Page 87 of Show Off

As I drop my hands to my sides, he pulls me close. “I love you, too.” As I burrow against his chest, my head fills with the thrum of his heartbeat. I feel safe. Supported.Wanted.

He draws back and searches my eyes. “You want me to tell Korain to fuck off with the wine, or are you up for a drink with my family?”

“I’m up for it.” Honestly, it sounds nice. Family time that requires nothing from me besides lifting a glass? “I could use the break.”

“We’ve got you, girl.” He puts an arm around me and reaches for the doorknob. “Call on Team Yang for all the breaks you need.”

Warmth curls in my chest like a cat settling down by a fire. This right here? It’s what I’ve wished for my whole life. Unflagging support, paired with trust that I know what I’m doing. A willingness to step in if I need it.

It’s a fine balance I’m not even sure my siblings have mastered. “Thanks,” I murmur as he leads me down the hall.

“No problem.” He kisses the top of my head. “You can always count on me.”

CHAPTER12

CONFESSIONAL 1179

Yang, Dal (Head Chef, Serenade: Juniper Ridge)

Sometimes, my dad talks to me in dreams.

Stupid, I know. This notion that dreams mean something. Like some foggy midnight brain film where I’m naked, flipping burgers on a spaceship, is supposed to reveal my life’s meaning? That’s not how dreams work.

Still.

My dad says stuff to me. “Take care of Ji-Hoon. It’s our duty as strong men to care for the people who need us.”

I’ve had that dream more than once.

It might be less weird if Dad wasn’t wearing a chili pepper costume.

* * *

No wonder Shirleen Judson’s so famous.

That’s what I’m thinking as I stand just offstage and watch Lana’s mother charm the pants off Jamila Jarrett.

“You didnotjust say that.” Jamila’s doing her bit as every woman’s best girlfriend, while Shirleen flirts with the camera.

“You’d better believe I did.” Lana’s mom waves a manicured hand. “Oh, and that’s not all.”

Beside me offstage, Cassidy Brooks shifts closer. Shirleen’s assistant joined us for the taping, and she leans in now to whisper. “The producer specifically asked her to share that story,” she says. “Then everyone acts all shocked and scandalized.”

I watch Shirleen, who’s playing her part as the saucy septuagenarian. Not that she looks her age. “Ten bucks says they’d never have a male actor do this schtick,” I mutter. “The oversexualized senior citizen bit.”

“You’re right.” Cassidy blinks with surprise. “Tell me you know Hollywood without telling me you know Hollywood.”

We both fall silent as Shirleen wraps up her tale and Jamila shakes her head in feigned disbelief. “Girl.”

“What?” Shirleen flutters her lashes, casting a glance at her daughter. Lana smiles easily, her mother’s little savior. “All my children grew up knowing Mommy doesn’t use a body double. Breasts are just breasts, Jamila.”

A laughing Jamila looks at the audience with her trademark droll smile. “I don’t know about you all, but I never went on a movie date where my mama might show up topless on the screen.”

The audience laughs, and Lana laughs with them. She’s wearing a sundress with fluttery sleeves in the palest peach lace. To the untrained observer, she looks breezy and calm and completely at ease with the cameras.

I’m no untrained observer.

There’s a stiffness in her shoulders, a dullness in her eyes, that tells me Lana would rather be anywhere else than onstage filming the Jamila Jarrett show. Even her fingers—the tips painted pale peach—seem to be resting so lightly on the arms of her chair, but I see what cameras don’t show. Her knuckles, white as the bone china teacup on the table beside her.

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