“I’ll see you downstairs,” I said.
“Wait.” She turned the TV back on. It was paused on an old episode of Behind the Music. I swallowed reflexively and turned my eyes to her. I knew this episode. I’d lived it.
“My dad,” she said.
“You don’t have a father.” The stupid Instagram post where she talked about being a bastard. The headache from Friday. I couldn’t have possibly thought it would be swept away so easily, could I?
“It’s Grant Kidd, isn’t it?”
I squinted at her. “Honey . . .”
“The timeline matches up.” She pressed play and the picture on the TV jolted forward.
Merry Gloss had a number of PR issues that the other girls took issue with—most notably her romantic entanglement with then-married Grant Kidd of the Grammy-nominated alt-rock band Illuminated Eyes, for which Gloss was an opener in 2001. Grant had been famously married to Hollywood bombshell Marisa Marcheesa when Merry and Grant started their torrid affair while on tour . . .
“Turn that off,” I snapped, reaching over and grabbing the remote from her hand. “It’s trash.”
“I deserve to know,” she insisted. “I know I’m not really fatherless.”
“We won’t discuss it now. Come downstairs and eat. But don’t believe everything the tabloids want to sell you.” I slammed the remote down on the floor, where it bounced on the carpet and skittered under her bed.
Raul was concerned when I returned to the kitchen. “You left so happy and returned with a storm cloud over your head.”
I swept by him, ignoring the perfectly brown toast with the perfectly red strawberry jam and stalked to the coffee machine to pull myself an extra-strong cup.
“Maybe she should know,” he said quietly. I had told Raul, of course.
“She’s not the picture of discretion, is she? She’s too young and has a motormouth and she will learn when she’s eighteen.” I slammed the cup down on the counter and shoved it under the spout. “Or old enough to show some sense. Which may be never.”
“She is asking now,” Raul said gently. “I do not want to interfere too much, but she is my daughter now. And I think it would be wise to let her know more about herself—and to let her know more about her mother.”
I watched the coffee pour as he stepped next to me and clasped my shoulders. His lips were feather-soft as they touched my temple. “I will go out to find some new running shoes and will be gone for a few hours. You and Soleil can have the house to yourselves.”
I nodded, thinking.
How do you live knowing the real version of yourself, while every other person in the world thinks they know a different version of you? Can the fake persona eat your real self, mimic so many of your truths that her falsehoods become your reality?
Raul was right, though. I did not want my daughter to know the constructed version of Merry that was out in the world. I wanted her to know me. But how much could I tell her?
ONCE THE TESLA was out of the garage, I went back up to Sunny’s room. “We need to have a talk,” I said.
She sulked. “I don’t think what I did was wrong.”
“Justine had to clean up your mess—”
“You’re the one who should be saying you’re sorry!”
“Do you know how much of a headache this has been, for years—”
We both stopped and glared.
“There is no point in trying to dig up the past,” I said. “Your father did not stick around. I raised you myself from the first doctor’s appointment. Emily is more of a father than he was. So I would appreciate it if you would drop it.”
Her voice rose into a whine. “It’s not fair! Everyone else has a dad.”
I held up a hand to stop her from going further. “I know you won’t drop it, so I am willing to give you enough information that you stop telling people that you are a . . .” I didn’t want to say bastard.
“Mom.” Her brow furrowed. “Everyone else has a dad. Even if”—she raised her voice higher as she saw me take in a breath—“Even if they’re divorced or adopted or whatever, they know. I don’t get why you won’t let me know about my family history.”
“All I can tell you right now is that your father is not Grant Kidd. I’m sorry.”
“But the timeline—”
“Grant and I were over before you came along. I don’t want you to bother a man who is completely unconnected with you. I will tell you the full story when you are older. I promise.”
I saw her shoulders slump, her neck bend forward. Her lash line started to blush as tears glistened on the rims. Her pale hair shivered as she began to cry in frustration. She looked like my tiny Soleil again, small and blotchy, round-faced and wide-mouthed. I knew how she felt. I wanted to let her feel everything and know everything. But she was only fourteen and there would be time enough for heartbreak in the future.
I stretched my arms out for a hug, but she ducked and squirmed away. Just like that, she was back to being a long-legged teenager who escaped her room and darted down the stairs. My body sagged onto her bed as my eyes raked over the photo albums still cascading across her carpet.
That bastard. That fucking bastard.
23.
March 2002
L.A.
Cassidy
Our second tour was only a month away and everything became more intense: training, choreography, meetings, vocal coaching, wardrobe fittings. My phone stayed busy with dings and rings, and I even had a fax machine installed at my house for updated schedules that rolled in at six in the morning while Penny barked at it. I was so on edge all the time that I developed insomnia, while Rose had some sort of perfection-related anxiety. Peter palmed off prescription-strength sleeping pills to mitigate my new problem, and Rose got Xanax.
Awards season crept up as we were nearing the end of our album production. In February, Gloss’s eponymous debut was nominated for two Grammys, but we didn’t win either. We were working with Jake Jamz again to get our second studio album, its second single, and its music video out on time, so, though we attended as a group, our focus was elsewhere and the letdown wasn’t very bitter. We knew Prime was the better album.
As the plans for the tour continued to ramp up, seeing Stephen St. James at Big Disc’s office became a regular occurrence; he was cutting a new album and had meetings as well. We would brush past each other in the lobby or down a hallway, him going one way and the rest of us flowing in a different direction, and yet each time I still felt the jolt of seeing that roman nose glisten under a fluorescent light. He would give us a nod when we passed, a short jerk of his chin while his eyes swept over our faces and—I thought—lingered on mine. There was something about being in his presence that made me feel tense and fluttery and small.
On one of the days that I was running late to a meeting and alone in the hallway, our paths crossed again. This time, instead of Stephen’s gaze pinning on mine and then shifting away, he grinned. Hesitatingly, I smiled back. He slowed down, and I did too, so that we were walking toward each other as if our meeting had been planned. “Say,” he said, when our feet drew close.