Chapter Text
Because her dad always has impeccable timing, he picks the night Julie plays at the Orpheum to completely lose his mind.
Carrie doesn’t actually notice until midway through Panic! At The Disco’s set. Her dad’s been quiet for a long time. That’s not that strange for him, and it’s hard to notice over the roar of the crowd and Brendan Urie’s high notes… but when Carrie looks over, he’s still sitting in his seat. He hasn’t moved a muscle since Julie’s final bow. His eyes are wide, face a funny milk-pale shade; he looks like he’s seen a ghost. When Carrie nudges him, he trembles.
“Dad?” She has to shout to be heard over the music. He still doesn’t even look at her. “Dad!”
From that moment on, the night is no longer about enjoying the show. Suddenly, it’s all about sneaking the famous Trevor Wilson out of the Orpheum, while he’s really not cooperating.
It’s fine. It’s cool. Absolutely nothing Carrie can’t handle.
They sneak out during one of the loudest numbers, taking advantage of the crowd’s enthusiasm to escape unnoticed. Carrie forces her father’s head down, steering him through the sea of people like a confused elderly lady who’s lost her walker. He stumbles along, lost in some other place, far away from here; a few times, he nearly trips and faceplants into unsuspecting Panic! fans, saved only by Carrie’s quick reflexes.
They make it out the back, though, and into the waiting limousine. Carrie doesn’t even have to tell their driver to head home; he just starts going as soon as the door shuts behind them.
Her dad’s hunched over in his seat, staring down at his hands and muttering something. It’s too low for Carrie to make out, and sounds like a fat load of nothing anyways, so she just pushes him into a more pliable position, trying to tug the seatbelt around him.
“Dad, come on, you have to — God! Dad!”
His head snaps up to her suddenly. Something in his eyes — their wide, fever-bright intensity — sends her shrinking back.
“You saw them too, right?” he demands. When she doesn’t say anything he reaches out, fumbling for her. Carrie grabs his hand and holds on tight, despite the fact that it's freezing, and trembling.
He keeps muttering for the rest of the ride. It's all nonsense, delirious... something about old songs and lost boys. Carrie stares straight ahead, never lets go of his hand, and never flinches.
It’s a very long ride.
They don’t do a late dinner that night, as planned. Her father shuts himself up in his rooms, slamming the door behind him. From there, the house is eerily quiet. Sometimes her dad hires personal chefs, but they come and go with the months; Carrie doesn't even bother to learn their names. There are no gardeners so late at night, their driver’s headed home… the house is empty, and silence echoes around her.
Not that it’s anything Carrie’s isn’t used to. Even cold cereal at ten o’clock at night, sitting alone at the kitchen counter, isn’t so weird. Usually, she’d blast some music or watch Netflix, just to keep herself company, but… tonight doesn’t feel like the night. The house is empty, but not deserted; there’s something here with them, a presence hanging tangible in every room. The air feels heavy and electric, like just before a big storm. A sour feeling lingers in Carrie’s stomach long after her bowl is empty. For a long time, she just sits in silence, turning the day’s events over in her head: Julie’s viral hit, her show — what a show! — and now, her dad’s breakdown.
What happened? What sent him spiraling, and why now?
Carrie’s seen her dad bad before — when her Mom left, when his old agent dropped him, when his last album got more bad reviews than good. She knows what he looks like when he’s pushed to the brink, when something’s weighing on him, when he goes to a cloudy, brooding place she has no desire to follow. That’s the whole reason he’s seeing all these New Age doctors — the reason there’s an incense dispenser in every room in the mansion, why he has a whole shrine-and-meditation station, why they’ve taken up yoga together…
Tonight wasn’t bad. Tonight wasn’t even worse.
It was something Carrie’s never seen before. Something raw, something terrified. Something haunted.
She creeps up to her Dad’s door half an hour before midnight, bare feet silent on the marble floors. She’s got both his PR manager and his therapist on speed-dial, just in case; her phone is heavy in her hands. Whatever this crisis is, someone besides Carrie is better equipped to handle it, but she’s sure her dad shouldn’t be left alone in the meantime —
Except he isn’t alone. She stops just short, outside his bedroom door. It’s hard to hear, but she can see shadows beneath the doorframe, see him pacing like a maniac… and talking to someone in a low, urgent pitch.
“You said I wouldn’t be hurting anyone, because they were already gone. But they’re back! They’re back, they know about the songs, and they’ve already come after me!”
Carrie’s manicure digs into her palms. She listens intently for a reply… but none comes. He must be talking on the phone, she realizes, when a moment passes with nothing but her father’s rapid breathing. (Otherwise he’s absolutely lost his mind, and she’d rather not entertain that prospect tonight, thanks.)
His voice comes again. “What do you mean, you knew?” A pause, then, “What do you mean, you’re handling it? Covington —“
Something slams in his room, like her dad’s lashed out, kicking a piece of furniture. Carrie jumps back. Enough is enough — whatever’s going on in there, she doesn’t need to know about it.
She scampers back to her room before he ever knows she was out, and shuts the door behind her. That night, laying in bed, ambient mix on and her favorite plushie clutched tight in her arms, Carrie feels lonelier than ever.
When she wakes up the next morning, her dad’s manager is sitting at the kitchen counter, surrounded by no less than three assistants.
“Carrie,” Darlene says, greeting her with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Glad you’re up. Your dad wanted to talk to you in person, but there wasn’t time.”
She’s still got bedhead, in her pajamas; she hasn’t even brushed her teeth. Blindsided by these near-strangers, Carrie feels acutely vulnerable. She masks it by drawing her shoulders straight, perching on her toes like she’s wearing a solid set of heels; her chin raises, taking in these people in her home. When she speaks again, her voice is perfectly cool, perfectly biting. “Time for what, exactly?”
“Sweetie,” Darlene says, and Carrie’s lips curl — no one talks down to her. “Your dad left early this morning. His therapist found an open space in a meditation retreat; it’s very exclusive, and he had to go immediately if he wanted the slot. We all agree, it’s… what’s best for him at this time.”
The excuse is so carefully crafted — practically porcelain. But Carrie reads the truth in the strangers’ downturned lips, in their sympathetic eyes… in the way they’d been having a crisis meeting, clearly, seconds before she walked in. There are papers all over the kitchen counter, already plotting out what to say to the public to explain Trevor Wilson’s impending radio silence.
At least this excuse is better than the last time he went to rehab.
Carrie’s posture doesn’t change; she doesn’t accept an ounce of their sympathy. “How long will he be gone?”
The assistants exchange glances. They don’t know. Darlene says smoothly, nonetheless, “A month, at least.”
A month. Alone in the house. Something in Carrie wilts; the rock that’s been sitting in her stomach since last night doubles in size, weighing her down. When she doesn’t say anything, Darlene clears her throat awkwardly. “He left you a letter.”
A manila envelope with her name scrawled across the top sits on the counter. Carrie can’t even look at it.
“Right now, we’re discussing what the plan is —“
“The PR strategy?” Carrie forces breeziness into her voice, seizing every ounce of control she can. With all the grace of a Dirty Candi performance, she strides across the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and steals a box of Nutrigrain bars. Something to eat in her room, at least. “Sounds like you’ve got it down-pat. Is the whole Avengers Assemble meeting really necessary?”
Darlene speaks again while Carrie’s back is turned, but her tone is so sympathetic, Carrie freezes up immediately. “No, sweetie. For you. We’re figuring out what to do with you.”
Slowly, Carrie turns, and finds every eye fixed on her.
Last night might've been a nightmare, but today has just gotten a hundred times worse.
The entire morning is a complete waste of time — a blur of frantic assistants, anxious phone calls, and PR crisis mode. Darlene warns her not to go far, so Carrie lounges in their private movie theatre for a few hours. She has her own phone calls to make.
Kayla doesn’t pick up on the first ring. Neither does Nick. She tries Stephanie, before remembering her family’s away for the weekend; Lia’s always working on Saturdays, so no chance there; Zoë’s parents are way too uptight to even let her sleep over anywhere, nevermind let one of her friends crash for who-knows-how-long.
She tries Nick again — and again — and it goes straight to voicemail. Carrie contemplates throwing her phone across the room. When she smashes Kayla’s name into her phone one more time, she’s really not expecting an answer... so it’s surprising when her friend picks up on the fourth ring.
“OMG, you are not going to believe —“ Kayla starts, but Carrie cuts her off.
“Whatever it is, mine’s bigger.” The house is massive, but she still keeps her voice pitched low, in case Darlene or one of her nosy assistants are lurking nearby. “My dad’s, like, had a total freak-out. Now he’s bailed, I’m home alone, except apparently that’s not legal or whatever, so his manager’s saying I need to — to, like, stay with someone. Like, not at my house. Can you even?”
“What? That’s insane! That’s ridiculous!”
Carrie’s lips press into a thin line. At least Kayla has the appropriate amount of sympathy for her.
“It’s the most stupid freaking — like, I’m perfectly fine to stay alone. I stay alone all the time. But they’re literally saying they don’t know when my dad will be back from Spaville or whatever, so it could be weeks, and —“
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know! Nick isn’t answering.” Though that’s… weird, isn’t it? Calling him up is weird. They were only dating for a few months, she barely even knows his parents — not to mention how things ended. How do you go from breaking up to “let’s move in”? No way, not possible — she’s not that desperate. “Not that I need him, duh, but my dad’s PR monkey refuses to hire someone to babysit the house while he’s gone. I have to go somewhere, apparently.”
She lets it hang in the air. Kayla, probably still digesting, says nothing… and continues to say nothing, long enough for Carrie to catch a twitch in her eye.
“Anyways!” she chirps. “I know you’ve got that spare room, the one with the flat screen, and —“
“Um,” says Kayla.
“Um,” echoes Carrie, unimpressed.
“The thing is — well, I mean, like, the thing is, we’d be glad to have you! You know, of course, but my mom is —“
Carrie’s heart sinks to her shoes. Of course. Kayla’s mom is super OCD — like, she sees a doctor, she’s on medications, and has to keep to a strict routine or else her head starts spinning. Mrs Aquino is super nice, and can handle her daughters’ friends coming over for a few hours... but moving in? That would be a lot. Too much to ask of the closest friend Carrie’s got.
“Right.” Carrie’s voice is clipped, even as it dips low in understanding. “Yeah, of course. I… totally get it. That’s fine.”
“You could try Stephanie!”
“Long Beach, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Kayla’s words fall like stones; the silence after lingers long enough to become awkward. Carrie’s the one who finally has to break it, with a chirpy goodbye, and a “TTYL” she really isn’t feeling.
Before she can hang up, Kayla speaks again. “Carrie, hey. I’m sure everything will work out. If you really need a place, or — or need to vent, or need anything. I’m here, okay?”
Carrie hadn’t realized how tightly she was gripping her phone — tight enough to break a nail! — until her grip loosens, just a bit.
“Yeah,” she answers. “Thanks for that.”
The line goes dead. Carrie is left sitting in the empty movie theatre, alone.
Alone, alone, alone —
Like that’s anything new.
If waiting around the house was bad, meeting with her Dad’s attorney is worse. He’s one of those high-powered guys who don’t come to you, you go to them — so they have to drive all the way out to his office in the hills. Carrie is left sitting in a monochrome Art Deco waiting room, without even a magazine in sight, while Darlene goes in first. The door shuts firmly behind her. It’s a long half hour of scrolling through Instagram, keeping an eye on her texts — nothing from Nick, still — and cooling her heels.
Half an hour turns into forty minutes… turns into an hour… and really, this is getting absurd. What would happen if she just walked up there, hammered on the door, and demanded to know what —
The office door opens.
Darlene doesn’t say anything — just gestures for her to come inside. Carrie springs to her feet, deftly keeping balance in her knee-high boots, and strides into the room with all the poise of a professional.
The little man behind a narrow glass desk doesn’t look like a celebrity attorney. He looks like a math teacher. Thin hair, drab clothes, a freaking necktie… he’s totally out of place in the straight-out-of-a-magazine office. Something about it feels claustrophobic from the second Carrie walks in. There’s plenty of breathing room… but maybe it’s the way Darlene’s still standing once Carrie sits, or the way the lawyer’s eyes are just so harmless, so sympathetic. She isn't fooled for a minute.
“Miss Wilson,” he says, and sounds like her math teacher, too. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she replies, with a close lipped, cutting smile. “So what’s our business here?”
“Well…” The man pauses to shuffle papers on his desk. Carrie’s blood pressure seethes upwards. “We’re very fortunate, as a matter of fact. Your father called me early this morning, acknowledging the difficult legal position he was leaving us in —“
Us. Leaving us. He had time to call his agent and his attorney, but not to say goodbye to her.
“And his instructions were very clear. You are not to be left alone in his absence.”
Exactly what Carrie was prepared for. Her shoulders go tense nonetheless. “There wouldn’t be any problem,” she says, expression not shifting an inch. “I’ve stayed home alone plenty of times, I’m very mature —“
“For a fifteen year old, I’m sure. But you understand, Miss Wilson, your father’s vacation may be prolonged. Now, in absence of any familial relations, your father has designated a proxy legal guardian. He indicated this morning that he expected us to follow this plan, but… it must have slipped his mind, but there’s been a bit of confusion.”
Carrie’s head inclines at a neat fifty-degree angle, like a bird of prey, the little man in her sights. “Confusion?” she echoes, frost coating her tone.
The lawyer clears his throat. He shuffles the papers in his hands again, just to avoid her eyes. “Yes… I really am sorry to bring up a difficult topic.” He says stupid things so gently, as if this whole mess isn’t difficult enough. “But it seems your legal guardian, Mrs Rose Molina —“
Wait.
Stop the music. Freeze the frame. Pause and cut.
What did he just say?
“— your legal guardian, Mrs Rose Molina, has been dead for sixteen months.”
Umm, yeah. Carrie knows that. She was there. The memory of Rose’s funeral is still fresh in her mind — all the bright flowers, the music, the pictures, family members wearing colorful clothes instead of black… Carrie remembers standing ramrod straight at her dad’s side, chin held high so she couldn’t shed a tear even if she’d let herself… remembers the way Julie looked miles away during the service, completely checked out, and how the impulse to go to her was so strong Carrie almost gave into it. Almost.
She remembers how her heart twisted in her chest, as Rose — Julie’s mom, the lady with beautiful curls and warm hugs, the world’s best ginger cookies, who would help the girls style their hair when they were little, would referee Julie and Carrie’s dance-offs and oversaw countless sleepovers — the exact opposite of Carrie's mother — the woman who made her home feel more homey than Carrie’s ever did — the only person who was ever anything close to a mom for Carrie, for however much it was worth.
That Rose.
She remembers Rose being lowered into the ground like it was yesterday.
“She…” Her voice comes out horrifyingly small. “Rose is my legal guardian? I don’t — I, I don’t understand —“
The attorney holds up his files, though Carrie’s too far away to read them. “Your mother is non-custodial… you have no grandparents, no relatives nearby. Mrs Molina has been your guardian since 2012, as designated by your father.”
2012. The year of her eighth birthday. The year Carrie got her first Katy Perry VIP concert pass. The year Carrie’s mother left, and she spent six months practically living out of the Molina’s house, while her dad was too much of a mess to see straight.
Rose was the one who made him get help, she knows now — who made him get sober, and got him to stay that way. “She saved my life,” her dad said once, so serious that it scared her. Carrie never realized how much he really meant it.
“So…” She takes a deep breath, and forces all composure back into her voice. “What does that mean, if my legal guardian is dead?”
The lawyer smiles. This is a question he’s prepared for, and Carrie doesn’t like that at all. “Well, fortunately, Rose’s husband was named a secondary proxy. We’ve just gotten off the phone with Mr Molina —“
Another record scratch, right there.
Carrie’s heart stops, but the world refuses to go with it. The stupid little man is still droning on. “And obviously, he was surprised at first, but he’s agreed to take on guardianship responsibilities, for however long is necessary. So long as you consent —“
No. Carrie doesn’t consent. She very much does not consent to — to whatever this is. For a moment, her brain whites out, struggling just to compute. When she tunes back into the right station, the stupid man is still talking.
“— situation would require you to reside under the Molinas’ care until your father’s return.”
“Reside?” Carrie’s taking AP English; suddenly, she feels like she’s forgotten the language completely.
The lawyer looks at her very carefully. “It means… you would live with them.”
Oh, Carrie thinks, with a bizarre sort of calm. Right. That makes perfect sense.
Oh, holy shit, the still-functioning part of her brain screeches.
The thing is, Carrie and the Molinas haven’t been friendly for years now. Her dad and Julie’s mom had a massive falling out a few years back; Julie and Carrie’s friendship dissolved months later. She hasn’t been on speaking terms with the Molinas, not even civil with Julie, since they were both thirteen. Before Rose got sick, before — before any of it.
Which is why this can’t be happening right now. This genuinely can’t be happening.
“But I — I can’t — my dad can just —“ Come home. He can just come home and be normal again, and they can pretend none of this has ever happened, and then — and then —
No. Carrie drags her racing heart to a stop, refusing to let it burst out of her chest. She wants to vomit; she wants to scream; she wants to tear her hair out at the roots, or sprint out of this little room with these awful people as fast as her legs can carry her.
She does none of these things. Instead, she turns to Darlene, looks her dead in the eye, and says, very calmly, “I want to speak to my father.”
Darlene’s mouth is grim and flat. “He’s off the grid, Carrie. Even we can’t reach him.” Something in her face must betray her, because Darlene’s eyes soften, and Carrie hates her for it. “I’m sorry.”
Carrie squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a stage-fright trick she’s used for years. When the world’s spinning too fast, close your eyes and take a breath; once they open again, everything will be back to steady.
She opens her eyes. The lawyer is still sitting in front of her; Darlene is still standing over her; they both look so kind, and so sorry, and so pitying, and she hates them all more than she’s ever hated anyone in her life.
This hatred is what gives Carrie the power to smile — her superficial, sharp-as-a-knife smile — as she rises from her seat.
“Well,” she chirps. “Guess I’d better start packing.”