CHAPTER SIX
Exhibit 9: Sworn statement of Jeffrey Douglas Reilly, La Jolla, California
I expected Lila to be there outside the gate, beaming in a million directions like a lighthouse and wearing her huge sunglasses indoors. The sunglasses said: Don’t look at me, but look at me. I wondered what he’d be like, the new guy, Jake. There’d been so many already that I knew her type. She liked a man with a big ego, good looks, charisma, the kind of stuff that seems like confidence until you find out it’s actually controlling assholery.
Lila’s dad, Hal, was supposedly this charming guy too, a ladies’ man who was never around when things got hard or scary, when they were running out of money, or when Edwina lost her temper, or a tree blew down on the roof. But then he’d swoop in and lift Lila in his strong arms, and she’d feel like the light of his life. When he left for good, poof, the light blew out. Edwina’s father—same thing. Charming but gone.
And wow, it was easy, really easy, for Lila to find the big, confident daddy-protector she never had. Lots of guys loved that idea. Men wanted to rescue her from whatever they thought she needed rescuing from—money troubles, a bad meal in a restaurant, other men. They wanted to wrap her in their strong man arms. And give her stuff. Jobs, presents, adoration, advice. They got to feel all manly and important, so they were crazy about her. I used to see the same thing at school all the time. If a girl was beautiful and vulnerable and had issues, guys dripped all over her like syrup on pancakes.
As I stood there in the airport with my pack on my shoulder, I felt a swirl of apprehension rising. Because, well, history makes more history.
You know about all of the husbands, right? Rex Revel. Guitar player and singer in the band Slay. Lila’s first. They eloped on their first date. Stayed married for four stormy, cruel months. Moral of the story: Just because a guy looks good in leather pants and can scream the word “generation” eleven times in a row, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s good husband material.
Jeff Reilly. My father. Owner of the Mockingbird restaurant chain (endless fries, place mats you can color), plus the upscale Sparrow in La Jolla, where he lived. They knew each other for three weeks before he asked her to marry him, which was twenty days longer than Rex Revel but hardly enough time to get to know important stuff, like the fact that he was still married. It was only after the ceremony, and after I was already a bundle of multiplying cells, that he told her. Way to be a player, Pops, you old dog, you! Gross. After he got divorced, he and Lila remarried to make me legal, but they stayed together only for another fourteen months. He appeared in my life about once a year, bearing gifts, same as Santa Claus. He was a ladies’ man, a charmer, who could make you feel like the light of his life until he ditched you. Meaning: History is the sneakiest and most relentless monster there is.
Chase Chesterton. I know. His name sounds like a rich boy in a romance novel, but don’t blame the messenger. He was rich, and romantic, but old. Really old. Do you know how old he was when they got married? Like, sixty-five, and she was twenty-eight. I knew him from age three to age six. They divorced after Papa Chesterton lost most of his money in a bad investment deal. He had long old-man ears and little fluid-filled moons of skin under his eyes.
I don’t remember much about that time. Being a flower girl in their elaborate wedding. Itchy dress. Also, my huge bedroom in his mansion, which had a shiny floor that was fun to slide on in my socks. Lacy bed, also itchy. Bah-Bah, a stuffed giraffe that was tall as me. The firm line of Edwina’s mouth when she came into my room to say good night.
My clearest memory is Chase Chesterton reclining by the pool, with his big white belly and old-man boobs, his stick legs in bedroom slippers that scuffed along the marble tiles. Something about this disturbed me even then. Maybe, you know, his old flesh and her not-old flesh. I didn’t have words for it. I just thought he was icky. He looked like a grandpa. I tried not to breathe when he hugged me, even though he didn’t smell bad. Bah-Bah vanished when they got divorced.
There were also various boyfriends. Ben Salvador. Super nice. He made enchiladas even a kid would like. Roberto-someone, who always remarked on what Lila ate and how she dressed. Something was always too tight or not tight enough. Trace Williams, who “had a temper.” Had a temper, like it was a pet hamster. Erik. Derek. Enough that a few had names that rhymed.
Every time, it looked like this: Things would be going along fine, him being the big strong guy, her being the delicate flower, until she didn’t want some controlling asshole telling her what to do anymore. She really didn’t need rescuing, and the man arms just got suffocating after a while. His macho gallantry was actually domineering jerkdom. She’d speak up. She’d push back. Because, basically, she was strong. She was capable. She could get what she wanted. People forget that “feminine” doesn’t mean “weak.” Maybe she forgot that, too.
The You be the little girl and I’ll be the big, strong daddy deal that the guy loved so much would blow up in his face. This would piss him off greatly. He’d wonder where his sweet, frail Lila had gone. She’d wonder how he didn’t know she was more than that, way more, all along. Of course she was. She couldn’t have gotten where she did if she weren’t.
He’d feel pushed away. Rejected. A hole was blown through the thin membrane of his ego. She’d stopped caring about his ego weeks before. Propping it up by letting him be bigger all the time had gotten exhausting. And, you know, that was why he chose her. To be the bodyguard of his ego.
That’s when the trouble would start.
By “trouble” I mean divorces and slammed doors, money problems, you know. His car screeching off, unopened bills stacking up. Not the trouble that was coming as I stood in that airport.
Not danger.
* * *
Lila wasn’t there.
I looked around the waiting area. A woman hugged a man in an army uniform. An elderly couple greeted a little girl. A guy in a suit stood around holding a Starbucks cup. But no Lila. I waited. Sometimes she was late. A lot of times she was late. Late gave you the spotlight. I wondered if I should go down to baggage claim and look for her there, even though I never checked luggage because I had most everything I needed at her house.
I tried to call. No answer. Just her voice on the recording: Oh, just do the thing!
“Where are you?” I said, and then hung up.
All of the fun excitement I’d managed to feel was vanishing fast.
I went to the airport bathroom and chose the first stall, and also used some paper towels to turn the faucet on and off. I missed Ellen and Meredith already. So much. Also, Cora and Hoodean, and even our dorm supervisor, Mrs. Chen, who was kind of cold and bossy, but so what. I wanted to cry. I almost did. I actually wadded up some paper towels and put cold water on my face so I wouldn’t.
When I came out of the bathroom, he was there.
Jake Antonetti.
I knew it was him instantly. And he was standing right outside, like he was sure I was in that bathroom.
I just took him in for a second. His stocky build. Really stocky, that kind of muscle-mass square body that meant he probably played football back in high school. His squarish head and hooded eyes and jet-black hair turning ever so slightly gray at the temples. His nose, which bent strongly to the left, maybe from a fist or an aggressive tackle. My first thought was, you wouldn’t want to mess with him. Which meant, ugh, he was just Lila’s type.