Chapter Fifteen
THE CLOCK READS five p.m. when a knock comes at the door, followed by J.J.’s voice. “You gave me a key for party planning, so I’m coming in.”
From my vantage—wrapped in a blanket on the couch—I watch J.J. let herself in the door, shut it, then stand in front of me, arms crossed.
“Well, you’re alive, anyway,” she states.
“Good evening to you too,” I reply, though my heart feels lighter now that she’s here.
My best friend—my only friend, if I’m being honest—plops herself on the couch beside me.
“If my dissertation wasn’t a hot mess, I would’ve come sooner. Looks like I should’ve anyway. Because you told me you were okay, but you are clearly not okay.”
“You’re only saying that because I haven’t gone outside in three days.”
“Girl.” She touches her forehead for a moment, then squares herself to me. “What happened in Alaska? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ Zach took Eva to the Oscars, and you’ve been holed up here. Something went down.”
I pluck at a loose thread on the blanket. “It’s too embarrassing, Jess.”
“Try me.” She frowns. “Did he get spooked by that stupid Scandal Sheet ?”
“No, but I sure as hell did,” I say. “Even if I hadn’t screwed up royally with Zach, that article was very insightful about what his fans think of me.”
“Fuck them,” J.J. says. “And since when do you care what people think of you?”
I shoot her a look. “People? How about all of social media ? It’s a lot. It’s Zach-Butler-levels of a lot. But that’s not what went wrong.”
“I’m listening.”
I avert my gaze from my best friend’s compassionate expression. But I have to tell her. I’d come to the end of whatever resilience or strength or bandwidth I had. Being in Mountain Man’s hotel room was the last straw.
I can’t do this anymore. It’s killing me.
I tell J.J. everything, about my date with Zach, our kiss, and how it all crashed and burned.
“Being in that hotel room with Riggs wasn’t rock bottom, but I could see it from there,” I tell her, tears threatening. “Things could have gone epically bad. Dangerously bad. But it was like I couldn’t help myself. Because Zach kissed me and…”
“You really like him,” J.J. finishes softly. “And you’re scared.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You need help,” she says gently. “You’ve been white knuckling through your grief for ten years. And doing a really good job, all things considered. But there’s something deeper to it, right? Something that’s preventing you from living your life.” She cocks her head. “Are you still in love with Josh?”
“No. Yes. I mean, part of me will always love him. But…” I heave a breath. “But mostly I just feel responsible. I am responsible.”
“Responsible…how?”
I can’t say any more. I’ve said enough already. The shame of it wants to eat me alive.
J.J. reads my silence and sits back. “Oh, hon. No. It wasn’t your fault. Is that what you’ve been fighting this whole time? Thinking you had something to do with it? Babe, no…”
“I did have something to do with it,” I tell her, then wave my hands when she wants to protest. “You can’t talk me out of it, J.J. You weren’t there. You didn’t see…” I swallow hard and take a breath. “It is what it is. I can’t change what happened. I have to live with that.”
She looks at me with pained compassion. “Okay, well, someone else—a professional—can show you how to do that. So that you can actually live. You deserve that.” She rummages for her phone. “A friend’s mom is a fantastic therapist. I know I’ve mentioned her a million times. She isn’t cheap but that’s because she’s the best. Can I give you her number?”
Normally, I’d resist, but Zach’s perfect kiss has burrowed deep into me. I’d messed us up, but his touch illuminated the part of me that wanted to heal. I don’t know how to do that without relinquishing accountability for Josh. It feels cowardly and impossible. But maybe there’s a middle ground. Anything is better than winding up in another grungy hotel room. Next time, I might not be as fast to the door.
“Okay.”
J.J. wastes no time and texts me the number. Then she throws her phone aside and wraps her arms around me.
“You deserve good things,” she says.
“Thank you, Jess,” I say, and hold her tight.
“You don’t believe me,” she says. “But someday you will.”
J.J. leaves a few hours later. The therapist’s number is waiting for me in my phone. I sit in a flood of gratitude that my best friend hasn’t given up on me, even when I was close to giving up on myself. But it’s nearly eight p.m.; the therapist’s office is surely closed, but I don’t have to wait until morning to start putting things right.
I pull my phone out and find a text thread. My thumbs hover as I shudder at the memory of Zach’s face when he saw me in that hotel hallway. Part of me had been mortified at what I must’ve looked like, and part of me had been shocked to realize that maybe Zach felt our kiss as strongly as I did. That it meant something to him. I start typing.
Hey. I don’t want to bother you and I completely understand if you never want to hear from me again, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry.
I hold my breath and hit send, half expecting an error message because Zach blocked me. But my heart jumps as the rolling dots of a response come in.
You don’t have to be sorry. I’m the ducking idiot. Wow Alaska. Feels like a lifetime ago right?
Odd response, but okay.
Yeah, it does, I type. But I still want to explain if you’re willing to hear me out.
Explain? You got some splaining to do?
I bite my lip. Are you okay?
Great. Never better. Taking some tiem off. This is followed by three martini glass emojis.
He’s drunk. That explains his texts, but worry gnaws at my gut. I don’t like it.
Where are you?
The chateaux Mormon.
Can I come and see you? Better to talk in person.
For a long time, there’s no response. Thirty seconds, though it feels like hours. Finally, Zach replies, and it sort of breaks my heart.
That would be really nice, Rowan. But I’m not in the best conditions.
I don’t mind. But it’ll take me about an hour to get there.
I got nowhere to be, he writes. I’ll let them know at the desk. Ask for Michael Sullivan.
I get the reference—the main character in Road to Perdition —and it doesn’t make me feel better. I rush to get on shoes and grab my bag and keys.
On my way.
It’s nearly ten p.m. by the time I arrive at the hotel. Chateau Marmont sits perched above Sunset Boulevard like a small castle befitting its name. Inside, it’s all Spanish-style, with white walls, exposed wooden beams, arches, and huge wrought iron candelabras hanging over the plush lobby furniture. At the front desk, tucked into an arched alcove, I tell the clerk who I’m there to see. Out of caution, I’m wearing black leggings and a black hoodie—the hood down, ready to pull up if necessary. But the lobby is empty and quiet.
The clerk calls a bellhop, who guides me outside along lighted paths to the bungalow where “Michael Sullivan” is staying. The little house is tucked in amid tall trees and greenery. It reminds me of my cabin. A hideaway.
I knock on the door. “It’s me.”
“Come on in.”
I duck inside the old bungalow, with its yellow walls and polished wood floors. It’s twice as big as my studio but not a luxurious space; I can practically smell the history and age of it, even before noticing the old fixtures and furniture. Zachary’s long form is sprawled on the couch in the living room, a bottle of Macallan on the oval glass-and-wood coffee table in front of him. Two lamps, one on each end, offer the room’s only light.
He’s in red plaid flannel pants and a white V-neck T-shirt and has one arm thrown over his eyes, one hand balancing a glass of the whiskey on his chest. I pull an orange mid-century chair up next to the couch.
“Hey,” I say softly, and there’s a pang in my chest now that I’m here. It’s as if my heart had forgotten how handsome Zach is in person, how it felt to be held and kissed by him, and now it remembers everything.
He moves his arm to look at me, and I’m hit again by the beauty of his hazel eyes, which are glassy and heavy. “Hey,” he says with a faint smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise.”
God, I’m such an idiot. Because I want to say the exact opposite of what I’m going to say, which is goodbye.
I glance at the bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey and the glass in Zach’s hand. “Macallan,” I begin hesitantly. “Pretty strong stuff.”
Zach wears a bitter expression, his words slurring slightly. “I’m celebrating my win, can’t you tell? You want some?”
“No, thanks. I seem to remember you telling me that you weren’t a big drinker.”
“I’m not,” he says. “My manager sent it to me. So I figure, what the hell? It’s just tonight. To take a step back a little. Get my shit together tomorrow.”
It’s on my lips to ask what he’s taking a step back from, when Zach turns his head. The light shows three red scratches along his jaw.
“What is that?” I demand, all hesitancy vanishing as I move to kneel beside him on the floor. I gently turn his head to get a better look and see two more scratches—redder and angrier than the first—on his neck.
Zachary tilts away from my touch. “Shit. Forgot about those. Parting gifts from Eva.”
Anger floods me in a red-hot haze. “Is that a common occurrence?”
“Not really. She’s more a fan of the open-handed slap.” He glances at me. “I don’t fight fire with fire, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” I say, because although I don’t know everything about Zachary Butler, I know with my entire being that there’s not one violent bone in his body. Can’t say the same about me if Eva Dean was in the room just now.
“Damn her to hell,” I mutter under my breath as I get up and grab my bag and pull the tall, standing lamp closer.
Zachary flinches from the light. “It’s just a couple of scratches. Not a big deal.”
“It is to me,” I say, and shove the coffee table aside. I kneel in front of him again and rummage through my bag until I find the little tube of antiseptic gel. “They could get bad if you don’t take care of them. The two on your neck, especially.”
“You always carry around a first aid kit?” he asks, watching me with an amused smile.
“Lots of equipment on set,” I say, and squeeze gel on my finger. “Lots of opportunities for nicks and cuts. Hold still. This might sting.”
“Just leave it, Rowan,” he says wearily.
“Nope. Can’t.”
I gently hold Zach’s chin in one hand and apply the gel with the other. His skin is warm and soft over his hard jawline. My fingers are inches from his broad mouth and full lips that I kissed and want to kiss again. I feel him watching me as I work; he winces a little when I touch his neck. Then I’m done and have no more reason to be touching him.
I sit back on my heels and meet his eyes. “What happened?”
“I trusted someone who used to love me.” He smiles sadly, then frowns in drunk consternation. “You’re on the floor. You shouldn’t be on the floor. Here. Sit.”
Zachary hauls himself up and I sit beside him, tucking one foot under me. “Do you want to talk about it? About…her?”
“Not much to say,” he says, looking into the depths of his whiskey. “Same ole, same ole. I keep trying to put back together something that shattered into a million pieces a long time ago. Because I don’t know anything else.”
“You still love her?”
“Not a chance. Not after…” He shakes his head. “Anyway. I finally get it. I haven’t been in love with her for a long time. I was in love with all those pieces. Trying to make them into a future that doesn’t exist. There’s no fixing what’s broken that badly, and I’ve finally stopped wanting to try. And then I met you and…”
He stops, shakes his head. I’m dying to ask what he was about to say, but I don’t have the right to hear the answer.
Zach looks at me with bleary eyes. “I shouldn’t have taken her to the awards.”
“You don’t have to explain—”
“I felt sorry for her. As fucking stupid as it was and knowing it would backfire spectac…spectac-u-lar-ly.” He hands me his whiskey glass. “I think I’m done.”
“I think you are too.” I set it on the table.
“Even after all that…” Zach continues. “I still wanted to help her.”
“Because you’re a good person.”
“Am I?” He looks at me directly. “I think I also wanted to hurt you. A little bit.”
I nod. “Because I hurt you.”
“Yeah. Seeing you come out of that guy’s room…it wasn’t good.” His brows furrow and concern washes over his face. “I remember you looked scared. I was too busy being shocked at the time but were you okay?”
I smile. “You asked me that then.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
Even then, he asked me. Because he’s so impossibly good.
“And I said that I was okay,” I say, “but I’m not okay, Zach. I didn’t sleep with him, but that doesn’t matter much. It’s not about him, it’s about how I treat myself. I do—I did that with guys. Get in bad situations. Like tempting fate.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I came here to tell you. An explanation for being so terrible to you.” I heave a breath. “I had a boyfriend, and he died. I was fifteen.”
“Oh, damn, Rowan, I’m so sorry.”
I have to look away from the caring expression on his face or I’ll never get through this.
“He was hit by a drunk driver, but it was my fault. He wouldn’t have been on that street if not for me, and I don’t know how to live with that. And so I do stupid things with bad men and run errands on movie sets because doing anything else feels wrong. Because why should I get a life when he didn’t?”
I look up to see Zach staring at me with drunken dismay. “Rowan, it’s not—”
“Don’t say it,” I say. “It won’t work. I know I wasn’t driving the car, but if that was enough to fix me, I’d be fixed by now. So, I don’t blame you for taking Eva to the show. How could I? I’m a fucking mess. I’m not good for anyone, least of all myself.” My hands twist in my lap as I take a breath. “But I’m going to get help. I should have years ago. But I wanted you to know I wasn’t trying to hurt you and I’m sorry if I did. You don’t deserve it.”
“Neither do you,” he says. “And Rowan, for what it’s worth, I think you’re brave.”
“If I were brave, I’d have gotten help ten years ago.”
“You had no dad, and your mom was out of commission. Isn’t that what you told me?” Zach raises a hand like he wants to touch my face but lets it fall. “You did the best you could for as long as you could, all on your own. Whatever you think you did wrong… You deserve to be happy.”
I smile through sudden tears. “Not so sure about that. But it’s not your job to have to pick up my pieces. You deserve to be happy too.”
“Happy,” he says, mulling over the word. “Hmm, yes. Someday, maybe. I need to get my shit together if that’s going to happen. But I’m making progress.” He makes finger guns and shoots me a wink. “You’d be proud of me too. I blocked her. Cut her off. Eva, I mean.”
“I know who you mean.” I smile. Despite all the pain in the room, he’s an awfully cute drunk.
“Yep.” He makes a slashing motion. “Finito. Done. Finally.”
“Good.” I gently touch near the scratches on his cheek. “No more of this.”
Zach takes my hand in both of his, studying it, turning it over, then gently tracing the lines on my palm. “So maybe…now is not the time for us?”
I swallow hard. “Maybe not.”
God, this hurts.
“We’ll always have the moth,” he says, trying for a smile and then failing. “That was a moment.”
I manage a smile too. “Yeah, it was.”
He returns my hand to me. “I’m tired.”
“I know. I’ll let you sleep.” I stand up from the couch, but he stays put. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?”
“Nope.” Zach teeters over and stretches back out on the sofa. “I’m aiming for waking up in the same place I fell asleep for a change.”
“What does that mean?”
He doesn’t reply to that, and I don’t push it, even though I have a suspicion there’s more that he’s not telling me. But I’m not a person he tells things to anymore. I take the blanket from the back of the couch and lay it over him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes already closed. “Stay with me a little while. Please.”
I sit on the floor beside his head. A lock of dark hair has fallen over his brow, and I want to brush it away. I want to curl up next to him and hold him and be held, but I can’t. I might be okay tonight, tucked away from the world with Zach, but the harsh light of day is going to come and bring all my psychological baggage with it. Even just sitting here, holding his hand, I hear whispers that speak of betrayal and the goodness of Zach that I don’t deserve.
He opens his eyes, struggles to keep them open.
“You should sleep,” I tell him.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful.”
Warmth and sadness flood me at the same time. “No…”
“You are, Rowan. You’re beautiful and honest and I haven’t stopped thinking about you for longer than ten seconds since we met.”
Me too, I want to say but don’t.
“I want to kiss you goodnight,” Zach says. “Or goodbye, I guess. Problem is, I can’t move. Also…barely conscious.”
I sniff a little laugh, but it fades quickly. I shouldn’t kiss him, but I will.
One more moment.
Gently, I lay my hand to his cheek and touch my lips to his. My eyes fall shut at the fierce ache in my heart. He tastes of whiskey, but the warm scent that is just him fills my nose. His mouth parts slightly, and he takes my lower lip in his, deepening the kiss. I want nothing more than to fall into everything that is him, but I pull back. He’s too drunk. Even if I weren’t a total mess, it’s not right to go further.
But I don’t have to rush out the door, either. I sit with him while he sinks into sleep. It doesn’t take long. Within moments, Zach’s breathing is deep and even. From my own occasional benders, I know his rest is temporary. He’ll wake with a dry mouth and raging headache, and I can’t be here when he does.
I go to the kitchen and fill a glass with water and set it on the table. From my bag, I find my Advil and set two pills beside the water. I leave the Neosporin too. Then I turn out the light and shut the curtains, so the morning sun doesn’t blast him first thing.
I linger at the front door for a long moment, drinking him in. “Goodbye, Zach,” I whisper, and close the door behind me.