F I V E

LOS ANGELES, CA

          Being back in California is a fever dream.

          I haven't seen this place in person for so long that part of me doesn't believe I'm actually here, but the steady pressure of Sadie's hand on my arm keeps me rooted to reality when the plane lands. We fly commercially, as I'm not important enough to own a private jet and we care about the environment far too much to be flying around for no reason, but we remained unbothered throughout the entire flight. Granted, I've been wearing a baseball cap and a hood over my head, not to mention the sunglasses, but I'm not a household name that justifies taking all these precautions so I won't be recognized.

          Sadie senses my discomfort. At least I want to believe she does, like pet owners truly believe animals can feel human emotions exactly like they do, and they project all these characteristically human experiences onto their pets. If I do it, if I believe in her humanity, it makes me feel not as bad about landing in LAX.

          "How are you feeling?" she asks, hand still set on my wrist as we head towards the baggage claim area. It's more of a gentle squeeze to my wrist bone than anything else, but it's the most affection I've gotten from her after all this time, so I don't make any snarky complaints about it. "I can feel your pulse racing. I have water."

          "I think I'm about to throw up," I murmur, which isn't a lie, but it's also not a perfect match to the truth.

          Truth is, I'm not entirely sure how I'm feeling. Ever since I first left California, ever since I stumbled into a therapist's office and swore them to secrecy under the threat of a lawsuit, I've been experiencing feelings and emotions I can't describe in detail. It starts with something freezing cold spreading across my chest, swimming through my bloodstream, and lodging itself in my nerves. It's a rush of blood to the brain, so fast it knocks me off balance, and it has made me black out on occasion.

          When I come to my senses, I'm shaking like we're in the middle of a blizzard. Luckily for me, it usually happens when I'm by myself, but Sadie has witnessed this firsthand, being nearby to ensure I didn't hit my head. Before losing consciousness, I'm overwhelmed by the weight and pressure of the air around me, the incessant buzzing in my ears like there's an entire swarm of wasps in my brain, and the terror of knowing something terrible is about to happen to me has me heaving on the spot.

          I can't identify what triggers these episodes or how to make them stop, but I can usually detect them once they begin. It doesn't do me any good to know when they're happening considering I can't stop them, so my brain is a hostage of itself.

          Nausea is easy to explain. Everything else is not—especially those things that are exacerbated by being in California.

          "Look at me," Sadie asks, pulling me back by an arm when we stop by the baggage carousel. "Harley."

          "I don't want to be here."

          "We can talk about the whys later. Right now, I just need you to look at me."

          I don't want to. The second I look at her, all her humanity will fade into the busy air of the airport and we'll go back to being Harley-and-Sadie, client and agent/publicist, and that's not what I want from her. I'm not sure I can ask her for anything more, not when she's been keeping me at arm's length ever since I first signed that contract and she made it clear she's not here to be friends with me, but she's all I have. Maybe I can fool myself for a little while longer, make up this entire narrative in my head where she came to California with me because she cares and is worried about me.

          I exhale.

          "What?"

          She steps in front of me faster than my brain can properly process what's happening, and cups my face between her cold hands. To outsiders, this may almost pass as a caring gesture. "Look at me. We're getting out of this airport, and we're getting you something to eat. You're shaking in 74-degree weather, so I know this isn't because of the cold." I make the mistake of looking down at my trembling hands, courtesy of my episode and the unhealthy amount of caffeine I consumed on the plane, exclusively through the occasional cup of coffee and cans of Diet Coke. "This isn't sustainable. You know that. Whatever happened in this place, you can't Gone Girl your way away from it."

          She's a hypocrite and she knows it, but we don't make any additional comments about that. Ghosting people is her modus operandi; I don't think she'll ever go as far as Amy Dunne-ing her way out of any situations, but I won't put it past her entirely, either.

          There are plenty of things I can do right now, some of them including a lightning-fast purchase of a plane ticket back to New York, but my guilt keeps me anchored in place like a beached whale. People are staring now, either because I'm making a scene by behaving like a moody child or because they somehow recognize me from TV or whatever streaming service is broadcasting my face. Like that's not enough, like I don't embarrass myself in airports enough, this is a constant reminder that I could very well be walking towards the guillotine and be feeling the exact same way.

          Reality isn't anywhere as dramatic and I'm not on the way to my public execution in the literal sense, but the person I was in Los Angeles is dead and buried, completely different from my New York persona, and it never does anyone any good to revisit the past. I keep my doors locked and swallow the keys—the poisoning from the rust is an adequate consequence.

          "We'll only be here for a week," I tell Sadie, stepping back from her grasp. For a brief moment, a semblance of an emotion flickers across her eyes and I know she feels bad for me. She feels bad for me like you feel bad for a stray dog, moving along with your business as soon as it's out of sight and you can't be held responsible for it. "Once we go back to New York, we won't speak about this place. Whatever roles I book, we're filming there. I'm not coming back here, even if it's the end of my career."

          She purses her lips together. "That's not up to you to decide."

          "Good. You're fired. Now it's up to me."

          Sadie lets out a frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes so hard I'm amazed as to how they don't fall off their orbits. "Don't be dramatic. You know you need me."

          I do. I won't tell her that to her face, but I do.

⊹˚. ♡

          Sadie managed to snag a beachfront Airbnb in record time, which I'm simultaneously grateful for and amazed by.

          I've never mentioned to her how much I miss the beach, the feeling of the scorching sun kissing my skin, or even the simple act of taking a stroll by the sea as the sunset coats the horizon in shades of orange and maroon. I lived by the ocean for the great majority of my life, taking for granted the salty breeze in my hair and the way sea foam clings to the naked skin of my ankles when I dare to dip my toes in shallow water.

          I'm left to my own devices after I've been fed, with Sadie, being the biggest workaholic I know, wanting to do some sightseeing and build connections she can use for her other clients. I could stay inside and regain my energies, knowing I'll be drained as soon as I have to spend as little as five minutes with my family, but it's too beautiful of an April day to waste, and, even if I walk down the stairs leading to the beach, I'll still be close to safety. There are families around and groups of women, who are trained to notice when one of them is in danger, and I'm placing my blind faith in them in case I get approached by a stranger.

          The sand is warm under my bare feet, not scalding, and it's like walking on scratchy clouds. Breathing in the sea breeze is the far opposite of inhaling the New York smog and clogging my lungs with cigarette smoke, and I almost feel like a different person. New. Refreshed.

          Going to New York provided me with a fresh start, at the expense of everything I used to be and love, at the expense of the child my father used to love. I got everything I've ever wanted—a blank slate, a tabula rasa, a career I'm growing to be proud of—but I can't have it both ways. I can't have my New York version and still be the person my father has always wanted me to be, the person he thought I was.

          I grab a handful of sand, just enough so I can still close my hand into a fist, and let it fall like an hourglass on my knee. I changed into a pair of shorts before leaving the rented house, astonished by how pale my skin has gotten after being shielded from the sun for so long, and I know I stand out like a sore thumb. It's still April, but the beach is crowded, including with the regular surfing crew, and standing out when you want to blend in is hardly productive. My physical appearance has changed enough for strangers and acquaintances to not place the pieces together and find a connection to nineteen-year-old me, but my family is still here. Everyone who has ever wronged me is also still here.

          I was the one who taught Michelle how to surf. I have no idea if she still does it or if she dropped it after I left, with no one to share that one thing with; I could lie to myself by assuming she held onto surfing as a way of remembering me, but we also didn't part on the best of terms. We were angry and said things to each other we can't take back; if there's one thing we do well, it's holding grudges.

          Sighing, I get back up, wiping the remnants of sand from my jean shorts. A flash of pink in the distance catches my eye, standing out from in between the blues, the oranges, and the yellows, and, though a siren blares in my brain to alert me of how bad of an idea it is, I still turn to follow the pink.

          I see her then, coming out of the water with her surfing board, and see her when she rejoins a group of other girls to strip off her wetsuit to stand in her bikini. Her hair is slicked back from the ocean water, the shade of pink that fades into dirty blonde as the dye grows weaker, and, for a second, I'm convinced it can't be her—she would never do that to her hair. The girl I used to know would never ruin her hair with dye; salt water and sun rays are the world's natural dyes and bleach.

          She sees me, too, like she feels my stare glued to the side of her head. I'm not sure she recognizes me at first, but, the longer we stand there staring at each other, frozen in time, and everything in me urges me to run away.

          I do try, but beaches weren't made for runners, and I'm not that great of an athlete. She's following me—I can feel her presence behind me, though I don't dare to look back over my shoulder to check—and my hand presses against my tote bag, where I keep my phone. Sadie's personal number is meant for emergencies only, which this certainly classifies as.

          "Are you just going to keep running from me?" she asks, exasperated, when I stop by the stairs.

          I scowl, face half-hidden by my hair and baseball cap, and glance back at her. "Go away."

          "I got here first."

          "Real mature, Michelle."

          "Says the mature one, who has been gone for years. Does Dad even know you're back?"

          "No, but I'm guessing you're aching to run off and run your mouth." I grip the railing with a firm hand. "If you'll excuse me."

          "No." She walks around me in a blink, stopping on the steps in front of me, and stretches her arms to hold on to both sides of the railing so I can't get past her. "We're talking."

⊹˚. ♡

michelle my beloved (don't mix her up with michaela thx)