Page 66 of The Sun and Her Star

“Please stop talking,” I groan. I am not in the mood for this lecture today. And I know he’s right.

“I’ll give you a break. But, just because it’s your birthday. I’ll also change.”

He sniffs his armpits and screws up his face. “Should probably shower, too.” He strolls out of the kitchen without a second glance at me.

He’s right. I’ve been in a bad mood a lot lately.

I should be happy I have the night off and I’m going out with my best friends.

Everyone thinks I have this amazing life. I mean, look at me. I have a nice car. I have famous friends. I’m making good money. Who wouldn’t be happy all the goddamn time?

Sowhatif my life is devoid of any real joy? Whocaresthat I’m starting to forget what my dreams used to look like? I should be fucking grateful.

Because you know … I’m a personal trainer who spends more time fucking his clients than he does helping them get fit. That’ssomuch better than teaching and inspiring kids and making love to the girl who owns my heart.

In my darkest moments, I think my stepfather was right. Life outside of Cain’s Weeping feels like hell on earth. At least there I still had my fantasy that life on the other side would be great.

I didn’t imagine it would be easy. But, I’m not afraid of working hard. I spent the first fifteen years of my life getting the shit beat out of me and starved for days at a time by a sadistic sociopath. What could be worse than that, right?

At first, it was great.

And then, it justwasn’t.

My life has been consumed by a rolling avalanche of shit that I feel like I’ll never get out from under.

Apollo’s presence in my life had been a reminder of who I used to be—who I wanted to be. Now that she’s gone, I’m only surrounded by people who are focused on living the largest life they can.

I just want to be happy. I didn’t ever feel called to do anything like swim, play soccer, or play the violin. I just want to learn and then go teach. That’s not even a possibility now. What school would hire me?

Who knows what would have been if my mother hadn’t needed me? But, I would do it again if it means my mother can have the care she needs.

I ’m justsofucking tired.

I’m working for Nanette five days a week and spend the other two days running errands for Mama.

I feel trapped in a life I never wanted.

My friends are great, but I can’t confide in them. They know I’m working to take care of my mom. They just don’t know how. I wouldn’t have been able to look them in the eye again.

“Let’s go.” Dave comes out of my room dressed in a black turtleneck, black slacks and has his dark red hair styled to death.

“Did you use the entire jar of pomade?” I burst out laughing.

“No, asshole. Not all of us have magical hair,” he says with disgust. “If I don’t put this shit in it, it’ll be all over my head by the time we get to the restaurant. One of the terms of my contract for the Tom Ford campaign is that I must never be photographed looking less than immaculate. It’s a pain in my ass. Before I signed the contract, I thought it was a small price to pay for a couple million dollars and free clothes for life.”

He stands in front of the mirror in my hallway and stares at his reflection in disgust. “What’s left of that couple million after taxes isn’t worth the fucking hassle of getting dressed every time I leave my house. I went to the drug store yesterday. My agent called and said I’d been photographed in my sweats, shower shoes, and a white wifebeater. And that I looked tired.”

“Poor you,” I scoff and grab my jacket as we head down to the waiting Uber.

As soon as we close the door, Dave pulls out his ringing phone. “Shit. Sorry man, I’ve got to take this.” He accepts the call and starts speaking in rapid fire Italian.

I tune him out and watch LA go by and wonder how the fuck I ended up feeling like the kid standing outside the store window. Looking at everything he wants but can’t have.

After graduation, when I didn’t have classes or exams to keep me busy, Nanette capitalized on my growing visibility on Instagram and with my friends. She worked out a deal with agents and movie studios. In it, I’m the silent, beautiful red-carpet date or lunch companion, the plus one at her sister’s wedding, or for the B-list actress who doesn’t want to look like a total loser when she shows up alone.

I was supposed to smile adoringly at her, hold her hand, and keep my mouth shut.

I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being a prop—as well as a whore. I would make more money, but how would I explain it to my friends, who thought I was making all my money training the rich and famous, if I suddenly started popping up in pictures with all of these random actresses?

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