Doll Face(37)
“Mom, this is Lola Saints, my … ” I glance over and we exchange a look. I hate titles, hate fucking labeling things. But okay. Shit. I'm a big boy; I can do this fucking shit. “My girlfriend. We actually just bought a place together,” I continue, trying to figure out how to explain the fucked up reality of my life. “With the boys, I mean. Us and the boys.”
“You're all … living together?” my dad asks, confused. He's never been one to have many male friends. He doesn't understand the brotherhood I share with Turner, Trey, and Jesse, and for that, at least, I feel sorry for him. I guess if I really think about it, there's at least one aspect of his life that he didn't get perfect. My mom takes my statement in a completely different light.
“You're staying?” she whispers, and I nod, rising to my feet and debating the pros and cons of pulling Lydia into a hug. She hasn't called me dad yet, so maybe she doesn't remember my loser ass. Gonna have to change that. It's not too late. She's only three for fuck's sake. God, I could really use a cigarette. “Here? In California?” I force a smile to my face and try to pretend I don't notice my father scanning my tattoos with a critical eye. He's not a big fan of ink, let's just leave it at that.
“Even better than that. Over in Beverly Hills. It's a … well, I guess the only word would be mansion. Turner's idea,” I add and my mother's face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. She smoothes her hands down her cream colored blouse.
“Now that is good news,” she says, turning her smile on Lola. “Not just for us, but for Lydia, too.” I cough into my fist and try to figure out the best way to put this.
“Actually, that's kind of what I'm here about.” Both my parents frown and Lola reaches out a hand for Lydia.
“Hey doll, want to show me the rest of your cars?” Lydia looks between Lola and my parents for a moment before taking her hand and letting her lead her away from us, proclaiming in a bold voice that she's not three, that she's five years old. I feel a real smile hit me for a moment before my parents' expressions manage to strip that away.
“What are you talking about, Ronald?” my mother asks, and I cringe at the sharpness in her voice. I keep my eyes wide open and focused, try to be the man I want to be, not the man I was. But Goddamn, this is hard. Asuka, I miss your face like fucking crazy. I lick my lips and try not to picture her almond shaped eyes and her long, dark hair. Daisuki, she'd whisper in my ear as we made love. I love you, in Japanese. I take a deep breath.
“I mean, since I'm putting down roots here, I want Lydia to come and live with me.”
My father's laugher hurts ten times more than a scream. I watch him shake his head, and purse my lips into a thin line. My fingers curl at my sides, and even though it'd be totally fucking inappropriate to rip off my shirt and beat the shit out of my old man, I kind of wish that I could. That laugh shows just how far I've fallen in his eyes and it fucking kills me.
“You want your three year old daughter, whom you've just met, to come and live with you and your new girlfriend at some Beverly Hills mansion you bought with your rock star buddies? You're a smart man, Ronnie, try to act like one. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
“She's my daughter,” I state coldly, not liking the sudden turn of this meeting. I wanted to get out of the mansion, come see my old fucking room, have a moment of Goddamn normalcy. I should've waited to bring this shit up. “So, yeah, maybe my life is weird, but that doesn't mean I can't be a good father. I'm clean and I've got the time and money to take care of her, so that's what I'm going to do.”
“No, what you're going to do is leave her here with us,” my dad says while my mom folds her arms across her chest and looks between us like she can't even believe this conversation is happening. “When – if – we feel like you've got your life together, then we can talk about transitioning Lydia to life with you. We can start with one or two days a week and go from there. Right now, it's not happening. Son, do you think I didn't see that fiasco of a concert on TV? That's the environment you want to raise your child in? Maybe it's time for you to take the money and run. This whole 'rock star',” he makes quotes with his fingers, “life hasn't exactly been kind to you. I mean, just look at the last decade of your life.”
“The last decade of my life is a blur but not because of music or even drugs or sex or what the fuck ever,” my mom cringes at the word, “but because I lost my fucking soul mate in a horrific car accident. Three years after that, I lost my brother.” I flick a finger against the side of my head and try not to scream. I've been hanging around Turner too long. He wouldn't just scream right now, he'd rage and throw shit and he'd get his way, no matter what. So why the fuck do I feel like I'm about to lose?