“Do you have a lot of friends back home?” Dr. Weaver asks. She’s in a black pencil skirt and a dark purple blouse today, her wire-framed glasses sitting low on her nose. She looks every bit the professional that she is.
I wonder what it would be like to have her job. To sit down and speak with everyone here on a twice-weekly basis. How many of us sit in this very spot and insist there’s no reason for us to be here? Or how many refuse to say anything at all? Or maybe they’re rude.
I bet Caspian is rude to her.
There I go again!
“I do,” I say, finally replying to her question. “Well, I have people I hang out with, but I guess I don’t know if I’d consider them actualfriends.”
“Why is that?”
Thinking about her question for a moment, I say, “They feel surface level, the friendships. We hang out, have a good time, but never talk about anything real. I know their names, what they like to drink, their drug of choice, and who they slept with last weekend, but nothing more than that. Nothing deeper.”
Dr. Weaver jots something down on the pad of paper in her lap. “Why do you think that is?”
I don’t have to think about the answer. “Because it’s Hollywood. Everything is a façade, and everyone walks around with blinders on. If you open up to the wrong person, you’ll end up in the tabloids, your dirty laundry aired for the world to see.”
“Has that happened to you before? Ending up in the tabloids.”
Shaking my head, I mutter, “Not like magazines or anything, but on Twitter or something, yes.”
She nods. “So, have you ever had somebody you consider a real friend? A close friend?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Okay, I guess I do technically have two people I would consider close friends, but they don’t live in Hollywood.”
She smiles warmly. “And what are their names?”
“Brielle and Brynn.”
She nods, writing something down. “How long have you known them?”
“Since we were kids. We went to school together.”
The twins moved to Malibu after we graduated high school, but before that, they lived close to my childhood home. Our nannies were friends, and they’d take us to play at the same parks all the time. Thank God we all got along, because our friendship was forced upon us whether we did or not.
Growing up the way we did, it’s normal for nannies or au pairs to be a large part of our everyday lives. It’s not like in regular households, where they come and watch the kids while the parents work their regular nine to five, and then go home. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that my mom even retired from modeling. So, most of my childhood and adolescent years, both my parents were frequently gonea lotfor work. My dad’s production studio is based in Los Angeles, but it isn’t uncommon for him to travel to different parts of the country, or even out of the country, for a movie. And Mom traveled to New York for shoots and fashion shows. There would sometimes be weeks at a time when neither of my parents would be home. My nanny practically raised me.
But again, that is the norm growing up as a kid in Hollywood.
Dr. Weaver prods into my friendships a bit more before the session is up. I don’t mind these appointments, but knowing what’s waiting for me in my room has me antsy and ready to bolt. So, I do just that. Practically speed walking, I make it back to my room in about five minutes. Scanning the wristband, the door clicks open as the light turns green.
The faint earthy aroma of marijuana can be smelled almost immediately. It’s light enough that had I not known it was in there, I probably wouldn’t have picked up on it. But fuck, it smells good. Josiah left it under my pillow, along with some rolling papers.The real MVP.
Snatching it up, I also swipe the Zippo in my nightstand, heading out to my balcony. It doesn’t take me long to roll a joint, but right before I light up, a thought pops into my head. Walking back into the room, I slip on my shoes, grab my wristband, and head out the door. I don’t have to go far, though. My knuckles rap softly as I wait.
Hopefully, he’s here.
I knock once more before finally hearing some shuffling on the other side of the door. It’s pulled open a second later, Caspian appearing. He looks like shit. His not quite shoulder-length hair is greasy, like it hasn’t been washed in days, and the white shirt he’s wearing looks dingy. And boy, is heripe. His sour scent wafts around me, paired with whatever odd stench is coming from his room.
“Wow, dude. You fucking stink.”
His face screws up. “Fuck you. What do you want?”
Holding up the joint between us, I say, “Wanted to see if you wanted to smoke with me.”
“Where the fuck did you get weed?” A toothy grin plays on my lips, and he rolls his eyes. “Let me guess,” he says. “Blow job Josiah?”
“That’s the one,” I quip with a wink. “So, you down?”
