Chapter Eighteen
I TURN THE key in the door of the Chateau’s bungalow and stagger inside. My role in Scorsese’s American Vice is infinitely more draining than I imagined. A smaller movie in scope than his usual but no less intense. I play a drug-addicted brother to DiCaprio’s DEA agent: opposite sides of the same coin. Working with Leo is intimidating as hell, but I’ve settled into the role with shocking ease. Turns out, I have some experience going back—again and again—to something that used to make me feel good but is actually poison. My character—Flynn—will eventually overcome his addictions and get clean, but we’re shooting in sequence and he’s not there yet, so neither am I.
I shut the door behind me and survey the bungalow that has been my home for a month. The shoot is taking all my time and energy; the Hills house remains unsold, but there’s no chance I’m staying there. My Oscar sits on the best shelf in the bungalow—the back of the toilet in the bathroom.
I slump on the couch. It’s seven p.m. on a Friday. We’re shooting locally and have the weekend off. I could be social somewhere but have become something of a recluse these last few weeks. The role is rough, but mostly, it’s that I don’t have it in me to mingle and make pointless small talk. Since the morning after Oscar night, I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone.
Except her.
For the millionth time that day, I think of Rowan. I never stop. She’s the freedom from addiction my character is pining after. The reward for getting through the tough shit. At least, that’s how I play it in the scenes. Every time Flynn fights back against his disease, I imagine Rowan is waiting on the other side.
I itch to text her. Just to check in, but that’d be like Flynn taking a hit and telling himself it’s just the one . Plus, Rowan is fighting her own battles, and I can’t interfere. I’ll be part of her life again when she’s ready. If she’s ready.
She might be done with you.
Given her radio silence, that’s probably true.
“A guy can dream,” I mutter to my empty place. I’m about to order a pizza, take a shower, and call it a night when my phone buzzes a text from my publicist, Courtney.
Jerry Bruckheimer is having a party tonight and you have to go. Chloé Zhao will be there. Rumor has it she wants you for her next project. Not to mention, you’re a hermit lately. Would be good to get out and be social. Stay relatable.
I frown. Going to a huge Hollywood party makes me relatable?
Her reply is quick. To the industry people. Your peers and friends. We need to keep you circulating. After AV, you have nothing lined up.
I sigh. I don’t have anything after American Vice because I feel like I’m getting close to burnout. I’ve been working almost nonstop for four years, trying to purge my own personal demons with every role. But maybe getting out and seeing some people is better than lying around like a slug all weekend.
Fine. Text me the details.
Great! Incoming.
Forty minutes later, I’m dressed in a dark suit, no tie, and a car service is taking me up Mulholland to a huge mansion lit up with exterior lighting, as if it’s the star of a Broadway show. Inside, I sign a standard NDA that nothing I hear or see at the party leaves the premises, and then a liveried waiter offers me a flute of champagne. I decline.
Not going down that road again.
Deeper in the huge house, the who’s who of Hollywood mingle and laugh, talking in clusters. Everyone looks beautiful and confident, whether they feel that way or not. I’ve never felt comfortable in these situations, whereas my brother would fit right in. Not for the first time, I entertain the silly fantasy that if Jeremy and I were identical, I could do the emotional acting work and hire him out to do the PR.
Everyone there greets me warmly and congratulates me on my win. I’m drawn into a dozen conversations, one after the other, as I make my way through the house. The host himself greets me with a booming voice and strong handshake and asks when I’m going to join a superhero franchise. Finally, I make it to the backyard for some air, fighting the urge to go home.
Home? Home is a hotel room. You’ve never been so far from having a home in your life.
In the backyard, colorful strings of lights illuminate miles of grass, tennis courts, and a glittering pool. Guests talk in clusters around the turquoise water, sipping champagne. I spy a lounger that is unoccupied and make a beeline, but a young woman in a short black dress gets there first.
My heart skips a beat. Rowan.
I don’t speak but watch her for a moment. Drink her in. She’s holding a slim champagne flute, the liquid the same color as her hair that’s pulled up in a classic twist—a contrast to the modern razor-straight line of her bangs. She’s wearing an oversized men’s suit jacket, the sleeves rolled up. The bulkiness highlights her small frame. Under, her little black dress perfectly outlines her every curve and line. The front is a geometric mosaic of black panels, sewn with precision and a certain nonconformity too. Nothing obnoxious or ostentatious, just unique, like her.
Rowan made that dress and that’s my Tom Ford jacket.
As if she felt my sudden surge of—emotion? Lust? Affection? All three?—she turns. The smile that comes to her face is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.
“Zach,” she says, and rises to her feet as if pulled up by a string. I don’t miss how her gaze takes me in from top to bottom before returning to meet my eyes. Lips parted. Even in the dimness, I can see her cheeks are flushed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
This breaks her out of her spell. She crosses her arms and gives me one of her trademark smirks I love but didn’t know how much until now.
“That’s a good question,” she says. “I feel like a bouncer is going to kick me out any second for lack of credentials.”
An awkward silence falls, but I don’t care. It’s enough to see her. To be in her space again. The lounger next to Rowan’s frees up. I pull it next to hers and we sit side by side.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be seen sitting together?” Rowan glances around. “Last time, we ended up in a tabloid.”
“Didn’t you sign the NDA upon entry?” I ask, then point at the trees and greenery that surround the pool area. “Eyes in the sky. Our host has this place on lockdown. Nothing’s getting out.”
Rowan nods, seemingly more at ease. “What have you been up to?”
“Shooting a film with Scorsese.”
“As one does. I’ve heard American Vice is a killer. But why am I not surprised?” Her expression tilts into concern. “You look tired.”
“I am tired. But you… You look…”
Fucking stunning. Radiant.
“Healthy.”
She smiles. “I’m doing better. A lot better. Saw a therapist. Made some progress.”
“I’m so happy to hear that.” I say and glance around for whoever she brought as her date, sure to approach any second now. “Are you…here with anyone?”
“Nope, flying solo,” she says. “And I’m sure you’re wondering how a lowly PA gets invited to a big-time producer’s shindig.”
“Stop with the ‘lowly’ already.”
She grins, her eyes alit from within, as if some of the shadows have been lifted off her. “Actually, I’m no longer a lowly PA. I’m now a lowly seamstress, working in the costume department for Avignon. One of the assistant costume leads scored me an invite to this party.”
“Wow, congrats on the job,” I say.
“I’m a cog in the wheel, but at least it’s closer to…” She gives her head a shake. “Anyway. I wouldn’t normally go to a party like this solo. Or at all, really but…” Her blue eyes rise to meet mine. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”
The honest declaration hits me right in the chest and sinks in. I can’t keep the grin off my face. “You wanted to see me, eh?”
She holds up her champagne flute. “That and the free booze.”
The joke doesn’t do anything to cover the soft vulnerability on her face or the heat in her eyes when she looks at me. Suddenly the air between us is charged with that special kind of electricity--the kind that's filled with the anticipation of what might come next.
“Trolling parties is one option,” I say. “Or—and hear me out—you could have just texted.”
Rowan glances down at her glass. “I know but…I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted, so I threw it to the universe instead.” Now she looks at me intently, and the space between us seems to evaporate. “And here you are.”
Here we are. Again. Maybe this time…
“Speaking of sewing,” I say when the moment grows long.
She quirks a brow. “Were we?”
“You made that dress.”
Rowan self-consciously smooths the fabric over one of her thighs. “Oh. Yeah. I did.”
“It’s fucking amazing. Pairs great with my jacket.”
“Well, that’s the real reason I’m here, Zach Butler. To return your lost property to you.”
I grin. “Well?”
“Well what?
“I’m waiting for you to give it back.”
Rowan smiles and takes a sip of champagne. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to take it off me.”
A flush of heat rampages through me. “Rowan, are you flirting with me?”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m in a good mood.”
“So am I. Now.”
Her smile dims a little. “How are things? With Eva, I mean.” Her gaze is piercing. Studying. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Of course,” I say. “I cut her off. No lasting scars.”
Rowan doesn’t smile. “You sure about that?”
I’m not sure about anything that happened that night, but what are my options? Confront Eva? That’d be like waking a rabid dog. Better to leave it alone.
“I’m good,” I say. “And I liked it better when we were flirting.”
Rowan looks like she wants to say more but lets it go. She turns her gaze to the huge crowd of what The Scandal Sheet would call “Hollywood’s glitterati.”
“How does it feel?” she asks.
“How does what feel?”
“Every single person at this party would surrender their Ozempic pens for a piece of your attention.”
I chuckle. “That is not remotely true.”
“Says the weirdly humble megastar.” She nods her chin at the partygoers. “Tell me something about your co-workers out here.”
“You want to hear gossip? I thought you avoided all that.”
“Nothing hurtful. Only what you know firsthand. I’ll tell you what us common folk think, and you tell me if we’re right.”
“Okay.” I scan the crowd. “See that actress in the red dress?”
Rowan follows my gaze and nods. “Oh, she’s good. Everyone loves her. She’s always so beautiful when she cries.”
“She’s great, but she also cries way too much.” Said actress must’ve felt eyes on her, because she turns and gives me a wave. I wave back.
Rowan frowns. “Too much?”
“Several years back, I did a summer production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf with her at the Pasadena Playhouse. Me, George. Her, Martha. She cried or teared up in every damn scene.”
“And that’s bad?”
“The whole play is about these characters never showing their vulnerability. George and Martha are never real with each other until the end. If she’s crying throughout the whole thing, there’s no catharsis. No payoff. I was so fucking irritated during the entire run.” I smile. “Made playing George pretty easy, now that I think about it.”
Rowan looks thoughtful for a moment, then juts her chin at the crowd. “How about him?
I know who she means even without naming names. “He’s pretty good. A better actor than most people give him credit for. But…”
“But…?”
I lean closer. “He stinks.”
“You just said he was pretty good.”
“No, I mean he literally stinks. He smells terrible. I don’t know if he doesn’t wear deodorant or what, but a friend of mine worked with him on a three-film franchise and she said it was like a test of human endurance just being around him.”
Rowan stifles a laugh behind her hand. “This is quite the education I’m getting. Hollywood 101.”
“Yeah well, I shouldn’t talk shit,” I say. “Not very polite.”
“Do you want to know what the general public says about you?” Rowan asks. “To even the score?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“They call you the ‘Internet’s Boyfriend.’”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that you’re universally loved. There’s something about you that everyone wants to protect.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Hm,” Rowan says noncommittally. “Even so, they’ve got your back. I found that out the hard way. After that Scandal Sheet came out…” She waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m a tad tipsy, so I’m being extra honest, but it’s true. You’re a good guy, Zach. And that means something.”
“It means something to me, hearing it from you.”
She smiles softly, softer than I’ve ever seen, and I feel warmer too. Looser. As if the tension of the last month is sliding off me. It would be nothing to lean over and kiss her. The urge—the need—is strong. And Rowan looks as if she wants that too, to pick things up where we left them.
Are we ready for that?
The thought is a cold shower on the warm moment, so I ignore it. Stick to the topic at hand. “I suppose good is better than boring . My agent, Chase, is always telling me that boring is the kiss of death.”
“Who says you’re boring?”
“I did Jimmy Kimmel’s ‘Mean Tweets’ once. That was eye-opening.”
Rowan props herself on her elbow. “Oh my God, this I gotta hear.”
“My favorite was, Zachary Butler is what happens when a loaf of Wonder Bread becomes sentient and gets an agent. ”
Rowan bursts out in laughter, nearly spilling champagne on her dress. She coughs into the back of her hand. “I’m sorry but that is the best thing ever.”
“I know,” I say, laughing with her. “Runner up: Zachary Butler is so bland, I’ll bet he goes home every night, eats a bowl of spaghetti, and talks about his day.”
“Oh, the horror,” Rowan says, wiping her eyes.
“That’s not far from the truth,” I say. “I don’t mind boring . No drama. No chaos. I think I’d be perfectly happy coming home, eating a bowl of spaghetti, and talking about my day.”
“I know you would,” Rowan says, her blue eyes soft on me. “I would too. To just…”
“Be.”
She rests her head on the lounger. “Yeah. Just be.”
The moment grows thick and warm again. I feel the urge to kiss her again. To restart my life. Because it used to be that acting was how I lived—processing emotion through someone else’s words, being other people and living other lives. But now I just want one life—mine—and I want Rowan in it.
“Rowan,” I say.
“Zachary.”
“You want to get out of here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”
She sets her champagne flute on the concrete and lets me help her off the lounger. Her fingers twine with mine as we walk along the edge of the pool to…where? Her place? Mine? Are we both up for whatever comes next? I don’t know but I let out a slow breath on a prayer not to fuck this up again. Not to let anything—or anyone—get in the way of our second chance.