My mother, on the other hand, has been on a journey of self-discovery. It’s not a good thing. It’s hard to have self-discovery in the true sense when you have to stop along that path to get Botox injections. Her journey is more of a social media campaign to make everyone think she’s spiritual. And by spiritual, I mean she wants to sell her jewelry line for other one percenters to show how spiritual they are.
Me to Dad: Maybe never? Not sure.
Yeah, I don’t play nice anymore. No reason to. They see it as a sign of weakness. I don’t, but I also refuse to give them any more ammunition.
Me to Mom: Next time I arrive at two in the morning, I will make sure to text you.
I know they won’t ask me how I am doing or how the season went. The only thing they like about my show is that they can brag their daughter has one of the top-rated shows on TV. Had. I had one of the top-rated shows.
I close my eyes as the pain moves through me again, and I really hate it. I hate the way it makes me feel. Guilt is something I try to avoid. I had a therapist when I was acting out in high school who told me that I felt guilty for my parents’ divorce. Yeah, sure. But I felt more guilt because by that point in my life, I didn’t care what they thought. I was just glad that they weren’t around. A sixteen-year-old girl should not think like that. She should want her parents around, should want to have their approval. I didn’t. They were never physically abusive, but they were careless with my feelings and for that, I will never forgive them.
It was at that stage, I worried I was some kind of sociopath. Shouldn’t a teenage girl want her parents to approve of her life, to want their affection and attention? I didn’t. Not at all. I wanted them to forget I was around for the most part. I didn’t like playing the dutiful daughter any more than either of them wanted to play the loving parents. The one thing that saved me was Syd and, to an extent, Travis. They convinced me I wasn’t a monster. I hadn’t said a word to either of them about my worries, but I cared what they thought. I wanted their approval and that was the first time in a long time that had happened to me.
So, my situation with Travis is so similar it hurts my head. I feel guilt for walking away from the show. And I could be altruistic and say I feel guilt for the people who might end up losing their jobs. Don’t get me wrong, I know the show will go on. But the ratings might take a dive and the show could end up getting canceled. But that’s not the reason. Feeling guilty for walking away from Travis shouldn’t hit me so hard, especially because of the way he behaved this season. I know it’s because I love him, not like a brother as I tell everyone. He’s in my heart. He crawled in there like a squatter, but it was inevitable from the start of our show.
Four years ago
Travis is missing. Not in a dire sense. Like, I don’t have to put out an APB on him. Maybe.
We’re supposed to start filming today and he is nowhere to be found. I looked high and low—mainly around the food because the man is always eating—and his trailer. Worry rushes through me. This is not like him at all. A lot of times, he is up before me and always in a good mood. Where could he be?
I pull out my phone as I stomp to my own trailer and text him again.
Me: Travis, where the hell are you????
I hear the sound of a ping from my trailer and my eyes narrow on the door. I go up the stairs, then burst inside. Travis is sitting at the little kitchenette table in the dark—well, as dark as it gets on a Texas morning. His phone is on the table in front of him as his stares down at it.
“What the actual fuck, Travis?”
He doesn’t even respond. Hell, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence. A chill washes over me.
“Travis?”
Still nothing and my panic increases. This isn’t like him at all. Usually, he’s the life of the party, always smiling with those dimples, putting everyone at ease. Actually, he’s kind of disgusting in that regard. He wasn’t the one who had been so damned nervous the day we auditioned for our new show, Flipping Texas. My hands were literally shaking. He had been invincible.
I lean down and look him in the eye. I recognize that glassy-eyed stare. He’s freaking out.
“Travis,” I say touching his arm. He shudders and seems to come out of some kind of trance.
“Nancy? I came looking for you.”
I blink. He doesn’t sound like he’s all there, as if he’s in shock or something. I’m contemplating calling for medical help when he interrupts my thoughts.
“I can’t do it. I just,” he looks me in the eye, his milk chocolate gaze colliding with mine and I see it there. The fear, the desperation. I feel it in the depths of my soul, leaving me almost breathless. Not once have I seen him like this. Even in high school, with his shy smiles and kind of nerdy ways. He was tall and gangly, not gaining the muscle mass he has now until college. He was always so sure of himself or appeared so. “I can’t.”
I grab one of the rickety chairs and drag it to sit next to him. “You can do this.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. No way.” He looks away, then looks back at me. “I threw up in the bathroom.”
“And? I did already too.”
Something sparks in his eyes, something like hope, but it dies quickly. “That’s a lie.”
“Tray Tray, are you calling me a liar?”
I expect the anger to come when I use his childhood nickname. It always gets a rise out of him, but instead, he looks away. Before he does, though, I see the shame.
Travis and his sister were raised by a monster. Their grandfather taught that any fear you experience makes you weak. I hate their grandfather and I daily hope he is burning in hell.
“Travis,” I grab his arm and shake him. Seconds tick by before he finally looks at me. It’s still there, the shame of feeling nervous because we are starting our new show. It makes me want to dig up his grandfather and beat him up. “Remember when we did the audition? I was shaking so much I could barely talk. Did that make me weak?”
He shakes his head, his eyes steady on mine. He’s no longer as pale as when I first walked in. At least there’s that. My stomach is still in knots though.
“Being scared doesn’t make you weak.”
“A…”
“Go on.”
He sighs and looks away. “A real man wouldn’t be afraid of anything.”
I know the saying is something he probably heard his grandfather say. Of course, the man hid on his farm for years, unable to live up to the fact that his wife left him, and his daughter was a drug addict who abandoned her children.
“That’s not right.” He glances at me. “A real man can feel fear. But he uses it to his advantage. He stands up when his knees go weak, and he feels like he’s going to throw up, because he is going to kick ass and take names later. You can do this, Travis. We can do this. You’re not alone. I’m here with you.”
For a long second, he studies me, then he releases a sigh that sounds like relief. “Yeah…okay.”
I take his hands in mine and lean closer so that we are only a few inches apart. “You and me, Travis. We can do this. We are going to kick ass, take those names, and we are going to dominate the home improvement TV show market. You and me. Right?”