| CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
| the way things are

ɴᴏʟᴀɴ ᴍᴜʟʟᴇɴ

"Good morning," Ella said as we met in the elevator.

Ella's room was right next to mine, and since she was my on-screen girlfriend we had lots of scenes together, which meant we met in the elevator a lot.

"Good morning," I replied, rubbing my eyes under my glasses. My eyes were strained from the night before, when Oakley and I ended up talking a little longer than intended. He only just got back home and was still excited from his performance two days ago, it's like he couldn't wait for Sonarstice. It was the first time I saw Oakley perform willingly, and it was like he was completely in his element. He belonged on stage, I thought it was beautiful.

Oakley got to sleep in the next morning, though. I wasn't so lucky. We started filming at seven this morning, which meant being on set at six, which meant it was way too fucking early.

"You look tired," she noted.

"It's that obvious?" I said, followed by a yawn.

"Yeah, you look like a panda bear. What's got you up so late?"

"I guess I just wasn't tired," I said, keeping it vague. We finally reached the first floor and made our way to the car. "Good morning," I greeted the driver, who only nodded in acknowledgment. He must've been tired as well.

"Well, can I ask you something?" Ella asked. She dropped her backpack in the backseat and then sat down next to it. I followed, checking the time on my phone before closing the car door.

"Yeah, sure," I said.

"You're only eighteen," she started. "The things they're making you do... doesn't it feel weird to you?"

She picked at her nails, scratching at her cuticles. She would do that a lot, asking a question about work while looking around her awkwardly.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, the role you're playing is a lot more... demanding I think, than mine," she said, her hands resting on her knees as though she was in a meeting. "Penelope takes care of six kids and all that, but it's just a role. At the end of the day, I was just pretending. But it's different for you. It might not be coke you're snorting, but you're snorting something. You might not be groomed, you an older man is still putting his hands on your body."

"You said it yourself. At the end of the day, you're just pretending. But it's not pretending to me," I explained. "I'm not me when I'm Caspian. I am Cass. You're Penelope. Jeremy is Mr. Burns"

It had always been like that for me. Acting was easy because I wasn't pretending as realistically as possible. When I was little, it was a means of escapism. I liked having different lives, I liked the predictability and the endless chances to do things over. I liked how things would always turn out alright in the end.

I only ever saw my characters from a third perspective when reading them, and mostly when watching my scenes back. It was always like a shock to my system, watching myself be someone else.

"So it like... never messes with your mind?"

"It does sometimes," I admitted. I'd noticed that some scenes would leave me emotionally drained afterwards, not just today, but ever since I was small. I had periods of grief when a character died, which lasted for as long as it took to start filming the next scene where my character was not grieving. "The trick is to accept it, and let go fully on no-work days."

"You're doing a great job," she said. "It gives me the chills when we have scenes together, like the one of tomorrow.

"You're doing really well too," I said. She had almost become the kids' real big sister. They loved her.

"Thanks. But I don't think I'm anything near what you can do. It would be traumatic."

"Well, you're sixteen. There's enough time."

She smiled and nodded, staring out the window as the driver pulled up to the parking lot of the set.

•••

"Do you have a girlfriend, actually?" the hair stylist, Bianca, asked.

I had zoned out listening to her talk about her long-distance boyfriend, and problems she didn't realize would be a thing. It wasn't like it was uninteresting. She was usually very entertaining, but I was so tired today. Thank god today shouldn't last too long.

"Oh shit, I forgot I wasn't allowed to ask," she said, spraying a ton of hairspray in my hair, covering my forehead with her hand. I tried not to laugh to prevent inhaling the spray.

"It's cool," I said with a shrug, leaning back in the chair. Maybe I would've told her if I knew her better, or if I knew it wouldn't be a big deal, or if Ella and Jane weren't sitting in the back of the room waiting in the room to get their hair done as well. "Are we done here? I haven't had breakfast yet and I'm really hungry."

"Yes. All done," she said, taking a step back to look at me from a bit of a larger distance. "You know what you should really do once you're finished with this?"

I shook my head, getting up from the chair. Jane sat down next, watching me the same as Bianca did.

"You should go darker," Bianca then said, fiddling with my hair a little more. "Maybe not very dark, just some lowlights. It would make your eyes pop. Don't you think, Jane?"

Jane frowned, sitting back as Bianca took her ponytail out. "Take your glasses off?" she suggested, and I did. I had to put in my contacts in a bit anyway. "Yeah, you got really pretty eyes. Why are you always hiding them behind those?"

"Thanks," I said softly as the attention was diverted away from me. I put my glasses back on. "I don't wear them that often."

"You always wear them when you're not required to have contacts," Jane noted.

Did I start wearing my glasses more often? I hated wearing them, yet somehow I hadn't noticed them being on my face that much at all. But now come to think of it, I really did come in with them on every morning. And on days off, I never wore contacts anymore either.

Maybe Oakley had subconsciously beguiled me into wearing them more often, so my eyes were only visible from up close, where only he would be able to see them filled with nothing but love.

My boyfriend likes them, I wanted to say. My boyfriend, Oakley Carrillo, the singer with a voice so divine it could've been Orpheus'.

"I think I look good in them," I said, raising my shoulders, though I knew my suppressed smile and red-tinged face did give away something.

They looked at each other and grinned, but didn't comment on it.

•••

It wasn't until noon that I finally got a break. I wanted nothing more than to get some lunch and take a nap, but Whitlock pulled me aside as soon as the scene ended.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked. The man's skin had gone pale, as though he was worried about something. "Are we off schedule? Did I mess up the last scene?"

"It's nothing about your performance. You did great, Nolan. But we got a phone call. Your dad will be here in ten minutes."

"What?" I frowned, crossing my arms. "Did he say why?" He hadn't spoken to me since the day I left my house. He hadn't called, he hadn't even texted. What could he possibly want?

"I hoped you'd be the one to know," the director said. "He did mention he wanted to see you."

I sighed, looking down at the ground. An awkward silence followed which I didn't know to fill. I couldn't ask him to send my dad away, no one dared to. He was too big of a name.

"He flew over from London for you," Whitlock offered.

"I really just... I don't want to see him."

Whitlock's eyes softened as he placed a hand on my arm. "Maybe he wants to apologize for whatever made it so?"

"He doesn't need to," I said. What he said was shitty, but he was right in a sense. He shouldn't have had children, because he had never been a good father. "I'm not angry with him. I just have no desire for him to be in my life."

The man gave me an encouraging nod. "Tell him that. Perhaps he'll understand."

Ten minutes later, I was standing across from my dad in one of the school's rooms. It wasn't a classroom, it was probably a teacher's lounge, considering there was a coffee machine and round tables set up with multiple chairs. My dad had been sitting on one of the chairs when I walked in.

"How have you been?" he asked, standing up from the chair to meet me at eye level.

He didn't look much different from the last time I saw him. The only thing that changed was his hair, as he hadn't touched up his grays. Other than that, he'd remained the same. The same old green eyes, and the same short-trimmed beard, and the same permanent lines etched into his forehead.

"Fine," I said, my arms crossed. I was leaning against the door, wishing for the conversation to be over soon so I could be the first out of the room. I didn't want to waste time playing catchup. "Why are you here?"

"To apologize," he said. "When I told you I never should've been a father—"

"That's not what you said," I interrupted him. "If that were the case, I would've agreed with you."

He went silent for a moment just to speak again.

"When I told you I never wanted a child," he corrected himself, "I didn't mean to imply that I don't love you. I was pissed because of something at work and I took it out on you. But you are my only child, and I want nothing more than to be a good dad to you."

His eyes were filled with hope, as though he truly believed he could be a father to me still, especially after all I've been through.

"I used to try so hard, you know?" I told him. "When I was little, I tried so hard to just get you and Mom's attention." Maybe if they were ever there for me, I would've never been so fucked up. They should've protected me better. Maybe I wouldn't have been high on a regular basis at age fourteen. Maybe I wouldn't have dated a guy who liked to use me for my body and nothing else. Maybe I wouldn't have ended up with this horrible anxiety making me trace every single step in advance, driving me to insanity at times.

But I was in a good place now. I was at peace knowing my parents just simply weren't the best. I'd been clean of drugs for over a year and a half. I had an age-appropriate boyfriend who loved me in every way I needed, and who I loved in every way possible. Even his home felt more like home to me than mine ever had.

"Apology accepted," I said.

"Don't act like this," he said, shaking his head.

"I'm being serious," I said. "Apology accepted. I don't hate you. I'm sorry I told you that, because I don't. You're still my dad."

He looked at me with a blank stare.

"Just know that we will never be a normal family," I said. "We will never have the kind of bond a father and child should have. But that's not bad; that's just the way things are."

He nodded, still standing tall. "Okay," he said, chuckling. "I'm glad you don't hate me. Since when have you become so wise, Nolan?"

"Oakley told me that words shouldn't hurt so much coming from someone you hate," I said. Oakley had been right. I didn't hate my dad. I wanted nothing more than to be loved. But my parents' love didn't look like that of others.

"You picked a good one. I'm glad he makes you happy."

I smiled. Oakley was good for me. It was the one thing I didn't doubt for even a second.

"I got you this," my dad said, taking a box from the chair next to him. "It's for your birthday."

"But that isn't in another month."

The red box was about the size of a half a sheet of letter paper, with a card neatly tucked under the ribbon. "Maybe you'll want to open it now, maybe you'll wait until your birthday."

I took out the card. It was simple. It said 'Happy birthday' on the front in golden letters and it had an image of a cake. I opened it up, and my dad had written the note himself. I could tell by the janky handwriting and smeared ink.

I trust you. Happy birthday, Nolan. Make the best of your last teenage year.

-Dad

I moved on to the box, opening it up. In it was a set of keys. Next to it was a book: Whispers in Wilderness. It was thin and small, maybe I could finish it in a day or two.

I took out the keys, and they looked familiar, like I'd held them before.

"What are these?" I asked.

"My keys to the beach house, and all the spares."

I frowned. "But I already have those. Did you forget?"

My dad shook his head. "Your mom and I decided that we were wrong in not trusting you, so they're yours now."

It took me another minute for it to sink in, but when it did my eyes widened. "Oh wait, you want me to live there?"

He nodded. "Only if you want to, of course. Ot you could sell it and buy something else. But I think you'd like having the place."

I looked down at the keys again. I now had all the keys to the place, but I obviously didn't need them all, so I took a copy of each and handed them back to my dad.

He frowned at first, and I realized I hadn't told him whether I'd take them or not, so I told him: "It's probably best if you keep a spare."

A corner of his lips moved up slightly, and it felt like the first time in ages I felt like he seemed happy.