Chapter 27: The Journal

}0{

The flight home from New Jersey was brutal.

She would have rather Fletcher just give her the cold shoulder than the awkwardly polite indifference he seemed to display when he was around her. He had spent more time with Farmer at the funeral than with her, and now that they were seated on a plane beside each other for over six hours, she felt obligated to try and converse normally with him.

Her efforts didn't last long.

"I'm ready to move out," Fletcher dropped the bomb on her out of nowhere.

She tried to remain unaffected, even though deep down it hurt knowing her baby was ready to break away. "We aren't in any rush, Fletcher. The house is still not up for sale yet."

He looked at her significantly. "I know that. I mean, I'm ready to move out before it sells."

She swallowed hard. "Okay . . . You have a friend or someone from college you can room with?"

"Not yet. I'm still talking to some people. But Frank said if I can't find anyone, I could move in with him if I need to."

She closed her eyes, promising herself she wouldn't lose her cool this time. It wasn't a done deal, she tried to tell herself. It was just a worst-case scenario. "In Chatsworth?" she asked.

"Yeah," Fletcher said. "I'd still be close."

"Why can't you just stay at our house?" She hadn't been able to keep back the bite in her tone. His eyes flared up in defense.

"You're about ready to sell the place anyway, there's boxes everywhere, you're hardly ever there . . . so what's the difference?"

He was right. Right about the mess, right about her not being present, right about everything.

Rachel couldn't think of anything to say to her son, and so she was silent the rest of the flight home.

}0{

Rachel considered it one of her most intrinsic character flaws that when she was despised for doing something, she did that very thing to death. Partying was a weakness she'd had since birth, a favored method of masking the pain she felt in her life. Partying meant alcohol and craziness and no consequences. At least not for a celebrity in her position. Partying meant leaving her woes behind for a night and letting her housekeepers clean up the mess.

Bill had spent his last day working for her mostly on the phone, saying his farewells to everyone they knew in their circles. She knew he was ecstatic to be leaving before her birthday bash, which was certain to be a fiasco. He didn't hide it either. She teared up when he got emotional with her, making her promise not to forget who she was. It was the type of thing a father would say, and it made her cry. She seemed to be feeling extra sensitive these days.

He left just like that. One bag, one cell phone, a folder full of papers, and the house still in disarray, boxes all around the floor.

She felt like she was dead.

This was why she had committees for these things. So she didn't have to handle the dirty work. "We're midway through trying to move out? So what? There's no boxes in the pool. There's no boxes on the bar." The twenty-three guests she invited wouldn't care. They knew how exclusive it was to be attending Rachel Marron's fortieth birthday party.

Pettigrew was in rare form that night, scolding her about being irresponsible with her guest list, busting through doors with warnings about paparazzi being camped outside her gate. He reminded her of Farmer when he acted that way, and it excited her. She only let things get messier as the night wore on, just to get under his skin.

Somehow she'd ended up with way more than twenty-three guests.

She had been drinking since the moment Bill left the house, which was before noon. Her tolerance wasn't what it used to be, and she found herself in a close circle of semi-familiar faces surrounding the poolside bar at twilight. They were laughing and joking and doing shots, and she felt completely numb.

"You know who's available again? Mark Garcia."

"Magic Mark!"

"Oh, Rachel, you have to snag him. I heard he just bought a house in Panama!"

"You know, San Diego is so hot right now! If you're gonna move out of L.A. you should look there!"

"Rachel, have you tried this vodka before? It's imported from Switzerland."

"Will you pose for a photo shoot for my daughter? She's trying to start her own photography business, she's a huge fan!"

"You have to promise you'll come with us next time we go to Milan! Our team overseas has been dying to meet you in person!"

"Rachel!"

"Rachel!"

"Rachel!"

She heard her name from so many directions, each one accompanied by another bout of unreasonable demands. In the last ten minutes she'd been enlisted for one unrealistic commitment after another, and she wasn't even looking for that kind of work anymore.

Everyone was looking for a piece of her. She felt like she had none left to give.

Someone fell in the pool. Everyone started cackling. Her heart was racing. She was trapped.

She frantically looked around the place, searching for Pettigrew, searching for Fletcher. She hadn't seen either of them since the first guest arrived. She couldn't blame them. Who would want to be a part of such a scene?

It was then when Rachel realized she didn't want to be there either.

Knowing there was no way to escape, she rode out her misery for the rest of the night. Her only saving grace was the fact that everyone around her was more drunk than she was, or else they would have called her out for being a stone cold bitch. She didn't say goodbye to anyone, but when it was two in the morning and she couldn't take anymore, she went back into the house and up to her room.

She lay face down on the bed and let the emptiness consume her.

}0{

"What would Fletcher think if he saw his mother like this?"

The disapproving voice of her bodyguard woke her up. It must have been at least noon. The bright sunlight filtering through her bedroom never was such an eyesore.

She looked up at Pettigrew where he stood by her bed, shaking his head at the scene before him. Looking down, she saw that she was still in her bikini top, leopard print sarong, and sandals. There were lipstick stains on her pillowcase, and marks from her mascara all along the side of her hand.

"I feel like shit," she muttered, hand over her head to block the sunlight.

"You don't say," Pettigrew replied sarcastically. "Devaney was right to retire when he did."

Rachel felt her cheeks burn with guilt. "I didn't hire you to be my dad, you know."

"You didn't have a son just for him to be your caretaker either, I'm sure." Rachel looked at Pettigrew in confusion before he explained, "Your boy went down there and scared them all off after you went to bed. If it weren't for him, we'd still be trying to chase away those drunken ass-kissers from your property."

Her heart sank at how upset she knew Fletcher must have been last night. She had to make it up to him. The hangover certainly wasn't going to help matters, but she had to try. With a lot of effort, she pulled herself into sitting position on the bed.

"Can you send him in so I can apologize to him?"

"Oh, you won't find him here. He took off last night. Said he was going to stay at a friend's house. Can't blame him. That was quite a shit show you put on, stumbling around, cursing at your so called 'friends,' ranting about Hollywood being infiltrated by a bunch of phonies."

Rachel swallowed hard, trying to recall what had happened. She had no recollection of any such rant, but from the look on her bodyguard's face, she had no choice but to take him at his word.

He sat on the edge of her bed and looked her dead in the eyes. "Rachel, you know I hate to be that person, but I can't just stand by and watch while you make a fool of yourself this way. The truth came out last night – you think you hide it well, but you really don't. We can all see that you've been unhappy." His eyes were sincere as he shook his head. "If not for yourself, for Fletcher's sake: clean up your act."

Rachel took his wise words to heart. As much as her head was pounding, and as much as her feet felt like they were about to fall off, she dragged herself out of bed, showered, and had herself a full meal and about six glasses of water.

When Fletcher came home that evening, she approached him tentatively, as if he were a tiny bird she could scare off at any second.

He stood in the doorway of the massive house, looking like such a helpless young boy. She broke down immediately, unable to hold back her tears any longer.

"I'm so sorry I failed you, baby."

He hugged her back so fiercely, he almost lifted her off the ground.

"I can't live this way anymore, Mom."

"Neither can I."

"You have to promise me that wherever you move, no more house parties."

She sputtered a half-laugh, half-sob and nodded feverishly in agreement. "No more, baby. I promise."

"I'm not gonna be there to break up the party anymore," he said softly. She backed away and looked into his eyes. "My friend Thomas got his own place uptown. It's about thirty minutes from campus. I'm moving in with him."

She didn't have a reaction, either because she hadn't fully processed the reality of the situation, or because her face was already soaked with tears. What was one more wrench in the heart?

"I know you've wanted that for a while now, Fletcher. I'll miss you so much."

"I won't be far," he reminded her, hugging her again. "And I'm gonna make sure you find somewhere good to live. The further away from this city, the better."

Rachel was suddenly seized by terror at the idea that she would be potentially living alone. Well, Pettigrew would likely stay with her, so long as she extended his contract. But not having her son under the same roof would be a very harsh adjustment for her. She had known the time was coming, but now that it was here, it didn't make it any easier.

"We'll see, honey," she told him, cupping the back of his head with her hand to kiss his cheek.

Fletcher looked down at her darkly. "Oh, I'll make sure of it."

Everyone around her was so protective of her. She didn't feel that she deserved it.

}0{

Every time his phone rang, he had hoped it would be Rachel.

It was like a slap in the face when Frank woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing at four A.M., and he saw that it was Leah.

He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't answer her. He'd ignored at least three calls from her since the blow-up at Tony's mom's funeral, and it was starting to concern him.

"Hello?" His voice was cold, especially having just woken up.

She hesitated on the other line, her breath halted. "I tried calling you so many times this week. You never answered." Her voice was small, familiar, upset. He felt his stomach twist with guilt.

"I just answered now," he said stiffly. He tried to remember what his therapist had always told him. You're not obligated to be nice to her.

"I can't do this anymore," she said softly, her voice muffled by tears.

He waited with bated breath as she cried quietly on the other line, unable to form any response. It was always the same pattern. Every time she had thought she found someone else, there was a lull in the calls, but as soon as the other man proved he would not be a good partner, she came crawling back.

"What do you expect me to say, Leah?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I just need to hear your voice."

She was relentless. The last he'd heard, there had been another man in the picture at Christmas. A local judge, no less. She had failed to mention him during her last phone call.

Bitterly, Frank replied, "Why don't you call Craig? I'm sure he'd be happy to let you listen to his voice."

She sobbed. "Craig moved back to Alabama."

Frank paused, saddened by the hopelessness in her tone. As much as he believed she deserved the karma, he still wanted her to find some sort of peace.

"I'm sorry." He still had a hard time sounding sincere.

She coughed and said tearfully, "I feel like my life is over."

He knew what would come next. She would play up her sorrow to wring out his sympathy, then she would start begging. He couldn't handle it anymore.

"I'm not having this conversation again, Leah."

"Frank . . . I know I hurt you. I promise I wouldn't hurt you anymore. Please. . ."

He wished she was being truthful. It hurt even worse because if it hadn't been for her dishonesty or the despicable ways she had treated him, he almost would have believed her. If only she had changed. If only she could make such promises. He would have given anything to have a wife he could trust. It was his very deepest desire. But she could not fulfill it.

"Goodbye, Leah."

With one tap of a button, he ended the call.

}0{

Going to therapy for PTSD was a bit like having to self-induce vomiting after eating something poisonous. Like most necessary tasks, it was unpleasant.

Frank had requested a session outside of his normal appointment schedule, with the intention to unpack and justify his behavior as it related to Rachel and the strange storm of resentment that had erupted between them after New Year's Day.

"How were your holidays?" Dr. Theo Evers asked as his patient took his usual seat in the armchair beside the window.

Frank didn't answer.

"That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Frank met the man's eyes, attempting to harden his face for no reason other than to salvage his own pride.

"I reconnected with Rachel Marron."

Dr. Evers arched his eyebrows, coming to sit directly across from Frank. He was quiet for a moment, perhaps stunned by the uncharacteristic forwardness from his usually cryptic patient.

"When you say 'reconnected,' do you mean—"

"Sexually." Frank forced the word out, exhausted of having to sift through bullshit niceties. His eyes fixed hotly on those of the counselor seated across from him, as if challenging him to a duel.

The man steepled his fingers against his chin and asked, "How did it happen?"

Frank reluctantly explained the story of how he had run into Rachel in Pittsburgh, and the culmination of events since then that led him to come knocking on his counselor's door.

"It sounds as if you're acting out on a lot of repressed emotions."

Frank cringed at the word "repressed;" the same word Rachel herself had used to describe him.

"Do you think that's fair to say?" Dr. Evers probed.

Frank nodded tersely. "Yeah."

Dr. Evers shifted in his seat, looking thoughtfully out the window. "Your interaction with this woman marked a pivotal moment in your life, one which you associate with a fair bit of trauma. But we've worked through that trauma together, and you've come a very long way." He met Frank's eyes again. "I guess I'm just wondering why you are still so adamant about not pursuing a relationship with this woman."

"We're not good for each other. We're different to a fault. I think we bring out the worst in each other. It's . . . toxic."

"I have to question whether you're really bringing out the worst in each other, or just bringing out unresolved trauma."

Frank stared at the man, puzzled.

"Sometimes when two people who have shared trauma attempt to be in a relationship together, it can bring up sensitive emotions. Depending on how the individuals deal with those emotions, it can certainly manifest as toxic behavior," he paused carefully before adding, "but it doesn't have to be that way. With joint therapy it can be mitigated rather effectively."

Frank let out a humorless bark of a laugh, letting his head fall into his hand. "You don't know this woman."

"Don't I?" Dr. Evers challenged. "You've talked about her pretty often over the years."

Frank looked down at the floor. When he considered how much of his sessions had revolved around Rachel in the past, it seemed inevitable that he would finally come to this point where it had all exploded in his face.

"You know what I've noticed?" Dr. Evers continued, "You've never really spoken negatively about Rachel herself, but you've spoken quite negatively about your experiences during the time you worked for her."

Frank paused, considering the insightful observation.

"I'm wondering if maybe there's some latent association going on," Dr. Evers said. After taking a sip of his coffee, he leaned forward in his chair. "It sounds as if you enjoyed your time with her during the holidays."

"I did."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Frank, but as a man who rarely enjoys anything, I would think you would jump at the chance to keep this woman in your life."

Frank smirked to himself, understanding for the hundredth time perhaps why he paid this man so much. "I would potentially have to give up my privacy in order to be with her," he sighed.

"If you knew it would work out between the both of you long-term, would that be a sacrifice you'd be willing to make?"

Frank's heart nearly came to a stop. He hadn't thought of it that way before. A timid yet insistent voice inside of him echoed, 'yes.'

"I think that I would. Only if it would work out. But that's not a guarantee." Frank shook his head bitterly. "It's just so risky . . ."

"Do you want to pursue a relationship with her?" Dr. Evers asked.

"It's not something I should pursue."

"I'm not asking whether or not you think you should, I'm asking you whether you want to."

"Yes," Frank admitted defiantly, "Against all of my better judgment, yes, I want to."

"Tell me what the worst case scenario of being in a relationship with Rachel Marron would look like."

With all the rigidity of one who had calculated it many times before, Frank recited the likely downturn of events that would lead to he and Rachel ultimately breaking up in the eyes of the media, followed by his inability to reclaim anonymity for the remainder of his life.

Calmly, his counselor then said, "Now tell me what the best case scenario looks like."

Frank struggled at first to fathom what such a scenario would be. It would have been his deepest, most earnest desire, which he didn't dwell on very often. He found it hard to verbalize such a thing out loud, because it caused his voice to shake. "After a year or so, if we were still together . . . I would marry her."

His counselor smiled slightly. "How many times in your life have you weighed the worst case scenario against the best case scenario, when it meant life or death to one of your clients?"

Frank closed his eyes, knowing it had been countless times. And yet here he was, treating Rachel Marron as if allowing her to love him would lead to his demise.

"What did you do in those circumstances?" Dr. Evers pressed.

"Prepared for the worst, and hoped for the best," Frank recited.

"If I've rightfully earned my title, you've done all the preparation you possibly can."

}0{

After making up with Fletcher, Rachel put herself knee deep into prepping the house for sale. Fletcher did far more than she ever expected him to do in helping out. Despite having a huge team of people working on emptying out the rooms every day, it still was a full time job trying to organize all of the clutter she had accumulated over years of her extravagant lifestyle.

Another week passed, and having spent it alcohol-free, Rachel felt that she was finally ready to apologize to Frank. It hadn't even taken any convincing from Fletcher, which she considered a significant improvement in her character to be the bigger person for once.

But in a beautiful twist of irony, Frank had beat her to the call.

"Before you hang up on me, I just want to say I'm sorry."

The sound of his voice made her question why she had ever given him the cold shoulder to begin with.

Rachel bit her lip, ashamed that he'd assumed she would hang up on him. "I was just about to call you . . . I wanted to apologize, too. Frank, I . . ."

She paused, feeling all at once the weight of their last revealing exchange, and words failed her.

"Can we talk . . . in person?" He asked, his voice hesitant.

"I think that would be best," she answered quietly. She winced at the stacks of boxes surrounding her. "It's kind of a mess out here from the move, but…"

"When can I come out and help you?"

She was taken aback by his generous question, but she certainly wasn't one to turn down help when it was so desperately needed. "Sunday?"

"I'll be there."

}0{

Although it seemed like an impossible task at times, Rachel's excitement for the move began to increase with every room they managed to clear out. She had taken Fletcher's words to heart and hired even more people to make the work go faster, thinking that the sooner she could leave, the better off she would be.

It was hard to leave behind memories, especially because she had lived here all through her prime. The music studio was one room she would certainly miss. It had been the birthplace of so many of her greatest songs, and her sanctuary when she had needed a place to escape. A room like that would have to wait until the last minute to empty out. But a room she had wanted to get over with was Nicki's studio.

She hadn't come in here since Nicki's death. Much the way Herb Farmer's study remained the same since his passing, Nicki Marron's studio had remained untouched since hers. Rachel felt a lump form in her throat as she slowly made her way around the room, clearing out belongings which had collected dust over the years. She found so many pictures, so many memories, the list of their favorite restaurants they'd put together when they were kids, the songs they'd written together, and finally a stack of her journals.

Rachel curiously flipped through a few pages of one journal, squinting to make out some of her sister's sloppy handwriting. She laughed sadly at some of the rants Nicki had written down about Sy, about their fights with various producers, about the nightmare Fletcher had that he was drowning in the pool. But the journals turned darker the further she read. Rachel's brow furrowed as she found herself reading her sister's innermost turmoil, her doubts about show business, her weakness for resorting to drugs.

The words, though barely legible, were clear enough for Rachel to read.

Ever since we left Santa Monica, she's been a bitch. Everything revolves around her. All the guys want her. All the people worship her.

She has no fucking clue how much hate mail she gets. If she only knew what people really felt about her. . . maybe then she'd grow the fuck up and stop trampling over the rest of us to make her silly dreams come true.

Rachel didn't have to see her name to know it was about her.

Her heart was pounding in her ears as she continued reading in spite of the pain. Every inky black letter shattered her more and more until she felt she could barely stand upright without supporting herself against the table.

She jumped, startled as the door to the studio opened and Frank stepped inside. "Sorry," he apologized, having seen her jolt. "Fletcher let me in."

She watched him walk toward her with tears in her eyes, the worn notebook open in her hands.

His face changed at the sight of her terrified expression. "What is that?" he asked.

"Nicki's journal."

All of the color immediately drained from his face.

"Did you read it?" His question was nearly a whisper, full of dread.

"A couple pages. . ." Rachel tested, monitoring his face for the tiniest flicker of suspicion.

His lips were parted, perpetually poised to form a sentence which he couldn't bring himself to utter.

"She hated me," Rachel said darkly, searching his eyes for answers. "Didn't she?"

Frank lowered his eyes just enough that he didn't have to meet her gaze. "She was jealous of you." His voice was careful, quiet.

"I could've told you that without reading this thing," Rachel said with an ironic, bitter laugh. Shaken to her core, she slammed the journal shut, and a small note fell from between its pages and onto the ground. Rachel beat Frank to picking it up. It felt like fabric in her fingers, the paper softened by age. It was barely legible, for the ink had almost worn out. All she could make out was the name 'Armando' with a phone number scribbled beside it. It seemed strange to think that Nicki could have had a secret lover. She never dated, and Rachel had always chalked it up to her being so plain and awkward.

She proffered the small piece of paper to Frank so that he could see the name. He jerked his head up in startlement, as if someone had just tapped him on the shoulder. His eyes were blazing.

"You know something," Rachel accused.

"Rachel . . ."

She had never seen a look of true terror on his face before. He looked about to be sick.

She closed the distance between them with a deadly whisper, "What the fuck are you keeping from me, Farmer?"

"I can't . . ." He choked on his words. Her terror grew by the second, seeing him in such a paralyzed state. "I can't tell you. Please don't make me tell you, Rachel." He was begging her. She saw it in his eyes that whatever he was hiding was absolutely tearing him apart.

It only strengthened her need to know.

"Who is this man?" She shook the note at him with one trembling hand, careful not to raise her voice and alert Fletcher.

He didn't answer her. He bowed his head and covered his face with his hand, but she could still see that he was wincing as if in physical pain. She didn't know which was worse for her to bear, his silence or his obvious distress.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to have to call this number myself," she threatened.

In less than a second, he had snatched the note out of her hand and began to tear it to shreds before her. He was panting incoherently as he did it, as if lost in some involuntary muscle spasm that he could not control.

She watched as the pieces of paper fell to the floor like a sad little snowstorm between their feet. When he had finished mutilating it, Rachel raised her eyes slowly, realizing there was only one possible conclusion which could have caused him to react this way.

"He's a hitman, isn't he?"

His eyes were squeezed shut, but when he opened them she was stunned to see the telltale shimmer of actual tears. She had never seen Frank cry before. She didn't need any more of an answer to her question.

"Oh, my God," Rachel breathed. A sickly numbness had taken over her body and she felt dangerously close to passing out.

He put his hands on her shoulders as if to steady her. "Rachel–"

She shrugged out of his grasp and backed away, incredulous. "All this time. . . You were keeping this from me?"

His eyes raged like a wild sea beneath a storm. "Rachel, listen to me–"

"She wanted me dead? Enough to put us all in danger?"

"She . . . regretted it."

"How do you know?"

"She told me. She was drunk. She told me everything."

"Wait, drunk?" Rachel shook her head, her face contorted in confusion. "Where? When?"

"At my father's cabin. The night she was killed."

"But you suspected her before that?"

His face was pained, pleading. "No, Rachel, you have to believe me. I had no idea she had anything to do with it. None of us did."

"So was she writing the letters, too?"

"No! No. She didn't write any of the letters."

"Who else knows?"

He shifted, and Rachel waited with bated breath for a list of names, more people she could ream out when this conversation was over.

"No one."

It was those two whispered words that made her heart shatter. He stood there, eyes limp with defeat, arms hanging at his sides, shoulders rising and falling with each shaking breath – and for perhaps the first time in her life, Rachel thought that Frank looked helpless. Like the glutton for punishment he was, he had chosen to bear the burden alone to preserve her memories of her sister.

It took every ounce of self-control within her not to scream at him for keeping such a secret. It took all of her willpower to not slap him across the face and accuse him of letting her live a lie all these years. She had to set aside all ten thousand tons of her pride to not feel betrayed by his dishonesty. But with a deep breath, and a prayer for strength, Rachel managed it.

Seconds passed, maybe minutes. She had fallen into some sort of abyss in her subconscious. Here it was warm and safe. Here she could understand and sympathize and reason and release.

It wasn't the act itself that she found perplexing. It was the idea behind it, that it was yet another sacrifice he had made for her. His physical sacrifice would be forever branded on his forearm for the entire world to see. But this kind of sacrifice left no visible wounds. She realized now just why he lived the way he did, always guarded, never fully open. It was a painful way to live, she thought, to be so obsessed with protecting everyone else that he suffered in silence so that they could be happily oblivious around him.

But his castle of carefully crafted control was crumbling. Rachel knew exactly why Frank had kept this secret from her. And that was why she couldn't be angry with him.

"I need to process this," Rachel said at last. Her head was pounding, and the dusty disarray of the room around her was only causing her more stress. But she couldn't move. She just stood there, surrounded by photos and books and letters that had belonged to her once beloved sister. Surrounded by lies and deceit and hurtful words she could have lived the rest of her life without ever reading.

Frank stared at her, all evidence of tears gone from his eyes. She wondered if she'd hallucinated that he had been so close to crying earlier.

"I'll be with Fletcher," he murmured, collecting a few empty boxes by the door before he left her.

Rachel had never felt more alone.

Author's Note:

This chapter was difficult to write because I wanted to include the revelation about Nicki, but I had to do it in a tactful way. I always imagined Nicki would have kept contact info for Armando, who arranged the hit on Rachel. In my mind, Nicki had forgotten that she kept his number since she was stoned the night she talked to him.

I was blown away by everyone's feedback on the last chapter! Didn't expect it to garner as much interest and speculation as it did. At the risk of dividing my audience, this story is not going to be all butterflies-and-rainbows. I want to write as true-to-life as I can, and sometimes that involves writing things that I myself don't even want to see happen to these characters. That's all I can say without spoiling the plot.

Love you all, and thanks as always for reading and reviewing!

xox, Mack