoubtedly toxic by now.
I rummaged through the freezer. I didn’t even have any Bouncy Bare Monkeys, having consumed the last of it for breakfast yesterday. An unopened bag of frozen halibut filets lay on the bottom. I couldn’t recall why I’d purchased them. I liked seafood but almost never cooked it, generally for lack of time. When I did have time for a relaxing meal after meeting a deadline, I ordered takeout or delivery because usually I couldn’t bother to exert the effort, especially when it was just for one person and I loathed cleaning up afterward.
The two or three diners and takeout places that existed in Kingstree were closed now. That was one disadvantage of living in a small town. But I still had Animal Crackers. They were nutritious enough. They’d sustained me in college and business school, and they could sustain me now.
I opened a new bag and grabbed a few. I bit off the head of a lion first, then washed it down with the wine cooler. After several bites, my stomach quit grumbling so much. I let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. Couldn’t do better than the current combo for a quickie dinner while on a tight deadline.
I’d polished off at least two fistfuls of crackers when my phone rang. Shit. It was Mom. She understood I shouldn’t be bothered when I was on deadline, but she didn’t care when she desperately needed somebody to talk to about family drama, a.k.a. “What did Dad do now?”
It couldn’t be about anything underhanded he was doing to sabotage my career, because we’d already figured out the One-Star Hit Squad. So…was he “working late” again? Did he go home without showering first at a hotel?
Mom wasn’t stupid, just in terrible denial about her marriage. I took another big swig of the wine cooler because it wasn’t the kind of conversation anybody could have while sober.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. My voice sounded flat, even though I was aiming for friendly. Shit.
Instead of saying hello, Mom sobbed. “Oh my God, Emily!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked with all the sympathy I could scrape up, although I already knew. This was her standard greeting every time she caught Dad cheating.
“Your father. His shirt smells like perfume!” She sobbed harder.
All the jubilation at having written six thousand words vanished, and the familiar feeling of resignation and pity settled over me. She just noticed that today? Didn’t he always smell like perfume?
“I was going to do a load of laundry, and…and… It was so strong. I’m devastated,” she continued. The sound of her blowing her nose came through the line.
This was going to be a looong call. “Mom…”
“It wasn’t my perfume!” she yelled like a wounded animal, then cried again.
“Why do you put up with this? With him?” It was the same question I always asked. Futile, of course. She’d only ever given me one answer. But I hoped she would finally open her eyes and see the light, because it was frustrating as hell that she was calling me instead of kicking him out, dumping all his stuff in the front yard and setting it on fire. It was the least he deserved.
“Where would I go? What would I do?” she wailed.
Annoyance welled like poison. It was the same answer she always gave. And I knew exactly what she’d say next.
“A woman’s place in life is next to her husband,” she added, at the same time I muttered it. “Wait, what did you say?”