Page 117 of Forget That Guy
She strode right on up to my table and said, “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my baby girl.”
That’s when Denver stood up, and the cameramen were forced to step back.
“Georgina,” Denver said carefully. “She doesn’t want you here. She doesn’t want to do fake small talk with you. She doesn’t want to see your face at all. You’re a reminder of what sucked about her childhood. So take your fake ass ‘my baby’ bullshit and get out of here. Leave town, and don’t come back. There’s nothing left for you here.” He paused. “Unless you have a check to drop off for her. If I remember right, you stole a million and a half dollars from her dad. Then her life insurance check for her father’s death on top of that…”
Inhales were swift all around us.
“Is that true?” The man standing beside the cameras came into view, his fake Hollywood tan standing out. “You owe money to your daughter?”
“Oh, that’s nothing.” My mother tried to wave it off.
“It’s nothing to be a million and a half behind in child support?” Denver scoffed. “Or, how about stealing? Abandonment? Envy? You’re a joke. Get the fuck out.”
“Please leave.” Bernice came by then. “As the manager of The Mercantile, I have a right to refuse service to anyone. And you’re disturbing my customers.”
“But we’re filming a reality show!” my mother tried. “They want to see where I grew up.”
“Well, then you should take them by the trailer park on the east side of town when you head out,” someone called. “From what I understand, you were livin’ there with barely a penny to your name. Didn’t your mother send you out into the world in a fancy dress and tell you to sleep your way to the top?”
“No, I think that was a Reba song,” someone else called. “But she did grow up in that trailer park.”
My mother’s face flamed.
She marched out, and the cameramen remained.
“Is that true?” Hollywood Ken asked.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “My mother grew up in a single-wide trailer that was built in the fifties. She didn’t graduate high school—not that that’s a bad thing—and decided to pursue Hollywood. She left out of here at sixteen and didn’t come back until she’d made a name for herself using her looks and her lips—both sets. She came home, got knocked up, tried to make a go of it with my father, then left again when she realized that my father and I were a dead end. She never paid child support, then stole every penny to our name, including life insurance, home insurance payouts, and anything else she could get her hands on. So yes, it’s all true. She’s not a good person. But at least she’s pretty, right?”
The Ken look-alike grinned. “Awesome. I love a good story.”
Then he was gone.
Denver sat back down and looked at my plate. “Are you going to finish that?”
I narrowed my eyes and took a bite.
He held up his hands. “Just askin’. Damn.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m actually a very nice person once you feed me.
—Holly to Denver
HOLLY
The check came in the mail a few weeks later.
Though I was sure that was partly due to the fact that Hollywood had raked her over the coals for her actions.
No one liked shitty Hollywood starlets.
My mother was not exempt from this.
