Porn Star(86)

My father moves a piece on his game and then sits back into his chair. “At least tell us what’s so imperfect and terrible about this world.” He means well, but I can already tell he’s preparing a philosophical argument.

I want no part of that debate, but I do want to talk. It’s why I came over here—to unload my burdens, to maybe find some clarity. “All right. I’ll tell you.” I cross the kitchen and lean against the arch to the den so I can look at them both while I talk.

Then I tell them. Everything. I tell them about Logan and the show, about falling in love, about my idea to do more het porn in order to pay my student loans. I tell them about the day I got overwhelmed looking at the school catalog and about another day when I got a wild hair up my ass and applied to a bunch of universities across the country before I remembered that not having a major was a real problem. I tell them about LaRue Hagen and Bruce Madden, and the likely hit that will have on my career. I tell them about Logan being there for me when I needed him and about being jealous, about not liking the way I feel when Logan’s touching other women. About not knowing who I am or what I want.

“Ew. Jealousy. ‘Keep yourselves far from envy; because it eats up and takes away good actions, like a fire eats up and burns wood.’” With that, my father turns back to his game.

Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palm. “At least the quote came from Muhammad this time,” I mutter.

Baba tilts his head and studies me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just its nice to know there are inspirational people who aren’t Buddha.” I’m being unfair. My parents find inspiration in pretty much everything. They’ve never identified with one religion over another. They love parts of so many faiths and philosophies—Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, agnostic. They’re socialists and communists and democrats, and every hippie idea in between. Basically they live by a hodgepodge of good ideas. And I freaking love that about them. I love that they raised me to be like that too.

But today I can’t seem to see through the same rose-colored glasses they look through, like someone smudged a handful of mud all over the lenses—Raven maybe, or Bruce Madden. Because every inspirational notion they have seems trite and impossible to embrace.

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” This time I’m the one to quote Buddha, and I do it in my head then follow it up with a few deep breaths.

It doesn’t help.

I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help to talk about everything, but I think I just need some time alone.”

My mother offers a warm smile. “It will blow over, Boombalee. Meanwhile, alone time is good. Relax and take your mind off of all this bad energy. Do some tai chi and a yoni steam. Just you wait—the universe will give you the answers.”

I know her heart is in the right place, but my heart is all over. I’ve reached my limit. I snap. “Goddammit, Maman. No. I don’t want to do a yoni steam or tai chi, or have a Reiki session or a Tarot reading. I don’t want advice from Buddha or Susan B. Anthony or William Faulkner or the universe. I want advice from you!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes and count to ten quietly in Farsi in an attempt to calm myself down. Yek, do, se, char, panj…

My outburst is followed by silence, and when I force myself to glance over at my parents, the expressions on both their faces reflect shock and alarm. Possibly a little hurt, too. That thought breaks me. The last thing I want is to make them feel bad. I love them fiercely, and I’ve just attacked everything that they are, simply because my immature ass can’t handle my shit.

I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, wishing I could disappear into the den’s lime green shag carpet. Once down there, I decide I might as well go full meltdown. I shift and stretch out fully on the floor. With my arm draped over my eyes, I bite my cheek to keep from crying full out, but I can’t prevent tears from spilling down my cheeks. In just a few minutes, I’m lost to my own misery, so it takes me longer than usual to notice the shift in energy around me.

Lifting my arm slightly, I peek out and find both my mother and my father standing over me. The pain I’d thought I’d seen in their eyes a moment before is still there, but now that they’re closer, I can see that they aren’t hurt because of me—they’re hurt for me.

Whatever resolve I had disappears, and a sob slips out from between my lips.

Maman squats down next to me, and like an injured child who desperately needs the embrace of her mother, I sit up and fall into her arms.

“I’ve been The Fool,” I say, like I’m confessing. It’s a reference to the first card of the tarot deck. Or the last card, depending on how you look at it, since every journey ends back where it began. The Fool is exactly like he sounds—foolish. He’s the madman, the jester, the beggar. The majnun. “I’ve been stumbling around, carefree, taking risks without worrying about the consequences. And I don’t know if I’m at the beginning or the end of this particular journey. I just feel lost, without a guide, and I don’t know how long my faith is going to hold out.”

Sometimes, with Logan, I’d convinced myself that I was being an adult, that we had a grown-up relationship. And with the naiveté of a kid, I’d let myself fall blindly in love.

And it had been wonderful.