Chapter Twenty
I CURL UP into Zach, cling to him, and wait for the panic attack to hit. It doesn’t come and I breathe a sigh of relief. The guilt is just a butterfly, and right now, it’s flown away. I have a little bit of peace, but deep down, I know it’s fragile. Delicate. It has rules and conditions. I don’t know what they are and don’t want to find out. Better to stay here, tucked safely away from the world with Zach and just be.
His hand is trailing lazily in my hair, his lips brushing my forehead as I rest my head against his chest.
“Without a doubt,” he says, his voice rumbling in my ear, “that was the best party I’ve ever been to.”
I sniff a laugh and snuggle closer. I’ve never spooned with a guy or been held after sex. Zach does it as if it’s second nature, as if he’d tuck me into him and keep me safe.
“I’m surprised you’re still at the hotel,” I say slowly. “I’m not surprised that you keep your Oscar on the toilet.”
“Best shelf in the joint,” he says. “And it’s easier to just stay here. I’ve been working too much to give selling the house any kind of attention.”
I want to ask him more about how he’s doing and why he’s working so hard, but that might invite similar questions.
“What made you get into acting?” I ask instead, then peer up at him. “You’ve probably answered that question in a hundred interviews.”
“Yes, and I’m offended you haven’t seen any of them,” he says. He gives me a kiss on the nose, then settles back against the pillows. “My brother and I were eight years old. Our mom had taken us to the state fair in St. Louis where a casting agent saw us. He wanted us both, but Jeremy wasn’t interested.”
“Wait, you were both eight?”
“Jeremy is my twin brother. Fraternal, though the differences aren’t much.”
“So, there are two of you. Does the internet know about this?”
He chuckles. “Probably. But Jeremy wants nothing to do with acting.”
“What does he do?”
“Everything else,” Zach says, and his voice is full of brotherly affection. “He’s a free spirit. Does odd jobs and is always disappearing for long stretches, visiting far-flung places, then coming back with tales of his adventures. When we were kids, he was the wild child, and I was the quiet one. Acting is too much discipline for him, much to that casting agent’s dismay.”
“Then what happened, after you started doing commercials?”
“I did a lot of plays for school. That’s when I fell in love with the craft itself. I felt drawn to it with a kind of obsession. As if I’d found the thing I was supposed to do.”
“You can say that again,” I say, thinking of the Alaska film and Covet and how surreal it was to watch Zach morph into someone else. Even with a face as famous and well-known as his.
“By then I had an agent and manager who were desperate to get me out here, but my parents insisted I graduate high school first. I did, then moved here and did all the bit parts on network shows. It’s a little-known fact that every aspiring actor who moves to LA must do at least one episode of Law and Order. ”
I grin. “And then?”
“Two years of grinding, then I landed Godsent. That opened a lot of doors, and I started doing films in between seasons. I did What You Leave Behind, and it sort of skyrocketed from there.”
“Does Jeremy regret not following you?”
“Nope. They’re all so normal about it. Which I need.”
“Sounds like you have a great family.”
“I do,” Zach says, and I feel him shift, likely remembering how I had the opposite of a great family after my dad died. Almost no family at all. He gives me a squeeze. “What about you? How did you get into costumes?”
I feel a twinge in the pit of my stomach and shrug, feigning casualness.
“When we were growing up, we didn’t have a lot of money,” I say. “I was tired of my cousins’ hand-me-downs, so I would alter them. Marry two pieces together into something else. I drew the clothes I wanted, and then I started drawing clothes I imagined. Then I saw Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and I was obsessed with how the designer—Eiko Ishioka—broke all the conventions. I loved it and wanted to be a part of that world.”
“And now you’re doing it,” Zach says with another squeeze.
“Almost. But I’m making my way back.”
He kisses me and the spark between us threatens to reignite, until my stomach rumbles in the most unsexy of ways.
“I’m starved too,” Zach says. “It’s early yet. Want to hit the town? Or stay naked and order in?”
“The second one,” I say. “Putting clothes on you should be illegal.”
He holds my face in his hands. “Likewise.”
I smile into his kiss. “That’s my line.”
For the rest of the weekend, Zach and I stay in the bungalow. He takes a bunch of phone calls from his team: an army of managers, agents, and publicists by the sound of it. But most of our time is spent eating in, talking, laughing, and bringing each other to ecstasy. Zach offers to take me out, but I decline. Being entangled with him, warm and naked in bed, is a kind of heaven in itself. I don’t ever want to leave.
“I want you all to myself,” I tell him.
“I’m all yours,” he replies, and then we fall into each other all over again.
On Saturday afternoon, we’re interrupted by the arrival of a couriered package. A slim FedEx envelope. Inside is an NDA.
“My manager is paranoid,” Zach says. “It’s standard, I promise.”
I scan the paper. It’s like the one I signed at Bruckheimer’s party, specifying that I won’t speak to anyone about what Zach and I talk about, or what I know from being with him, or any of the personal details of what we’ve been doing, upon penalty of being sued into oblivion.
I feel him watching me as I scan it. “There’s no orgasm clause,” I say. “You’d think if you can bring a gal to a hundred orgasms in a twenty-four-hour stretch, you’d want me to talk about it.”
Zach laughs. “I’ll ask Syd about making an amendment. You’re okay with this? Not very romantic.”
“That’s show biz,” I say, kissing his chin. “Hand me a pen.”
It’s Sunday night, the last night before the real world drags us out of the bungalow.
Zach wants to take me out, but I convince him to order pizza and a movie instead.
“Who are you favorites?” I ask, flipping through the streaming services, both of us on the couch and barely dressed. “I’m curious who the actors are that a truly amazing actor admires.”
“Sam Rockwell is a certifiable genius. Shea Whigham, Viola Davis…but Daniel Day Lewis is the absolute pinnacle of the craft.” Zach shoots me a look. “This is what you want to talk about? I was thinking we could go—”
“Perfect! Here’s There Will Be Blood ,” I say. “Let’s order pizza again and be lazy for one more night.”
I avert my eyes before Zach’s ultra-observant super-powers see the unease that lurks just below. I’m doing so well. Not a hint of panic, and I know it’s because I’m holding life still. It moved on brutally fast after Josh died, but now I’m putting on the brakes. Taking a time out with Zach, because all that pain is still there, waiting for me, but I’m not ready to give him up to it. Not yet.
Maybe never. Maybe I’m okay…
The pizza arrives—pepperoni and black olive—and we eat our fill. But the movie can’t hold my attention. Zach is beside me, and my body feels attuned only to him. To his nearness and presence. Moreover, there’s a part of me that’s been withering without affection for so long. Longing for the touch of a man that isn’t greedy and selfish in intention. I put myself in those shitty positions for want of that, because I never thought I could or would ever have someone like Zach.
He touches me like he wants me to feel everything.
“You don’t like the flick?” Zach asks when I fidget on the couch beside him for the tenth time.
“It’s not that,” I say. “You’re too…”
A hundred words could finish this sentence. Good. Sexy. Amazing. Wonderful.
“…distracting.”
His dark eyes rake over me. “I know what you mean.”
I slip a little slice of pepperoni into Zach’s mouth, then kiss him. The salty and savory flavor blends with his own clean taste, and the movie is forgotten. We’ve had each other a dozen times in as many hours, but it’s not enough.
I toss the pizza aside and assume my favorite position, straddling Zach, kissing him harder, deeper. Instantly, he responds, and I can feel something in his body change. His energy. The air between us is electric again, the need that’s always simmering, now ready to boil over. His hands are on me, roaming, then holding my hips and grinding me down on his erection.
“Damn, Rowan,” he breathes around our kiss. “Need you again,” he grits out, echoing my own feelings. In the next instant, he’s lying over me. Blanketing me with his strong body, muscles exquisitely honed and chiseled. His weight on me is everything I want: I feel dominated, at his mercy…the sensations made all the sexier because I trust him implicitly.
He wastes no time moving his mouth down my chin, my throat, between my breasts in his borrowed T-shirt. To my stomach, then lower until he reaches the edge of my thong.
“I love making you come,” he says. He slides my underwear off, then comes right back, putting his face between my legs.
“That’s because you’re so good at it—oh God,” I cry, my back arching with the electrical shockwaves his tongue, lips, and even his teeth are sending through me. One flailing hand finds the side of the couch, the other, his hair, and I hold on for dear life, sure I’ll float off the face of the earth otherwise.
He’s relentless, and within moments, he’s brought me to yet another orgasm. Breathing hard, I grip his broad shoulders and pull him to me. I kiss him wantonly, tasting myself, and it only makes me want him more.
“Now,” I whisper. “Please...”
He nods, his eyes dark and hooded, and starts to reach for one of the condoms we have littered around the bungalow. I stop him.
“I had a checkup a few weeks ago. Perfect bill of health and I’m on the pill.” I shift my hips beneath him, lifting my nakedness to the flannel of his pants. “I want you to feel everything.”
Zach’s eyes flare and I feel his desire for me like a hit from the most powerful drug. Because I’m addicted to what he does to me, how he makes me feel in my body but also in the parts of myself I’ve hated for so long. A craving that’s give as much as take, because I want to give it all back to him, as much as he can take.
He bends to kiss me, and I reach down to pull at his sleep pants. But a sudden thought jolts him, and he grips my hand, stopping me.
“Wait. I shouldn’t.” Zach sits up, breathing hard.
“Why?”
“Because…”
He looks away, and humiliation burns through me like wildfire. I feel as if every sordid hook-up I’ve ever had is suddenly in the room with us. I draw on my underwear, wanting to run away. “I get it,” I say, looking for my dress. “I should go. Work tomorrow...”
Zach takes my arm. “Whoa, hold on. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous but… I don’t know what happened the morning after the Oscars. The last thing I remember is being on the couch that night, drunk off my ass. Eva threw a tantrum because I didn’t thank her in my speech. And then I woke up in our bedroom, basically naked with her beside me.”
I stare, aghast, and he looks away, misreading my shock.
“I know, it’s fucking tacky. I just drank too much, and I can’t remember what happened, so I’d rather keep you safe.” He looks to me. “I’m sorry.”
My jaw works and I shake my head. “Zach…why are you sorry?”
“Because it’s more of the same bullshit. It’s Eva trying to wreck my life even after I cut her out. I don’t blame you if you’re pissed at me.”
“Zach, I’m not…” I say, and it’s hard to catch my breath. I’m so enraged at Eva I can barely speak. “What she did… Are you okay?”
He frowns. “Yeah, I’m okay. Maybe I should’ve had a checkup too, but I haven’t been with anyone. Haven’t wanted to be with anyone. This past month, all I could think about was you.”
He leans to kiss me, but alarm bells are going off in my heart. I pull back. “Zach…we should talk about this.”
“What’s to talk about?” he asks, his voice hardening. “It’s over. Finally.”
“Is it?” I ask. “You keep going from project to project, no breaks.”
“Yeah? And?”
“I just wonder if everything with Eva…how she hurt you…maybe it’s bothering you more than you know.”
My hypocrisy is jaw-dropping, but I’m too worried about him to care.
Zach shakes his head. “Being busy means I’m traumatized? I’m working .”
“I don’t know what it means, but you look exhausted, turning yourself inside out for all these roles.”
“That’s what I do.” He lets out a short breath, regrouping, and takes my hand in his. “Look, whatever happened that night…it’s no big deal. Doesn’t mean anything. Probably nothing happened—”
“ Probably ?”
He drops my hand and stands up to pace in front of the couch. “What do you want me to say? I’ve slept with her a thousand times. Not to mention, I’m twice her size. I could’ve stopped it. I would’ve stopped it.”
“You don’t know that. And anyway, if that were true, then why would you be cautious with me?”
“To protect you! Just in case I…got lost in the memories of a better time. I was drunk enough. It’s not a big deal.”
“You keep saying that. But it is, Zach. If she—”
“If she what? Fucking hell, Rowan, why are you so insistent upon planting damage in me that isn’t there? I can’t remember so it didn’t happen.”
“That’s not how that works—”
“ It didn’t happen! ” he thunders. “And since we’re on the subject of unspoken issues, let’s talk about why you won’t be seen in public with me. Why you’re hiding away like you always do.”
“I…I’m not hiding…”
“You’re perfectly fine now, is that it?” he asks, and I can hear he’s trying to be gentle amid his frustration. “You’re completely recovered from ten years of thinking that it’s your fault that…”
That I let Josh die.
The temporary peace has fled and now the pain is back. Only this time it isn’t a delicate little butterfly; it’s a blackhole, sucking in all the light and goodness of the past few days.
“That’s not it,” I say, and want desperately for that to be true. “The last time something went public between us, social media tore me apart.”
Zach shakes his head, disbelieving. “That’s just bullshit. It comes with the territory.”
“ Your territory, not mine. And pardon me, I wasn’t aware that being called a whore was in the job description. You should’ve put that in your NDA.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says, his voice low. “You don’t deserve it, but it’s just internet noise. And anyway, it would be different now.”
“Why?”
“ Why ?” He stares at me helplessly. “Why do you think? Jesus, Rowan, because I want us to be together. Because I—”
“Because you need to have someone,” I say quickly, riding the tide of guilt I just told him wasn’t there. It makes me say everything I don’t want to say. Everything hurtful and terrible to push him away from me. “That’s all this is. You want so badly to have someone that it doesn’t matter who. I could be anyone.”
He flinches as if I’d slapped him. The way Eva must’ve slapped him. My heart aches but I stare defiantly, unwilling to crack even a little or else I’ll shatter.
“Sure,” he says dully, nodding. “That must be it. My life is just make-believe.”
“Maybe it is.”
Because he can’t possibly care about me this much.
He looks at me as if reading my thoughts, his eyes harder and emptier than I’ve ever seen. His voice more cutting. “Would it help if I treated you like shit? You seem to understand that best.”
Now it’s my turn to reel. A terrible, heavy silence follows. Shame burns me from the inside out and I can’t stand to be in his presence one more minute, this good guy who probably cares about me. Maybe more than I can imagine. Maybe as much as I care about him, and I just ruined whatever we might’ve had. Zach’s goodness only magnifies how fucked up I am right back to me, and I can’t bear to look.
With shaking fingers, I dress quickly and grab my stuff. Zach says nothing the entire time, only stares at me with hard eyes that cannot contain the pain beneath.
At the door, I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and close it behind me.
Over the next few days, I’m at the warehouse in Culver City, one worker bee out of a hundred, our sewing machines humming. The costumes for the 1800s French peasants are as simple (cheap) as we can make them while still maintaining realism.
I keep my notebook beside me, sketching my own modifications and designs for the lead characters’ costumes mostly. The head costumer, Laurent Moreau, does good work, but nothing exciting. I add and embellish in between long stretches of sewing petticoats and aprons. Anything to keep my mind busy, though it keeps dragging me back to that almost-perfect weekend with Zachary. To the awful things I said to him. How I took his care for me and flung it back in his face.
Because I didn’t believe him, I think. I didn’t believe he could care about me, so I made it easy for him not to.
Four days after leaving the Chateau Marmont, I’m on a lunch break at the Avignon warehouse, sitting at an outdoor picnic table with my coworkers. My phone buzzes with a text. My stomach drops.
Hi darling. I’m really starting to get worried. You haven’t returned any of my texts. I hope you’re okay and the offer still stands to visit Josh this Saturday. Or any Saturday. Please let me know. I’d love to hear from you. xo
I leave Carol’s text unanswered, just like I’d left all the phone calls from Dr. Baldwin’s office unanswered over the last month.
“I’m no expert,” J.J. told me two nights ago after I confessed all that had happened, “but one therapy session isn’t enough, babe. Promise me you’ll try again. Going the first time was a big step, and you were brave for making it. But take another step, and another, and eventually you just might arrive somewhere good.”
Somewhere with Zachary…
I’d gotten off the phone with J.J. promising I’d try again but still hadn’t made that phone call to Dr. Baldwin. And now lunchbreak is over, and it’s back to the warehouse. I sit down at my machine and stare at the pile of cloth beside it. For the millionth time, I think of Zach and wonder if he’s thinking about me. But why would he? I hurt him and he’d already been hurt by Eva. Maybe in ways too ugly to think about. He didn’t deserve what I said. Maybe I don’t deserve to remain trapped in my pain either, but I feel immobile. Answering Carol’s text to at least let her know I’m okay is the right thing to do. Calling Dr. Baldwin’s office for another appointment is the right thing to do, too. I do neither.
“What am I doing?” I murmur to myself.
“An amazing job.”
I glance up to see the second assistant costume lead, Dottie James, standing over my station, beaming. The woman—around my age—is a riot of primary colors: dyed red hair, yellow dress, blue jewelry that is less jewelry and more like children’s toys. Today, she’s wearing earrings made from dice and a necklace of blue plastic gummy bears. She’s holding a sheaf of papers in her arms.
“You’re clearly one of our best,” she says. “Faster and more concise than anyone in this place. So. New assignment. We want you on the second unit, clothing the featured background actors.”
She hands me the sheaf of paper—sewing patterns and illustrations of men’s suits. Waist coats, top hats, trousers, vests…
Dottie pats my shoulder. “Don’t look so intimidated. You got this. Head on over to warehouse C to get your materials. Liza will give you a tutorial and show you the mannequins dressed in the finished product.”
I nod, Dottie gives me a final pat and leaves. I can’t move. I stare at the drawings, and my heart jackrabbits in my chest. I can hardly breathe, and suddenly every part of me feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The waistcoats. The vests. The trousers…
The March Hare, I think, staring at the diagrams. They want me to sew the March Hare…
In my mind, Josh smiles at me. “I thought you said this was a couple’s costume. I didn’t know Alice and the March Hare were a thing…”
I stagger to my feet, because it’s coming. The black abyss. I refused to go to it, so it’s coming to me. Tears sting my eyes, and huge sobs, like ocean swells in a storm, well in me. If I don’t get out of here quick…
I grab my notebook and stumble through the warehouse, one hand clamped to my mouth. I ignore the concerned glances and questions that follow me; I probably look like I’m about to puke. And I am. Years’ worth of grief and guilt are finally breaking free from the prison I’ve locked them in, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Outside, the sunlight is blinding. I can’t see where I’m going, and I crash into someone. Hard. I hear a feminine yelp, and we both go down. My notebook spills open, my sketches flying everywhere.
“No, no, no,” I cry, on my hands and knees, gathering them up as fast as I can.
Whoever I crashed into, a woman, puts her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? Let me help…”
I shrug her off and stumble to my feet. I make it around the corner to a back alley and slump against the wall of the warehouse. The concrete is hard against my back as I heave gulps of air. With trembling fingers, I pull out my phone. To call…who? J.J.? Dr. Baldwin? I can barely think or see or breathe, but I start dialing.