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I want more.
I want everything she’s willing to give.
7
BRITT
“I’m fine, Dad. Really,” I repeat into the cell, trooping across campus.
My eleven o’clock psychology 101 class just let out for the day. The plan is to stop by the Union and pick up a protein bar for lunch before heading to the library for a few hours. I love studying at the apartment, but the temptation to pick up my guitar and work on my music is too great. I don’t know what’s going on lately, but my creative juices are flowing.
And I love it.
The heavy sigh he huffs out comes across loud and clear over the line. “I still don’t understand why it was necessary for you to take off the way you did, B.”
When a guy walking toward me snags my attention and smiles, I tug the black ball cap I’m wearing a little lower over my eyes, shielding them from view, and glance away.
“You know why I left.” This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. More like the hundredth. It would be nice if my parents could accept that I might not want to return to the life we created.
I’m ready for a change.
Even if they aren’t.
“You’ve been gone for more than six months. Linc is getting fed up with the excuses. He wants you back home now. He’s threatening to pull the plug on the show.” There’s an uncomfortable pause as his voice dips, becoming more hushed. “No one wants that to happen.”
A heavy stone settles at the bottom of my belly as I stare at the massive brick and glass building that looms on the horizon. Sometimes, I think all our lives would be better without the show. It’s become toxic. I feel trapped and stifled by a world of my own making.
But I don’t bother admitting that to my father.
He wouldn’t understand.
And even if he did, he wouldn’t take a stand against my mother.
I love my dad, but he’s content to allow Mom to make all the hard decisions that affect our lives. It’s bizarre that at twenty-two, I don’t have freedom over my own choices and need to wrestle control away from her.
When I think about packing up my life here and returning to LA, my chest constricts and my throat closes, making it impossible to breathe.
I’ve spent the last nine years working fifty hours a week with barely a day off.
At this point, I’m burnt out and tired.
There aren’t many who can say that they have a platform on the world’s stage. Sometimes I feel like a spoiled and ungrateful brat wishing it all away when there are millions of people who would kill for the opportunities I’ve been given.
I’d assumed a few months away from the bright glare of the spotlight would help quiet the restlessness that has been growing inside me. Instead, all it’s done is give me a taste of the freedom I can’t have in LA with my family.
I pull the phone closer to my mouth and drop my voice. “We’ve been doing the show for eight years. Aren’t you tired of it?”
I’ve grown to hate the cameras that follow my every move, documenting every misstep. Every embarrassment. Every ridiculous argument.
The worst part is that after a while, you become so used to them that you forget they’re there. You say and do things you never would if you weren’t so desensitized to the production staff. If it didn’t feel so normal. And when you plead with them to cut out a part, they look at you like you’re the crazy one.
“It’s our life,” he says simply. “The younger kids grew up on the show. It’s all they know. It’ll be easier to launch Cheyenne’s music career with the network backing it.”
There are times when it feels like our lives no longer belong to us.
We’re living them for the show.
Not the other way around.
So much of it is scripted.
I mean…who wants to watch the seven of us sitting around the living room, picking our noses all day?
I snort at that image.
“What’s so funny?”
My good humor melts away, leaving discontent to fill the void. “Nothing.”
“The right thing to do would be to come home and discuss the situation with your mother.”
“I’m more than happy to have a convo with her over the phone, but she refuses.”
“That’s because she wants to see your face. She wants to sit down with you in person like grown adults. Isn’t that what you claim to be?”
Ouch.
“She misses you, B,” he continues, attempting to soften the previous blow.
Unlikely.
What she wants is to manipulate me into falling in line.
And that’s easier to accomplish in person.
Sharon Benson is a formidable woman.
Even the producers are terrified of her.
Let that sink in.
“Plus, there’s Axel to consider. You just took off and left him hanging. He’s concerned about you. I actually feel bad for the guy. He says that you won’t even answer his calls or respond to his texts.”
