The sun pouring through my windows quickly pulls me out of my bizarre Ciroc and CSI-fueled dream of hunting down a human-sized spider serial killer that targets blonde Asian women. I tug the blankets over my head in a futile attempt to catch a few more moments of sleep, only to let out a frustrated groan when my phone dings with a new text message a second later. Sleep is overrated, anyways. Especially when I know that I’m going to wake up with a massive headache that feels like it’s piercing my actual brain. I guess half a handle of vodka will do that to you.

Groaning, I throw off the sheets and turn to grab my phone. It’s a text from Melissa. Did you speak with Jerry yet?

I let out a curse and toss my phone to the side. No, of course I hadn’t spoken with Jerry yet. I’m terrified to do it, and I can easily think of a thousand other things I would rather do instead, like get a root canal, or wear Crocs in public.

But I also know that I do not want to have another night like last night. My usual remedy of getting blitzed before bed had only worked for a few hours. I had shot straight awake around three in the morning, convinced I’d heard footsteps. Then at three fifteen, I swore I heard someone breathing. At three seventeen, I decided I was going to get murdered at any moment, so I’d thrown on some lip gloss hoping that at the very least, I’d look cute when they leaked shots of my slaughtered body to the press. After that, I had just lain in bed, the covers up to my chin and my body tense, as I dissected every small noise I heard, wondering if this would be the moment I’d be hacked to death.

It was probably my fault, since I’d fallen asleep to CSI episodes. Dumb move. I have a new album to prep for, magazine interviews to sit for, and red carpets to attend. I need my attention on my career, not on some psycho freak. And if that means I need to grovel at Jerry’s doorstep, then that is what I’ll do.

I take my time showering and stand a solid five minutes under the spray of the water. I know it’s a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable, but I’m desperate. As I step out of the shower and into my walk-in closet, I survey my wardrobe options. I don’t think I really have an “I’m an asshole, please forgive me and make sure I don’t get sliced into thirty pieces and eaten” outfit, so I settle on tight black skinny jeans, a loose, light grey sweater that dips into a deep V in the back, and black booties. I let my bright pink hair down, resting to just below my shoulders, and grab a pair of dark sunglasses to finish the outfit.

I look in the large, floor-length mirror in my closet and take a deep breath. “It’s time to put on your big girl pants, Daphni. Just get this freaking over with,” I tell my reflection. The pep talk does its trick and with a determined nod, I head out the door with my bag and keys in tow.

Robert (or was it Richard?), one of the bodyguards in rotation from the agency I’d hired, is waiting downstairs. His eyes are glued to the screen on his phone, and he doesn’t look up until I clear my throat. To his credit, he shoots me a guilty look as he quickly shoves his phone into his pocket.

“I’m heading out. I’ll be back in about an hour,” I tell him.

He starts to stand, and I wave my hand at him. “I’m going alone. You can just wait here. I’ll call if I need anything.”

He nods passively and sits back down, pulling his phone out again. I grit my teeth in annoyance and without another word, I head to the garage. Today I want to be inconspicuous, so I grab the keys to the black Prius. Once inside, I carefully back out my car, drive down my long driveway, and out the iron gate.

I don’t bother plugging in Jerry’s address into my GPS. His house was my second home and for a long time, the only place that actually felt like home, too. For over forty years, he’s lived in the same house: a simple bungalow with a beautiful garden in the back that was carefully tended for by Annette. It had been too long since I’d last been there, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to go back. There are too many memories. The worst kind of memories: the happy ones that remind me I used to be a girl who laughed with all her body, and loved with all her heart—a girl with people who loved me in return. It's the happy memories that haunt me the most.

But then I remember last night, and being paralyzed by fear as my brain weaved together all the creaks and groans of the night, composing the soundtrack to my impending and unavoidable death, and I force myself to admit that I can’t spend the next few months of my life like that. So I swallow my pride and hop onto the 101 headed east toward Pasadena.

With each mile closer to Jerry’s house, the memories and the guilt grow stronger. It's been a whole year since I’d last seen Jerry. We definitely did not part on good terms. I had been drunk when I’d seen him last. I had fired him after he had heard Drizzle call me a bitch and promptly punched Drizzle in the nose. I had only been dating Drizzle, better known as Seth Moskowitz, for six weeks at that point. He was a zero-talent “rapper,” but his dad owned a record label and he bankrolled his son’s career. He was tall and lean and covered in tattoos. He kept his hair long, typically in a man-bun at the nape of his neck, and always wore a long, gold chain. He was a walking cliché and came with a blinking red warning sign that that flashed “RUN AWAY!” He was a mistake waiting to happen, and every inch of my self-sabotaging body wanted him. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that having me on his arm would boost his “career,” so like two tornados, we collided, destroying everything in our path.

After he punched Drizzle, I had gone ballistic. Even though he had kept me safe, consoled me after disappointments and failures, treated me like his own daughter, I had still picked Drizzle over him. I fired him, threw him out, and told Melissa to send him a $500,000 check to make sure he wouldn’t talk to the press. He never cashed the check, and he never spoke to the press.

I hit the steering wheel in annoyance. I hated how I destroyed all the good things in my life. Why did I make such stupid decisions? Why had I chosen Drizzle over Jerry? Someone who I knew loved and cared for me?

My thoughts instantly turn to a conversation I had last week with Gabby. She was worried about me, I could tell. She was always worried about me. I was supposed to be the bigger sister, worry about her. I had made a joke to distract her, and instead of laughing along, she had looked at me and asked, “Why do you always push away the people who love you?”

Why do I always push away the people who love me? What was wrong with me? I was a realist. I knew Drizzle was not “the one.” He was kind of an idiot, actually. But he was hot, rich, and always ready for a good time. He was nothing more than another one of my addictions: a convenient distraction.

God, that is so pathetic. This is exactly why I hate being alone: it forces me to finally confront the ugly truths about myself and acknowledge that I had very few, if any, redeeming qualities. The only qualities people were interested in anyway were the ones that made them money. Because if you look more than skin deep—beyond the sultry voice, the perky tits, and the firm ass that requires at least an hour in the gym each day—it is clear as fucking day that I’m damaged goods. Sure, I have a good pedigree, being the daughter of a billionaire and a pop star with millions of fans. But truthfully, I am nothing more than a bird in a gilded cage. The most pathetic part, though, is that I had lost all desire to escape my cage. No, that would require actually giving a damn, and I had not done that for a long time.

Thankfully, I spot my exit coming up and it pulls me out of my depressing train of thought. As I veer off the highway and find my way on the side streets of Pasadena, I begin to feel a swirl of nervous knots tighten in my stomach. I make two more turns, the path to Jerry’s home ingrained in my DNA, before pulling to the side of the road outside of the small, blue bungalow that had been a staple in my life since I was sixteen.

I turn the car off and stare across the street as a flood of memories rush over me. My body, sprawled on the plush, green grass, as I watch the clouds. Helping Annette, Jerry’s wife, plant the row of tulips in the front lawn. Coming over for dinner after Jerry would lie and tell my mother he was taking me to a club appearance, to give me a break from the nonstop performances and appearances my mother and manager arranged.

I muster up my courage and tell myself that even if he kicks me to the curb, I am going to apologize and let him hear how sorry I am, how often I think back to that night, how much I regret how callously I’d kicked him out of my life. I want him to know how much I regret it all. How sometimes it feels like I am watching myself from afar, and while I want to scream at the top of my lungs to stop myself from making all these terrible decisions, no sound comes out, and I am forced to watch as I make yet another terrible choice that inevitably hurts someone I love. I am a runaway train set for collision and I do enough damage to myself without having to worry about a stalker who wants me dead.

After I sit for a few long minutes watching my hands grip the steering wheel, I take one long deep breath and jump out of my car. My bag in hand, I cross across the street and jog up the steps until I reach the cheery, yellow door. Steeling myself, I lift my hand to the door and knock.