Roland
ROLAND
I always thought Zoya looked especially beautiful when she was sleeping, her face pressed against that cream-colored 22-momme silk pillowcase she took everywhere—and which she apparently had the foresight to pack for this ambush of hers. “It’ll help smooth out my wrinkles,” she told me when she bought it, as if she had any—and as if she couldn’t just have her dermatologist annihilate them the moment they appeared.
It was always so easy to admire her beauty, and so hard to watch her agonize over it. Shortly before our split, when I first started letting streaks of gray show in my facial hair, everyone on the internet was calling me a “zaddy.” Zoya, meanwhile, got papped once while she was feeling bloated and had to deal with weeks’ worth of speculation that she was pregnant, as if there were any risk of that happening. We slept in the same bed. We liked the comfort of proximity, and the freedom to talk late into the night until one of us drifted off, but sleeping is all we ever did.
As time went on—as she gave more years to me—part of me wished I could actually be the kind of man I knew she belonged with: the virile half of a heterosexual Hollywood power couple. She deserved that. And I told her as much, aware even then that she might come to resent me for taking up so much of her life. What she said yesterday was true: there were experiences she could have had that she denied herself. She must have wanted sex. I wasn’t certain she wanted kids—but with our resources, that’s less time-dependent than ever.
“I know what this is,” she would tell me regularly—but sometimes, as she was doing her nine-step skincare routine at night, I’d spot a certain melancholy in her eyes while she examined her face in the mirror. For all her bluster, I knew she was making sacrifices. She wanted to be loved in a way that I could never provide.
After she fell asleep, I’d sit up, my back against the headboard, and watch her breasts rise and fall, trying to mirror her slow breathing. I swear that even in her sleep she would inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Once, I whispered “namaste” to her and I was certain she mumbled it back. We were close, in our way. Something more than friends, something less than lovers, but pair-bonded in a way that transcended either classification.
I wish I could synchronize with her again now, in the wee hours of the night, but the closest I can get is slowly flaring the night-light in rhythm with her breathing, bright then dim, bright then dim, bright then dim.
We haven’t spoken since our argument earlier today—technically yesterday by now—and I’ve been feeling bad about raising my voice. Still, I want her to realize the literal deadline I’m facing. I had another nightmare this afternoon while they were out by the pool: I was doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream and my dad was a half-human, half-crocodile yanking me off the stage with a vaudeville hook. I wish she could have comforted me afterward, letting me talk through my fears the way she did when we were together, but I could tell she was still stewing over the fight.
Zoya rolls over in bed, pulling the covers with her, and I take a chance.
“Are you awake, Z?” I ask through the alarm clock on the nightstand.
“I am now,” she says, flipping back onto her stomach. “Thanks to you.”
“Sorry. There’s not much to do around here while you and Adam are asleep.”
“Now we know why ghosts start fucking with people. They get bored.”
This is how we usually got out of our spats during our relationship: one or the other of us would crack a joke, and we’d just bury the dispute beneath an exchange of bon mots. She has a more withering wit than many of her fans realize. That’s what happens when they’re primarily concerned with who you’re wearing, not what you say. But I don’t want to take that route now. What she said this morning has been weighing on me.
“Zoya, I’ve been thinking about the book,” I say. “When I hatched this idea, I thought it might bring me peace. I wanted people to remember me in a certain way. But Adam helped me see that the story I originally wanted to tell may have just been another lie. And then you got here, and now I don’t know what to do …”
I used to ask her for career advice in quiet moments like these. There was a sacredness to those conversations, the two of us plotting world domination from a California king. “I’m worried about the director they want for Crash 8 ,” I’d tell her. “His first feature got solid reviews, but he’s got no experience with something large-scale. Should I ask the studio to find someone else?” And then I’d do whatever she said, trusting her perception of the situation as much as I used to lean on my mother, which was maybe telling about the nature of our relationship. But if Adam sees the bottom of things, Zoya has always been able to see through them, cutting right to their center. I’m hoping she won’t betray my trust now—that she can set aside her own ambitions and give me honest advice. I want to know what she thinks, not as Zoya, but as one half of the team formerly known as Zorro.
Zoya rolls over onto her back, blinking, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
“Earlier today, you were convinced you had to write it. What happened?”
It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself all day. I could tell Zoya that I’ve been thinking about what she gave to me, and what I owe to her. Even though I might not believe her product launch is earth-shatteringly important, I can see how much it matters to her. But that’s not the only reason.
The truth is Adam happened. I wasn’t expecting to love him. I probably only revealed as much as I did during this process because I grew so fond of him. Why else would I have told him about trying—and failing—to hide my erection in Dr. Winslow’s office hours? About tottering around in Mama’s heels as a child, pretending to be a genteel Southern lady? About sleeping with a bat under my bed for a year after Jamie? I’m not so sure anymore how much of that belongs in print. But I wanted Adam to hear it. I wanted to watch him spin it into a story, his sad brown eyes lighting up as he pictured the right words in his mind. I wanted to share my life with him. This entire time, I thought I needed the whole world to know who I was, but maybe I just needed him to know. I got to taste the connection I never had, and that could be enough. Especially if it would mean something to a woman who gave me so much.
But given Zoya’s well-known feelings on Adam, I don’t want to share all that with her.
“I wonder if I’m just resisting the inevitable here,” I tell her instead.
“The inevitable?”
She sits up against the leather headboard and reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand. It’s full of bubbles by now but she drinks it anyway. Zoya is obsessed with her hydration; I’m surprised she doesn’t keep an IV in her arm at all times.
“I’m fading, Z,” I tell her. “I can feel myself slipping and it scares me. The nightmares will win eventually. And that whole thing about the book bringing me peace—at the end of the day, that’s just a theory.”
“Are you sure that’s what’s happening, Roland?” she asks. “It could just be … I don’t know … a blip? The bad dreams might pass and you’ll still be here with whoever moves in next. I hope it’s someone really tall. Like an NBA player.”
“I’m sure, Zoya,” I insist, ignoring her ribbing. “Please.”
“And you don’t want the book to come out anymore?”
That’s exactly what I want her to help me answer. It’s not like I’d relish interfering with Zoya’s next move. I care about her success. But I owe things to Adam, too. This book will help him, and his career needs to be elevated a lot more than Zoya’s does. This will put him back on the publishing industry’s radar. Maybe he can dust off that detective story he told me about. And yet what’s happened between him and me feels so much bigger than a book. This is too hard a puzzle for my floaty brain to solve. I wish she could just tell me what to do.
“I’ve given Adam basically everything he needs to write this thing. But maybe the point wasn’t the book; maybe it was something else. Maybe this time between life and death wasn’t for me to say something to the fans; maybe it was just … for me?”
“For you to what?” she asks.
Before I can answer, we both hear scuffling coming from the hallway just outside Zoya’s door. Adam . How long has he been eavesdropping on us? What did he hear? Does he know about the nightmares now? I didn’t want to have to tell him about that while he was still here; for his sake, it would have been easier to let him go to Alta and leave me to reckon with whatever’s next for me. I don’t want to see any more sadness in those eyes. Not on my account.
“Adam?” I call out, and Zoya flinches at the sound of me suddenly shouting out of her alarm clock. She flicks on her bedside lamp to get a better view of the room.
The writer’s face appears as the door swings farther open. “Sorry, I was on my way to get some water, and I couldn’t help but overhear you two.”
There are at least five sinks between his bedroom and the kitchen, so neither of us buys the cover story. He’s a night owl, and lately I’ve been staying up with him for midnight snacks, so I can’t really blame him for doing reconnaissance. Being invisible has changed my view on the ethics of spying. More to the point, ever since Zoya got here, my attentions have been split at a critical time for the book. I answered as many of his questions about her as I could earlier tonight, but I was distracted, thinking about where my allegiances should land.
Zoya, though, is not nearly as forgiving. “Would you get out of my room?” she snaps, “We were having a—” but Adam cuts her off.
“Roland, are you OK? What was that about nightmares? Should I be worried?”
Oh God . I can’t manage Adam’s concern, Zoya’s annoyance, and my own ambivalence all at the same time. I need to defuse this situation quickly.
“Actually, Adam I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him, then turn my attention to Zoya. “Z, there is one last thing he needs, while I think everything over …”
Zoya raises an eyebrow. Adam hovers in the doorway. Neither of them has any idea what I’m about to suggest, but I need some time to figure out what I want to do—and that means I need to keep Adam occupied tomorrow. If I do decide to go forward with the book, he’ll need some more material for the Zoya chapter anyway.
“What is it?” Zoya asks, tersely.
“He needs to talk to you. Will you give him an interview in the morning? Please?”
In the dim light, these two glare at each other like they’re heavyweight contenders at opposite corners of the ring. Well, Zoya’s the heavyweight and Adam’s a featherweight, despite what their physical forms would suggest. She could deck him without breaking a sweat. The conversation, if Zoya agrees to it, may not be productive. But if Adam doesn’t sit down with her in the morning, all his anxieties will come my way. Tomorrow is the last full day he should probably be here, for his own good. We need to let the publisher know what to expect, one way or the other, before this entire plan melts in the sun.
“But if you’re not sure about the book …” Zoya says, trailing off.
If I had a face, I would give her that pleading look I used when I really needed to cash a favor—the expression that could cut through her stubbornness and get her to take mercy on me. Instead, I try to replicate that face with the right tone of voice.
“Please, Z? For me?”
“Fine,” she huffs. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
Later that night, I hear Adam whisper to me, first in the kitchen, then in the study, hoping I’ll respond. I know he probably wants to ask me about the nightmares. I know he’s scared. I kept a secret for half a century, but staying silent while Adam asks an empty room if I’m going to be all right is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I feel like I’m dying all over again. I can’t say goodbye. Not yet.