Chapter Sixteen
I WAKE UP with a vague sense that it’s morning, as a hundred hammers pound the inside of my skull. The room is dark—the curtains mercifully closed—and it takes a few moments for the bungalow’s living room to take shape, like a scene fading in. Unlike the last time I woke up after too much booze, I remember all of last night. Also, unlike last time, I’m still fully clothed, wrapped in a blanket, and on the couch where I started. Rowan has left me water, Advil, medicine, and no facial wounds to speak of.
“Let’s compare and contrast the women in my life,” I mutter to no one, and my heart aches nearly as much as my head. Rowan isn’t going to be in my life. She entrusted me with some pretty heavy stuff. I have to honor her wishes and give her the space she needs to heal.
You’re not in the greatest shape yourself, chief.
I ignore that and fish around for my phone that’s on the floor next to the couch. I have a dozen texts and missed calls this morning from my team, but Eva is locked out. To be a fly on the wall when she realized she was blocked… They could probably hear the screeching as far away as Anaheim. As I’m scrolling, I find a text from late last night. From Rowan.
You don’t have to answer when you see this. Probably best if you didn’t. But I forgot to congratulate you on your win. It seems like your Oscar night wasn’t everything it should have been. I’m sorry about that, but you should be really proud, Zach. You’ve earned it. Take care of yourself. Please.
I smile, because I heard the text more than read it. Rowan’s voice—strong but soft around the edges, just like her. And the please at the end.
“Damn.”
The urge to reply is strong; with herculean effort, I put my phone down because that’s what Rowan wants. What she needs. And I decide to follow her example and pay more attention to what I need. Like selling the house and finishing my divesture from Eva.
Before I can get off the couch—which I’m not in a hurry to do—my phone vibrates with a new call. I glance at the number with its St. Louis area code.
“Shit.” I pick up and gingerly put the phone to my ear. “I’m hungover. Have mercy.”
Admitting weakness was my first mistake.
My twin brother, Jeremy, inhales. “ Well, hello Mr. Fancy Pants, ” he bellows. “Too much Dom Perignon at the Brown Derby with Robert De Niro? How is ole Bobby De Niro, these days, Zach? Eh, Zach! ZACH!?”
“Okay, okay,” I say, covering my eyes to keep them from popping out of my head. “I’m a dick. I get it.”
Jeremy makes a tsk tsk sound. “You don’t even call your own mother on Oscar night. Your own mother, Zachary.”
“I texted,” I say helplessly. “It was a long night. Some stuff went down. Not all good.”
My twin picks up on my tone and instantly downshifts from his usual happy-go-lucky shit-talk. “Let me guess. Eva.”
“Naturally.”
“I was surprised that you took her. We all were. What happened?”
“Usual bullshit.”
With a little side of domestic violence and God-knows what else.
“Anyway, it’s over.”
Jeremy snorts. “If I had a dollar...”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. But she’s lost her mind. I’ve turned it all over to my lawyers and I’m selling the house.”
“Sounds serious. Damn, Zach. Why don’t you come out here? Take a break from the Hollywood scene?”
“Can’t. Too much work to do.”
“You’ve been working nonstop since Godsent ,” Jeremy says. “We hardly remember what you look like.”
“Check your mirror. I look like you, but hotter.”
“I walked into that one.” He laughs. “Hey, your speech was excellent, by the way. Thanks for the shout out. Mom was crying her eyes out, and Dad was pretending he wasn’t. We’re all so damn proud of you, bro.”
My own eyes sting. “I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too, Zach,” Jeremy says. “You sure you can’t come out for a bit? Jump on that private jet of yours, at least for a weekend?”
I nod, trying to think over my pounding head. “Yeah, okay, let me get my shit sorted over here first.”
“Good. And bring your Oscar. There’s a chick here I’m trying to impress.”
“When is there not?”
Jeremy laughs, loud and heartily. Growing up, people would tell us my older brother—older by four minutes—was a less cerebral version of me. Always laughing, always up for a good time. But Jeremy was never bothered because he’s smart as hell and just as observant. Like now.
His laughter falls out of his tone. “But Zach? No fucking around, I’m worried. You don’t sound good.”
“I told you, I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re hungover. But you don’t drink much. Something’s off; I can feel it. My super-twin powers have been activated.”
My chest feels full from his love and concern. “I’ll be okay.”
“If you need anything… If you need me to fly out there, I will. Fuck it, maybe I will anyway.”
“No, don’t,” I say. “Let me clean up this latest mess, and then I’ll visit. Promise.”
“Fine. But I’m going to hold you to it, bro.”
“Thanks, man. Talk to you soon.”
“Yep. And call your mother. ”
I wince, laughing, and hang up with Jeremy. Part of me wants to call him right back, tell him to get over here, then spill my guts. But what’s there to say? More humiliating drama with Eva, half of which I can’t remember anyway. Better to do what I said, clean my shit up, work hard, and start all over again.
Three days later, I’m at the front door of my house in Hollywood Hills. Jackson, my lawyer, has assured me that Eva has moved her stuff out, and the locks were changed after. I punch in the new code to get in and step inside.
“Fuck me,” I breathe.
The house is stripped bare. Not one piece of furniture, not one painting on the wall… The art pieces Eva and I bought together and those I bought myself, gone. The rugs, vases, even the potted plants. I know if I look in the kitchen, every cupboard and silverware drawer will have been cleaned out. I wonder if she’s taken my clothes.
The only item left in the gargantuan living room—made even larger by its emptiness—is my Oscar. It’s standing in the middle of the carpet where the couch I purchased two years ago used to be. There’s a piece of paper folded in front of it.
I crouch down on my heels in front of the gold statuette and pluck the note.
I hope you and your only friend are very happy together. ~Eva
I inhale sharply through my nose, the paper crumples in my hand. Okay, so fuck her. This is what I wanted. Clean slate.
“Maybe not this clean,” I mutter, glancing around.
Upstairs, all my clothes are still there. “She probably ran out of time to take them too.”
The sarcasm rings flat to my own ears. I stand for a minute in the huge walk-in, the emptiness of the house pressing in on me. The events of the last few days—Oscar night in particular—claw at my subconscious with sharp nails.
I lift my phone to my ear. “Andrew. Can you meet me in the office? I’m going back to work.”
“Hey, sure, boss. But you still have a few days left on your self-imposed exile.”
“Don’t need it,” I say. “There’s too much to do and it’s…it’s better that I work.”
Better to be busy, better to be with my team, and keep myself occupied. Keep my career going since that feels like the only thing I’m doing right.
At my office on Beverly Wilshire, I work with the director and the editor on post-production for Midnight Skies . I take meetings, review scripts, and then workout in the gym with my trainer until I collapse into bed at the Chateau every night. I even have lunch with the director/actor duo, Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio. They want me in a new film Martin’s been working on for a year. Leo’s co-lead dropped out due to scheduling conflicts (official story) and not because he couldn’t handle the material (unofficial but true story). Shooting starts in three weeks. A heavy-duty part that will require me to pour my guts out, scour myself raw. It’s perfect.
And as I work, and work, and work, I think of Rowan and wonder how I can feel lonely while surrounded by so many people who say they love me.