40 A Kindred Spirit
FORTY
A Kindred Spirit
Or so I heard. When I’d received my invitation, I politely declined. I just couldn’t pretend that this chapter of my life was something to memorialize.
I’d packed a few suitcases and moved back to Los Angeles not long after I filmed my last episode.
When I settled in, I contacted a real estate broker in Nashville and listed my house.
For the first time in my life, that house got more press than I did, as if the fact that it was trading hands signaled my world was in the middle of a crisis.
I give the press a lot of shit sometimes, but they were right on this one.
Honestly, I was glad my house was the one getting the attention and not me.
I’d been away from LA so long that I wasn’t sure how soft my landing would be, especially because I was now single.
But Jansen lived there, and I was beyond grateful he did.
I needed someone who loved me unconditionally and knew what I’d endured.
But I also knew that if we were in the same town, I’d take care of Jansen as much as he’d care for me, and that was because I was worried about him.
A few years back Jansen had received an acting scholarship from Drury University in Missouri but had dropped out after less than a year.
Now he was twenty-three, with a few acting jobs every now and then, but I knew his heart wasn’t in it.
The one thing Jansen loved, however, was making art.
He’d started painting large, brightly colored canvases that were personal, chaotic, and punched you right in the gut.
His paintings had a Vincent van Gogh quality—if Van Gogh were in technicolor.
But we all know Van Gogh’s struggles, and sometimes I worried that Jansen’s paintings reflected something that was buried deep inside his brilliant brain.
Just like when we were kids, everyone loved Jansen, and he had a million friends.
So, with no work, no plan for work anytime soon, no boyfriend, and no Kaya to care for, I figured I could use some direction.
I also needed to distract myself with something other than drinking.
The fact that I wasn’t with Kaya, was officially an addict, and no longer had the will to work was killing me.
I’d done this all to myself, and it filled me with disgust. Self-loathing is one of the most dangerous human emotions, and when you’re down, you keep doing things to confirm where you’ve landed.
You decide that instead of disappointing yourself by not getting back to the top, it’s easier to keep ruining your life before anyone else has the chance to.
If I couldn’t get out of my own way, maybe I could lean on my brother.
At the very least, he wouldn’t put me under a microscope or try to dissect me.
“Want to go out with my crew tonight?” Jansen asked me one day at the end of the summer.
I figured what the heck. As long as I didn’t drink too much, I told myself I’d be fine. “Sure,” I said, “where should I meet you?”
A few hours later, I walked into the Abbey, a massive, legendary West Hollywood LGBTQ+ bar and restaurant.
All around Jansen stood a crowd of twentysomethings, some of whom I recognized and some of whom I didn’t.
I waved hello to my brother, then made my way toward him.
As I got close, I looked to my right and noticed a tall, sandy-haired guy about my age wearing a backward baseball cap and a T-shirt.
He was handsome in an all-American way, with a charming smile that put me at ease right away.
I hadn’t even met him, but I could feel his energy from across the room.
It wasn’t the “there’s nowhere for you to sit in the cafeteria” vibe I’d gotten so used to in my life.
This guy was clearly ready to be my friend.
“Forgive me for stopping you,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “But are you Jansen’s sister?”
“I am,” I answered, relieved to be identified as an actual human being rather than an actor. “But instead of calling me ‘Jansen’s sister,’ you can call me Hayden.”
He reached his hand out. “Well, I’m Brian, and it’s very nice to meet you.”
“How do you know Jansen?” I asked.
“I’m friends with his neighbor,” he answered, then motioned to a girl across the room.
Brian had drawn the vowels out when he said “friends,” a telltale sign of a Southern accent. Hearing that soft drawl was the first time I’d missed Nashville since I left. I shoved the thought away, though. Nashville was in the past, and I intended for it to stay that way.
“Are you from the South?” I asked.
“Yup,” he answered, then he smiled in a sly yet adorable way that melted my heart.
“Well, then, how about a drink?” I asked. “It’s on me.”
Brian smiled even bigger, and it was like seeing the sun come out in the middle of winter. I can get used to this good energy, I thought. And as I walked to the bar, I realized it was the first time in months I’d felt something other than despair.
My relationship with Brian moved at lightning speed from that night on.
When you recognize a kindred spirit, sometimes that happens.
Within a few days, Brian was sleeping at my house, and within weeks, he’d practically moved in.
I’d spent the short time I’d been back in LA living in sweats or pj’s, trying to feel relief that I wasn’t obligated to be somewhere or do something for anyone.
But those big, empty stretches of time were terrifying.
I loved rehab because I could be in control of myself.
But once I was out, it was all up to me.
With Brian in my space, I suddenly had a reason to get up in the morning and take off the leggings I’d been wearing for three days straight.
I had a person who counted on me, who made me laugh, and who could fill up those long, boring hours with small tasks or easy conversation.
Out of treatment, I had to learn how to trust myself again, but Brian made that a million times easier because he trusted me implicitly.
Even when I was alone, I wasn’t lonely. I knew Brian would be coming back around soon to help me mend my broken heart.
Within a few days of knowing him, I looked up all three of Brian’s astrological signs, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that ours were the same but switched.
My sun sign is Leo, while his is Taurus.
My rising sign is Sagittarius, while his is Leo.
And my moon sign is Taurus, while his is Sagittarius.
I don’t expect anyone but astrology nerds like me to understand what that means, but trust me, it’s a big deal.
My similarities with Brian were grounded on the earth and swirling up in the heavens, as if we’d known each other in another time and realm.
We rarely left my house, but Brian didn’t care.
I needed time and space and had plenty of money in the bank, so I hid from cameras, my parents, and my team.
When they called me, I let it go to voicemail because I was too distracted.
Brian and I danced in my living room, played board games, and watched practically every Netflix series ever made.
Brian could take anything apart and put it back together, and he immediately set out fixing things around my house.
He painted the walls, swapped out a broken door handle, changed the showerhead, and ordered new sheets and towels for every bedroom and bathroom.
The house wasn’t mine, but with Brian, it started to feel like it.
We made love on those new sheets every afternoon, and I finally began to feel beautiful again.
I also started to feel safe, loved, and cherished.
It was like Brian and I were two best friends living together under one roof.
Brian was so easy to be with, and few things seemed to get under his skin—especially me.
Despite multiple trips to treatment and an excellent therapist in LA, I still hadn’t processed everything that had happened with Wlad and Kaya, not to mention my anxiety and depression.
I still couldn’t pinpoint when and how I started to feel so different any more than you can say the minute and second you fall asleep.
When you sink into depression, it’s like a storm cloud has moved in, blocking out the sun, and you don’t realize how dark it is till you’re racing to find the light.
Brian let me know that there was light. I talked about my traumas constantly, and Brian didn’t care.
With one charming smile and a few wise words, he reframed my problems into issues that suddenly didn’t seem so bad.
During one of my last trips to see Wlad, I’d traveled to his house on the banks of the Dnieper River.
As Wlad stood on the dock that led from his house to the water, I decided to sneak up on him and push him over the side.
Unfortunately, he caught me right as I was upon him, and as he fended me off, my left leg went one direction while the rest of my body went the other.
I fell into the river, and a searing pain shot up my knee. I soon learned I’d torn my meniscus.
Months later, back in LA, I stood in the shower hobbling on my bad leg while I tried to clean myself with a bar of peppermint soap.
The pain, which never seemed to go away, was so distracting that I didn’t realize I’d soaped up parts of my anatomy that peppermint soap has no business touching.
Suddenly, the burning between my butt cheeks overcame the pain in my knee, and I began howling.
For what, I’m not really sure, but my yelling caught Brian’s attention.
“Are you okay?” he said, sticking his head into the bathroom.
“Peppermint soap in my butt! It’s burning!” I squealed.
Brian raced out of the room and returned ten seconds later holding a gallon of milk.
“Pour it on your ass!” he said, opening it, taking a swig, and then handing it to me. “It will help!”
As I said, Brian could fix anything.
Brian found humor in the silliest things, and he made me laugh—hard.
I had no idea how badly I’d needed laughter, and feeling my heart swell and my chest expand as endorphins flooded my body was pure bliss.
I was in love, and it was like a drug. At the lowest point in my life, Brian was everything I needed, all rolled up into one beautiful man.
It was just easy. The easiest happiness that I had come by in a long time.
Then, one day, when we were on our second bottle of wine—the bottle that suffocates all the magic and obliterates your defenses—everything changed.