idiot.
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. I stand my ground and wait. Rick can't contain his smile. I wonder how quickly he would sell this little story to the tabloids. "Guitarist Mark Dillon and Lang Winter's daughter fight over green pool."
Mark and I stand there, just looking at each other. I can't stop the tears from streaming down my face. I hate crying in front of people, and that's all I seem to do lately. I especially hate crying in front of people when I want to look strong.
Mark's expression softens, but it doesn't feel at all like a victory.
"Rick, can you come back tomorrow?" he says, not taking is eyes off me.
Scene 22 ~ Mark
I couldn't push her any further. She has to know, though, that this house won't be a Lang Winter museum. Yes, I have an incredible amount of respect for the man. Yes, I bought this house to feel closer to him. But I can't leave a green, insect-infested pool in the backyard. At some point, Sophie will have to deal with that fact and get over it.
She goes back inside without another word. I give her half an hour to get control before I search for her. She isn't difficult to find, sitting on the floor in her closet. I push some clothes aside and sit on the floor a few feet in front of her. Her face is still pink from crying, but it seems like the tears are over for now.
"I'm not an asshole," I say. "At least, I try not to be an asshole. If you feel strongly about something related to the house or your father, I can respect that. But you can't expect me to leave things alone indefinitely."
"I know," she says quietly.
"Hell, I'm the one who wanted you to live here. I get that."
"It's OK," she says. "I was being stupid. I know we can't leave the pool like that. It just hurts."
She touches her chest as if the pain is physically inside her heart. Tears well up in her eyes again.
"Come here," I say. She won't budge, so I move closer and put my arm around her shoulders. She immediately turns her face into my shoulder and let the sobs out of her chest. We sit like that, her tears soaking my shirt, for a long time. I know she's dealt with a lot over the past six months, but something tells me that her issues began years ago. I'm beginning to see that while Lang was a guitar phenomenon, he might not have been dad of the year.
When her sobs calm down again, Sophie pulls away from my arm. She grabs a t-shirt from the floor to clean her face. Somehow, that seems funny, and I can't help laughing a little. Sophie joins in, flashing me a genuine smile for a few seconds before her expression goes serious again.
"Before Lang drowned," she says in almost a whisper. "I was having some problems."
I nod to encourage her to continue.
"College wasn't going my way, and I was questioning majoring in music. Every time I tried to talk to Lang about it, he would give me some platitude that was of no help at all. He never went to college, he'd say. Just find your passion, and that's what you'll do."
She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, like she's retreating into a shell.
"It was easy for him. He had the talent, he had the luck, and he had a network of people around him to keep him afloat. Imagine being the child of a legend. No matter what I do, I will always be compared to him. And the way the gossip mill works, when I screw up, I screw up in front of everyone, and my screw-up is ten times worse than anyone else's."
My parents are average, middle-class people. They're the ones who struggled with the new reality of having a famous son, as Never More Alone got big. I watched their privacy shrink and shrink, until my mother refused to leave the house. I had to relocate them outside of Los Angeles.
"I felt awful. I couldn't make myself go to class. The profs dropped me from several courses. I couldn't eat. I went days without a shower. I stopped answering my phone and email," she said. "I thought that I'd failed, and my life was over."
She rests her forehead on her knees
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. I stand my ground and wait. Rick can't contain his smile. I wonder how quickly he would sell this little story to the tabloids. "Guitarist Mark Dillon and Lang Winter's daughter fight over green pool."
Mark and I stand there, just looking at each other. I can't stop the tears from streaming down my face. I hate crying in front of people, and that's all I seem to do lately. I especially hate crying in front of people when I want to look strong.
Mark's expression softens, but it doesn't feel at all like a victory.
"Rick, can you come back tomorrow?" he says, not taking is eyes off me.
Scene 22 ~ Mark
I couldn't push her any further. She has to know, though, that this house won't be a Lang Winter museum. Yes, I have an incredible amount of respect for the man. Yes, I bought this house to feel closer to him. But I can't leave a green, insect-infested pool in the backyard. At some point, Sophie will have to deal with that fact and get over it.
She goes back inside without another word. I give her half an hour to get control before I search for her. She isn't difficult to find, sitting on the floor in her closet. I push some clothes aside and sit on the floor a few feet in front of her. Her face is still pink from crying, but it seems like the tears are over for now.
"I'm not an asshole," I say. "At least, I try not to be an asshole. If you feel strongly about something related to the house or your father, I can respect that. But you can't expect me to leave things alone indefinitely."
"I know," she says quietly.
"Hell, I'm the one who wanted you to live here. I get that."
"It's OK," she says. "I was being stupid. I know we can't leave the pool like that. It just hurts."
She touches her chest as if the pain is physically inside her heart. Tears well up in her eyes again.
"Come here," I say. She won't budge, so I move closer and put my arm around her shoulders. She immediately turns her face into my shoulder and let the sobs out of her chest. We sit like that, her tears soaking my shirt, for a long time. I know she's dealt with a lot over the past six months, but something tells me that her issues began years ago. I'm beginning to see that while Lang was a guitar phenomenon, he might not have been dad of the year.
When her sobs calm down again, Sophie pulls away from my arm. She grabs a t-shirt from the floor to clean her face. Somehow, that seems funny, and I can't help laughing a little. Sophie joins in, flashing me a genuine smile for a few seconds before her expression goes serious again.
"Before Lang drowned," she says in almost a whisper. "I was having some problems."
I nod to encourage her to continue.
"College wasn't going my way, and I was questioning majoring in music. Every time I tried to talk to Lang about it, he would give me some platitude that was of no help at all. He never went to college, he'd say. Just find your passion, and that's what you'll do."
She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, like she's retreating into a shell.
"It was easy for him. He had the talent, he had the luck, and he had a network of people around him to keep him afloat. Imagine being the child of a legend. No matter what I do, I will always be compared to him. And the way the gossip mill works, when I screw up, I screw up in front of everyone, and my screw-up is ten times worse than anyone else's."
My parents are average, middle-class people. They're the ones who struggled with the new reality of having a famous son, as Never More Alone got big. I watched their privacy shrink and shrink, until my mother refused to leave the house. I had to relocate them outside of Los Angeles.
"I felt awful. I couldn't make myself go to class. The profs dropped me from several courses. I couldn't eat. I went days without a shower. I stopped answering my phone and email," she said. "I thought that I'd failed, and my life was over."
She rests her forehead on her knees
Similar Books
