I’m not breaking a curfew, but to my parents, one of the worst life paths is possible career implosion. If I imploded it myself, that’s fine. My mom changed-up her nursing career. But if someone else is doing it—not cool.
So apparently, they flew here like I’m in need of saving. It had something to do with Jesse telling them my status as exec producer is on the line.
As soon as they called me, saying they arrived at my place in Philly, yelling, “Where are you?!”—like I’d already been sacrificed to the career gods—I didn’t think, I just left SFO’s apartment.
I left Oscar.
And I drove to The Walnut.
Immediately, I wanted to turn back around and tell him where I was headed. Ask him if he wants to join. But I couldn’t waste time knowing my parents were upset in my apartment. Back-tracking would make me feel worse. And staying the course didn’t make me feel any better.
I could text him. I couldn’t figure out how to formulate a specific reply, so I was vague.
I hated that I was vague.
I’m torn in so many directions that I’m being swallowed.
Ride the swell.
Dude.
I’m drowning. “Mama, I’m fine. Sit down, please.”
She won’t sit. “You’re a good person. You wouldn’t hurt anyone.” She’s in tears, wiping the wet streaks beneath her thin-framed glasses. “What they’re saying about you online, it’s horrible, Jun-Jun.” She uses a nickname for me.
“We were talking about you filing a defamation lawsuit,” my dad says on the couch next to Jesse. The Murphy bed is pulled down like Jesse just woke up.
“No,” I tell them, and I hug my mom. “It’s more of a headache going through that, and for what?”
“Your reputation.” She rubs her face. “The truth.”
Jesse gets her a box of tissues.
“You know the truth, Mama,” I remind her. “Jesse knows. Dad knows. I’m not a homewrecker. I said what I could. This is how the media plays out.” I let go of her when she dabs her eyes with a tissue.
The kitchen is a mess. That sticks out to me. Annoys me in ways that it usually wouldn’t. I go over there to clean. I haven’t been here as often as Jesse. Rice is stuck to a pot on a stove. Bits of hot dog are in the sink with remains of banana ketchup.
I scrape the food into the trash.
“Dammit,” my dad says hotly under his breath and the shake of his head. “You’re really saying that there’s nothing we can do to help? There has to be something.”
I wish, more than anyone, that I could snap my fingers and make everyone see what I see. Just for a moment. I’ve always known there are so many lenses and filters and views.
Even the docuseries that I film can be interpreted a thousand different ways by a thousand different set of eyes.
“It’ll take time for public perception to shift, if it does,” I explain, washing dirty dishes. “The best thing to do is to just wait it out.”
“Susmaryosep,” my mom exclaims with a hand to her forehead. She basically said Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel. “I’m okay, Mama.”
She hugs me. “I love you, Jun-Jun. We love you so, so much.”
Her maternal warmth is something I didn’t realize I needed. My chest floods, and I hug back. I thought, initially, that they were here to fight for my job.
But it feels more like they’re here just for me.
Jesse comes over to help clean. He grabs the walis, a Filipino broom, and sweeps up coffee grounds on the floor. I have a suspicion my brother could tell I’ve been overwhelmed. So he called in reinforcements.
The Highland family. We might not be famous, but we’re tight.
When my mom finally sits, sinking down next to my dad, he hugs her to his side. She says, “I liked you working with those families, but now I don’t know anymore.”
“Is that why you haven’t touched the water?” I point to the PuraFons water bottles I gave my parents when I first got here. PuraFons is a Fizzle product like how Dasani is to Coca-Cola.
And Fizzle is essentially what connects all the famous families together.
My dad opens his hands like he’s being peaceful, but his words are heated. “We don’t feel the need to support them if they’re not helping you.”
“They are helping,” I say with a strained breath. “Moffy and Jane are doing everything they can so the execs don’t fire me, and I can’t even tell you how many of them have posted pics and stories of me and Oscar on their Instagram.”
My mom sniffs, then takes both water bottles. Giving one to my dad.
“Why isn’t it working then?” he asks, unscrewing his water bottle. “Why the vitriol towards you?”
“Because,” I tell him, “sometimes people grip so hard onto the concept of hate that they can’t let go for two seconds to even try to love.” They want to hate something.