Page 11 of Now Their Starlet

Ever since I started seeing Nancy, my therapist, a few months ago at the encouragement of Beck, I’ve been questioning Gina’s parenting style. It took me far too long to figure out that what she was doing wasn’t normal.

But Gina has always played such an all consuming role in my life, even after I moved out of this god-forsaken home, that I never had a chance to question it.

I’m sure as hell questioning it now. Unfortunately for me, there’s nothing else I can do at the moment.

“How... how have you been doing?” I ask Ezra. I feel far too vulnerable, right now. Especially in front of him, of all people.

But he’s the first person I’ve actually spoken to, the first person who’s truly listened to me since getting locked away in here. Part of me craves—no, needs—to talk to someone. Anyone.

“Well, I uh... finished rehab,” Ezra says, rubbing the back of his neck in an embarrassed, boyish manner. It reminds me of the kids we were when we first met, back in high school. “Was in there for a month. It went... about as well as rehab goes. Shitty at first, but... I was determined to get better.”

Which means he’s been out for a couple of months now, since that night at the Grammys was a few months ago..

“Has it stuck?”

“Yeah. Haven’t even touched alcohol since I got out.”

“Will you ever?” I ask softly, forcing myself to take another bite of the bitter greens.

“Maybe a drink or two here and there. But I’m never—ever touching anything harder. Ever.” His dark eyes meet mine, and I can see the line in his throat move as he swallows. “I can’t. Not after what I did to you.”

It doesn’t slip past me that he’s purposely saying what I did to you.

The old Ezra would have said what happened or some other phrase to shift responsibility. He’s not doing that anymore.

“We’re never getting back together,” I say, staring at him, unblinking.

There are more words at the tip of my tongue, a jumbled mess of our shared history and a desire to explain myself, but I leave it at that. Short. Sweet. Absolutely serious.

I need him to know how serious I am.

Ezra nods slowly. His fingers tap along his arm again as he starts doing those breathing exercises again.

“Yeah... I know,” he says slowly. “You made that clear when I was in your apartment, the last time I saw you before I went off to rehab. Took me a while to wrap my head around it, if I’m going to be honest, but I get it. I hurt you. Real fucking bad, Andi. You deserve better than that.”

His words wash over me, more honest than I ever would’ve expected from him.

“My therapist and I have been talking a lot about it,” he continues. “You don’t ever need to forgive me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to try to make up for what I’ve done. And... it looks like you could use the help.”

I barely have a chance to process the fact Ezra apparently has a therapist now before I let out a small snort at his parting comment.

That’s Ezra for you; drops a bomb of unexpected goodness before ruining it right after with something stupid.

I mean, of course I need help. I’m fucking locked away in my childhood bedroom, but he doesn’t get to white-knight his way back into my life and think he’s doing me some grand favor.

The only one I want white-knighting his way into my life is Beck. And the media has already made all the knight puns they could think of, considering his name is Beckham Knight.

Still. Him seeing a therapist, doing these breathing exercises, speaking to me honestly without yelling... it means something to me. It’s a start. Not of us getting back together—never us getting back together.

But maybe we could be friends?

He was one of the first real friends I ever made.

That could also be the solitary confinement talking. I'm not too sure at this point.

“So, you’re seeing a therapist now, huh?” I say softly.

“Yeah,” Ezra nods. “He’s cool. Don’t think I’ve ever really talked to another guy in depth like I have with him. He’ll say stuff that blows my mind like its nothing.”