Chapter 17 #2
“I needed a change. I kept places in LA and New York, but they didn’t feel like home, like places I actually wanted to live. I needed to get away, remove myself from the scene and start over somewhere. I wanted a place I could fly under the radar.”
“So you chose Seafolly?” I say, incredulous. Ryder’s about as inconspicuous in Seafolly as Henry Cavill in the romance aisle at a bookstore. Leonardo DiCaprio on a cruise liner. The Backstreet Boys in an airplane hangar.
“I know it seems crazy, but you’d be surprised how laid-back it is. People don’t bother me here.” He scratches at his chin, and I’m momentarily derailed by the allure of his beard. I’d give anything to scrape my fingernails through it. Who knew facial hair turned me on like this?
“It was only meant to be a stopover, originally,” his scruffy jaw goes on, and I mentally pour a bucket of cold water over my head.
Focus, Scarlett. “A counselor recommended I choose somewhere I could remember being happy, and Seafolly was the first place that came to mind. Plus, warm weather, the beach—seemed as good a place as any.” He shrugs.
“So I got a long-term rental and decamped here when I had some downtime between movies. And the longer I stayed, the more it felt like home. Eventually I decided to buy a place.”
“And a boat.”
His eyes light up, and he runs his hand along the swim platform lovingly. “And a boat. We never had a dime growing up, and before she passed my mom made me swear I’d enjoy my success. Just trying to keep that promise.”
I shake my head as another puzzle piece slots into place. “I thought the old Bronco was an odd choice for a rental car.”
Ryder throws his head back and laughs. All the weird little coincidences and niggling observations from the past few days are finally coming into sharp focus, like it’s The Wizard of Oz and I went to sleep in black and white and woke up in Technicolor.
“So are you? Enjoying your success, I mean? I struggle with that part of it,” I admit, flutter-kicking my feet in the water before belatedly considering what subaquatic creatures might be lurking beneath the surface.
What was it the wildlife coordinator had told us back then?
In South Carolina, if the water feels wet, there are gators in there.
He purses his lips, considering the question.
“Well, I’m trying. That’s really what this break is about.
For years I went from set to set because I didn’t want to be home.
It was too quiet, too lonely, too depressing.
I worried I’d relapse. I thought surrounding myself with people, staying busy, was the answer.
One of the things I learned in rehab is that I drank to get out of my head, to make myself more extroverted, and I realized I was using my career for those same things.
And it worked for a while, until one day it didn’t.
” He lifts his eyes to the sky, where a few lazy clouds drift past, and for a moment, he looks like a man adrift himself.
“I started to feel really detached from everything, like I was going through the motions. Being on a set wasn’t fulfilling the way it used to be. Maybe it’s burnout, I don’t know. All I know is, I lost my passion for the work and I was having a hard time faking it.”
“You felt like a product and not a person,” I murmur, as much to him as to myself.
I’ll never forget the moment I realized it had been so long since I’d seen my natural hair color that I wasn’t even sure what it was anymore.
It’s the danger of this business—when you spend your life becoming someone else, you can lose yourself in the process.
He looks at me, recognition lighting his eyes.
“Sometimes, yes. And I hated feeling so cynical, like I was the most negative version of myself. I finally decided I needed to remove myself from the industry bubble and live in the real world for a while, figure out who I am without my career. Learn how to enjoy my own company.” He shoots me a wry grin.
“Take out my own trash. Fix my own meals.”
“Next thing you know you’ll be doing your own grocery shopping,” I tease.
“You know what? I can. That’s what’s so great about living here.
People don’t care who I am. Or maybe they’ve just gotten used to me,” he concedes.
“The ones that do recognize me are just grateful for the tourism the movie’s brought in.
Everyone is normal and salt of the earth.
They help each other out without expecting a favor in return.
They’d rather talk fishing than filming. ”
I smile wistfully, thinking of my reclusive, unknowable Malibu neighbors. “You make it sound amazing.”
“It’s exactly what I was looking for,” he says with conviction, and I find myself jealous of the picture he’s painted.
Despite all his setbacks, he’s done a brave thing: started over and built a life for himself without excuses or shame.
He’s steady and clear-eyed in a way I could never have imagined ten years ago.
“You asked me before why I agreed to participate in this reunion. Well, now you know. Everything that’s good in my life can be traced right back to this place.
The hurricane hit them hard, and I wanted to help however I could. ”
Of course he did; Ryder’s always been a natural protector who leads with his heart. I’ve long known his intensity masked a deeper well of emotions than other people could see. He’s a feeler, through and through. “What about your house? Did it fare okay?”
He waves a hand. “Only minor damage. Lost a few shingles, some siding ripped off. The newer-construction homes have all been built up to withstand flooding. The older houses, though…” He winces, and he doesn’t need to elaborate; I’ve seen the devastation with my own eyes.
To chase away those bleak visuals, I let myself imagine what his house looks like.
In my mind’s eye, it’s a masculine, Ralph Lauren–inspired bachelor pad laid with dark woods, club chairs upholstered in buttery-soft leather, and tartan flannel throw blankets spilling from a wicker basket on the hearth of a wood-burning fireplace.
A stone chimney flanked by sturdy built-in bookshelves is stuffed with first editions and cluttered with mementos collected from movie sets and a life on the road.
Or maybe it’s more like mine: luxurious and chic, with no expense spared and no amenity overlooked, its swanky veneer masking an emptiness I blame on minimalism but is actually because I’m never home long enough to fill it with the memories and detritus of a life well lived. I hope it’s the former.
“I want to see your house,” I blurt impulsively, surprising us both. All this dreamy boat rocking must have dislodged my filter.
His eyes flare as if struck by a match. “And I’d love to show it to you.
” He grins at me, pleasure streaking his features.
He’s illuminated from within, a flicker of something buoyant in his expression.
It hits me then, how many women would kill to be me, alone on a boat with the Ryder Perry, his breathtaking smile trained on them, warming them like sunlight.
“So that’s it, huh?” I ask, trying to smother these dangerous thoughts. “Retiring at thirty-three to putter around your house?”
He casts me an I have a secret smile. “Not quite.”
I raise my eyebrows as if to say, Well? “What’s next, then?”
“I’m considering a few different things,” he hedges.
“Like?” I prod, wondering why he’s being so cagey, what it is he doesn’t want to tell me, when it suddenly hits me like a bag of bricks.
A wife and kids, that’s what’s next. He’s putting down roots, setting the stage for his next phase of life: settling down.
It’s as clear as the bright blue sky floating overhead.
He’s made a pile of money, bought a house; now he just needs a family to fill it up.
Some other woman will get to enjoy this new-and-improved version of him—supportive partner and steadfast family man—while our failed relationship and messy memories will remain forever frozen in celluloid. The thought turns my stomach.
He sees my face change and tilts his head. “What?”
I shake my head, my throat so tight I’m having trouble speaking. “Nothing.” I’ve never regretted a question more, but there’s no escaping this conversation now. “You were saying?” I force out.
He squints at me, his eyes searching my face for clues, so I don a placid expression, hoping ten years is long enough that he can no longer read my mind the way he once could.
“What’s next,” he finally says, and I brace myself.
“Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure yet. I’ve thought about writing, producing, directing, maybe some combination of the three.
It’s taken me years to realize that some of my favorite parts of filmmaking aren’t in front of the camera.
I’ve been annoying crew members for years with all my questions.
” He lets out an embarrassed half laugh, and it’s adorable, how bashful he is.
He’s like a little boy, shyly sharing his dream of becoming an astronaut.
“To be honest, for years I’ve had a problem not being in control of things. ”
I press my hand to my chest in mock shock. “You? No.”
“Yeah, yeah, get it all out.” He laughs. “I’m just tired of being in the back seat. I’ve been itching to find a project no one’s paying attention to that I can bring to life, that I can have a hand in every step of the way. I’m talking script, casting, directing, editing, music. Everything.”
“Sounds like you have trouble with authority,” I diagnose. “Control freak tendencies.”
He ducks his head. “It’s true.”