Chapter Twenty-One
“ZACH?” SYD TAPS the desk. “You still with us?”
“Hm? Yeah,” I say, and tear my gaze from the LA city skyline visible from my manager’s Beverly Wilshire office.
Syd and my agent, Chase, exchange glances over the polished mahogany of the conference room table. It’s been a week since Rowan left the bungalow, and American Vice has wrapped. Staring into space seems to be my new pastime.
Syd shifts in his seat. “Right, so as I was saying—”
“As we were saying,” Chase cuts in, “we need to pivot.”
The older man nods at the younger. “We love the high profile of American Vice ,” Syd says. “But after Crazy 8 and Covet , you’re logging too many supporting roles. Need to get you back on the leading man track.”
I frown. “I won an Oscar for a supporting role.”
“And that’s incredible, chief,” Chase says. “But we can’t have you locked into that space. You’re Taylor Swift, not Taylor’s opening act.”
“ Midnight Skies is a lead,” I say, though I have zero energy for this discussion. Rowan’s face when I told her I should treat her like shit keeps filtering into my thoughts. If I could take it back…
“ Midnight Skies is great. It’s going to rock Cannes and Toronto, both. There’s no doubt it’s going to be huge. Small and indie, but huge.”
I smirk. “I thought you said it was too dark, Syd.”
“It is too dark,” my manager says. “But the early buzz all over town is that it’s one of your best pieces of acting, bar none.” He shrugs. “That kind of buzz trumps my personal opinion.”
“But it’s still indie,” Chase puts in. “This is not.”
He slides a script across the table to me, No Man’s Land by Tyler Pollack is written on the cover page. Beneath that, Copy #2 of 4. Not for personal possession .
“It’s about a World War I aviator who gets shot down behind enemy lines and is held in a Hungarian POW camp. The film depicts his escape from the camp and struggle to get back to his regiment.”
“Tyler Pollack is the next big thing,” Syd chimes in. “His script is brilliant.”
I nod, idly riffling the corners of the pages. “Who’s attached to direct?”
“Sam Mendes with Paramount producing,” Chase says, and leans forward, practically salivating. “This is the big one, chief. And they want you.”
“When’s the audition?”
“Sam wants a meeting,” Syd says.
“You’re practically ‘offer only’ status, Zach,” Chase says, his smile blinding. “Your days of auditioning are numbered.”
I nod again and open the script. My manager and agent wait while I read a few pages from the beginning, middle, and end. They’re right; the script seems brilliant. The lines are smart and rich, and my character, Charlie Dawson, is basically a one-man show of resilience as he escapes a brutal internment camp and battles his way to the front. It’s going to be another draining, all-out effort. I’m tired just from reading a few random pages, and I was already tired. At the edge of burnout. But it’s too good to pass up. Not to mention, breaking free from a prison is the exact kind of role that speaks to me.
You just compared your relationship with Eva to a POW camp.
A crazed laugh bursts out of me, and I look up to see my team with twin expressions of worry. I shut the script and send it back across the table.
“When?”
“They’re in pre-production,” Syd says. “It’s going to be a few months before shooting starts, but Sam’s team is willing to take a meeting yesterday .”
“I’ll read the script and get back to you.”
Both men, young and old, exchange nervous glances.
“It looks pretty solid,” I say, “but at least let me read the whole thing. And I need to visit my family in St. Louis before I sign on to one more project or they’re going to kick my ass.”
“Of course,” Syd says. “We’ll email the script and the encryption code. Read it and get some rest. You look a bit…worn out.”
“I am worn out,” I say, Rowan’s words coming back to me. That I’m working nonstop to avoid facing everything with Eva. “Send it, and I’ll get back to you after St. Louis.”
I stand up, so they stand up. We shake hands, and at the huge conference room’s door, I stop. “Can I ask you guys something? How is Eva doing? Professionally, I mean.”
They exchange glances again; Syd rubs his mustache.
“Not good, chief,” Chase says. “Word about town is that she’s difficult. No one wants to work with her.”
I nod, remembering how she was at the end of Godsent . From a regular girl in season one to a pain in the ass in season six. A diva who threw fits if her sparkling water wasn’t the right temperature.
“Why do you ask?” Chase inquires.
“No reason.”
They both let out a sigh of relief. Life has been blissfully quiet lately.
Not to mention injury-free.
I start to go, and Syd joins me. “I’ll walk you out.”
Inside the posh elevator, my manager jangles change in his pockets. He’s wearing a plum-colored suit with a gold paisley tie and looks every bit like an Old Hollywood dealmaker. “Listen, Zach. This script is one of a kind—”
“I said I’d read it, Syd.”
“Hear me out. It’s the best of the best, but so are you. Except, you haven’t been like yourself since the Oscars.”
“I’m fine.”
His dark eyes narrow, but they’re warm with concern. “I don’t have kids of my own, but I consider you a son. And right now, I don’t give a crap about any script, no matter how good it is. I want you to go home to your family and get some real rest. And if you need anything… If you need to talk to someone, or go somewhere, or take a long vacation, or anything, you do it. Whatever you need to take care of yourself, I’ll help make it happen, okay?”
“Thank you, Syd,” I say, my throat tight. “I appreciate that.”
The elevator doors close, taking him back up. I stride through the posh lobby to the front drive. Outside, the driver of my car service opens the door for me.
“Home, sir?”
Home. What a crock. I have a house that I won’t step foot in for all the bad memories that haunt it. I live in a hotel because letting go of the past once and for all is…
“It’s fucking sad.”
“Sir?” the driver asks from the front seat.
“Give me a second,” I say as I give my attorney, Jackson, a call.
“Zachary, my man,” he answers with typical good-natured boisterousness. He used to do tax law in the Bay Area but switched to personal when he moved to Los Angeles. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, Jackson, I’ve been meaning to get back to you on the house.”
“Yes, please. The realtor has several great offers, one that’s crazy-high over asking.”
“How much?”
“Nine-point-eight.”
“Fine. Tell them to take it. And Jackson…”
“Yes?”
I hesitate. Syd’s words echo in my ears. I don’t owe Eva anything. I bought the house; she took the stuff. If she can’t get work, that’s on her. And my doctor recently gave me a clean bill of health, which means I don’t have to deal with Eva ever again. Case closed. Now it's up to me to keep it that way.
Giving her anything is opening a door that needs to stay locked tight. For your own good.
Jackson clears his throat. “Zach…?”
“Nothing, never mind,” I say. “That’s it, thanks.”
“You got it.”
The driver is still waiting for me to tell him where to take me, but suddenly, I feel untethered. Adrift. I should go straight to the airport and get to St. Louis. Forget packing, just go. I open my mouth to relay that when my phone buzzes.
Rowan.
It’s been four days but feels like four months. I put the phone to my ear.
“Hey.”
“Zach?” Her voice is full of tears and breathy with panic.
I sit up straight, my heart crashing against my chest. “What’s wrong?”
I hear nothing but choked sounds, as if she’s holding back sobs.
“Rowan, what’s happening? Where are you?”
“I…I need you…”
Culver City is twenty minutes away from Beverly Wilshire on a good day. I tell the driver—Mitchell—it’s life or death. He makes it there in ten.
We circle the studio warehouse until I spot her. She’s curled up against a side wall behind a utility box, her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried, shoulders shaking. On the ground beside her are a few scattered papers.
“Help me,” I tell the driver and we both jump out of the sedan. I get to Rowan and see that the papers are sketches of 19 th century period outfits. For Avignon, I guess, though she didn’t mention she was creating for them. Mitchell gathers the spilled papers while I crouch down beside her and wrap my arms around Rowan’s shaking shoulders.
“Hey,” I say gently. She’s in black leggings and a black T-shirt. The late afternoon sun spills over her blonde hair that is stuck to her cheeks until I brush it back. “Rowan, look at me.”
She raises her blood-shot eyes, and her face crumples to see me. “Zach…”
“I’m here, baby,” I say. “I’m right here. I got you.”
Fresh tears flood her eyes and spill down her cheeks. “Take me home. Please.”
I lift her off the ground and she wraps her arms around my neck, her face buried against my chest. I carry her to the car, and in between sobs, Rowan gives me an address in West Hollywood. Mitchell drives us to the little apartment complex and helps me get Rowan to her second story studio.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him as he hands me the sketches. “I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”
“It’s no trouble, sir. I’ll wait if you need me.”
I nod, unsure. I don’t know what Rowan needs, but she won’t stop crying. The dam has burst; the entire drive over she clutched at my shirt while I held her tight. It felt like I was holding her together.
Inside her place that is artsy and full of potted plants and natural light, I carry her to the bed that’s only steps away from the kitchen. I lay her down and extricate myself from her long enough to run a washcloth under some cold water. Kneeling beside her, I gently wipe her tears that keep coming. Her anguish is so potent and raw, it hurts my heart to look at her.
I’m about to ask her what happened when I realize I don’t need to. The pain she’s been holding in for years has finally broken free, and while it kills me to see her like this, I have to hope she needs it. A lancing of the wound to let the poison out.
Maybe you need this too…closure.
I don’t like where that thought wants to take me, so I ignore it. This isn’t about me, anyway. Rowan needs me. I sit with her, hold her hand, and tell her I’m here, over and over again, while I press the cloth to her skin. What I don’t tell her to do is stop crying. I let her be and make sure she knows that she’s not alone. That she’s not going to be alone, no matter what.
Eventually, her sobs subside into great hiccupping breaths. Her eyes, swollen and leaking, fall shut, and I lay the cloth against them.
“Sleep now, okay?”
She nods faintly but is still holding my hand tight. I let her keep it and sit with her as the shadows grow long and the day gives way to night.