Bootycall 2

by J. D. Hawkins

  Ramona nods and looks at Ben again.

  “It happened so fast, almost overnight. Dylan got an agent, and then he started working all the time. I used to ask him if there was anything he wasn’t auditioning for. In a few months he had his first supporting role in a movie, and within a year he was a lead – while Cal was still struggling to get work as an extra, or a part in a shitty local advertisement.

  “Everything changed. One minute they were always together, working on their script, either partying, talking about their careers, or doing minimum-wage jobs to scratch up the rent a week before it was due, and then, Dylan was away all the time, working and working, paying the rent himself. That’s when me and Cal got close. He started spending more time alone in the apartment, drinking and taking drugs, slipping away.”

  “Didn’t Dylan try to help Cal with his career?”

  Ramona rolls her eyes.

  “He tried. Of course he did. I think Dylan still beats himself up about that, thinking he could have tried more, done more, regretting it with hindsight. The truth is, though, that by the time Dylan was big enough to help, Cal was too far gone. It was weird. Before, both of them had been passionate, hard-working, and hedonistic. Then suddenly, it was like Dylan took all the hard work and passion, and Cal was left with the drink and drugs.”

  I try to think of something to say, but can’t, and instead settle for looking at Ramona as sympathy and pity fill my heart.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “Cal and I got close. I…fell in love with him. I could see he was tearing himself apart, but I believed in him. I thought he’d turn it around. I ended up getting pregnant. I thought it would be okay, though. Cal was a great guy, he just needed something in his life to replace the movies, to put his energy into. I thought I – we,” she says, nodding towards Ben, “would be it. But I was naïve. Nothing could help him.”

  Ramona gulps and rubs her eye a little. I see the quiver in her lip and reach out to put my hand on her shoulder.

  “What happened?” I ask, prompting her. She gathers her strength and takes a breath.

  “I was away at my mother’s. Just visiting. I don’t even remember why. I didn’t even know it was the night of the Oscars, and I didn’t care. My mom wanted to watch it. So we did, not knowing anything…just joking around like nothing was wrong. Then I saw Dylan win the Oscar for best actor, and I was so fucking happy…God damn it…” her voice breaks.

  I look around and find a box of tissues on the side cabinet, then bring it to her.

  “Thanks. I called Cal. To ask if he’d seen it. If he’d heard Dylan mention him in the speech…” Ramona closes her eyes and begins to sway back and forth a little. “There was no answer. Nothing. I called our neighbor to run over and tell him the news, and she carried the phone there. The door was open. I was sitting there, watching Dylan raise the Oscar and wave as the music started playing, as they all applauded—and she screamed. Right through the phone. And my blood went cold. I knew…I just knew…”

  I get out of my seat and crouch next to Ramona, putting my arms around her. She smiles through the tears that shake her body and takes a few deep breaths.

  “It’s ok,” she says, patting my arm, “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I’ve told that story.”

  “I…I can’t imagine what that must have been like…”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs. “A guy like Cal…it was always going to end up with something like that. Some bad ending. I just…it was such a waste, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say, softly.

  “Dylan was even more torn up than me. He blamed himself for it, for not being there, as if he was the one who’d given Cal the overdose. Dylan changed completely. Started hitting the drink again, as if he was turning into Cal. He beat himself up about it every single day.”

  “I think he still does.”

  Ramona nods.

  “You’re right. Like I said, they were two peas in a pod, and now Dylan’s the one who’s driving himself to ruin.”

  I shake my head. “Why doesn’t he just come clean about the story? I mean, the papers are going crazy thinking that Ben is Dylan’s child. Why doesn’t he just tell them the truth?”

  Ramona sighs.

  “I guess he’s trying to protect Cal, somehow. And himself. Better for the press to think he’s an asshole father who abandons his kids than have them dig into old wounds, force him to relive the tragedy all over again.”

  “But the paparazzi outside,” I say, gesturing towards the front her home.

  Ramona raises her hand.

  “I haven’t told Dylan about them. I don’t want him losing any more of his mind over this. He’s done more for me than I’ve ever really deserved. I don’t care if they take a few pictures. They’ll get bored eventually.”

  I sit back in my chair and look at Ramona, trying to understand just a fraction of the pain she and Ben and Dylan have gone through.

  “Look,” Ramona says, her voice full of the wisdom of pain, “Dylan’s a good man. He’s been like a brother to me through all of this. God knows he can be a prick sometimes. Stubborn-headed and completely out of line – but when it comes down to it, he’s the kind of guy who’d put himself through hell if it meant the ones he loves won’t feel a shred of pain. Even if they’re dead.”

  I hang my head, a sense of shame and regret growing inside of me. We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us dealing with the regrets and hurts that the story has brought to the surface.

  “I have to find Dylan,” I mutter, almost to myself. “I have to.”

  “I think…I think I know where he is,” Ramona says.

  I look at her, eyes already pleading. “Where?”

  She stands up, steps over to a shelf where framed photographs sit proudly in full view of the room, and picks one up, walking back to me.

  “Here,” she says, handing it over. “The Libro. It’s this shitty motel near the coast in Malibu where we used to go every once in a while, when things were good. Dylan and Cal always loved going there; I think they liked how shitty how it was, the ‘real’ America, they’d say.” She pauses for a beat, her smile dropping. “It’s where we spread Cal’s ashes. Dylan’s either there, or at Kavanagh’s, a bar in a bad part of town. But I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “The sun’s about to set. Cal always liked to watch the sun set from the Libro.”

  I stand up, feeling some steel in my muscles and purpose gathering in my chest from the hope of finding Dylan.

  “Thank you so much, Ramona. I’m really sorry to drag all of this back up again, but I’m only trying to do what’s best for Dylan. I really care about him. I want him to be ok.”

  Ramona smiles. “I know you do,” she says, as she stands up and leads me back to the door in the fence. “You’d better go out this way again, the rats are probably still waiting.”

  I nod and follow her, stepping through the door once she’s opened it.

  “Gemma,” she says suddenly, as if unable to stop herself. I turn around. She looks down at the ground, considering, before looking back at me. “I know you didn’t ask, and I don’t know what went on between Dylan and you, but if it’s worth anything, I know him well. Well enough to know that he cares for you. More than you probably realize.”

  The words make my heart flutter a little, and I feel a weird blush come to my cheeks. I’m not sure why; there’s nothing in Ramona’s words that should interest me after all the shit I’ve been through with Dylan, including his latest abandonment and my resolve to avoid falling for him completely…yet my body seems to react to the idea in a way my mind can’t process. I nod, wave a cheerful bye to Ben, and make my way back to my car.

  I drive like a maniac to Malibu. Without my car’s GPS, the motel would be impossible to find, but even with it, it’s still tricky. I see a building on the horizon, two stories of faded pink stucco and chipped clay roof tiles, run-down and shitty-looking – just how Ramona described it. I push the car slowly
towards it, gazing around for clues that it’s the right place.

  And that’s when I see him. He’s far away, a speck in the distance, sitting atop a rock on a viewpoint set against the dusty-orange glow of the sun about to set. There’s no way to tell that it’s Dylan at this distance, and yet there’s the tingle in my body that’s always there when he’s near me. My mouth parts, my heart pounding. It’s him. I’m sure of it.

  I park the car in the small lot and start walking toward him. He’s facing away from me, but I can tell by his posture that he’s lost somewhere deep in the abyss of his thoughts. As I get closer I slow my steps, giving myself time to think of what to say, to figure out how I might be able to get through to him, to place a loving hand on the pain inside of him and make him let me soothe it.

  He’s the one who speaks first, though. Without looking. As if he can sense my presence as easily as I sense his.

  “I killed him. I can’t get over it, and I don’t deserve to.”

  “Dylan.”

  I reach for him, praying he doesn’t turn away. Praying he doesn’t run again.

  Chapter 12

  Dylan

  I feel her hand press against my shoulder as she sits down next to me, her perfume wafting toward me in the evening breeze.

  “I know what happened, Dylan.”

  I turn to face her slowly. She’s more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her, or maybe it’s just that memories can never do justice to really seeing her in the flesh, here under the orange sun, her hair gently playing along the curve of her cheek.

  “I figured you did some research. How else would you know I was here?” My voice comes out harsher than I mean it, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m too torn up right now to apologize, and part of me wants to jump off this cliff into the ocean and never look back.

  Gemma looks toward the horizon, as if embarrassed at her intrusion. Taking her hand from my shoulder, she clasps her fists in her lap.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I pick up a stone and fling it into the ocean, just to do something with the jolt of nervous energy that’s buzzing inside of me.

  “Who told you? Ramona, right?”

  “Yeah. About Cal, the Oscars, the kid – everything.”

  “Not everything,” I say, whipping another rock at the sun and watching it fall into the tumultuous waves. “So she told you about the Oscars?” I ask, turning to her, searching for something in her eyes.

  Gemma nods. “Yes.”

  “Did she tell you about the call?” I take a breath. “No. She couldn’t have. She doesn’t even know about it.”

  “What call?”

  I turn back to the sun and close my eyes, letting the fading brightness cast an orange glow in the void. Letting the memories appear as vividly as photographs.

  “The night I won the Oscar, Cal called me. I was in the limo on my way to the red carpet.” I can hear the tremors in my own voice. Heat rises behind my eyes, and I rub them with my thumb and forefinger, trying to push the memory back a little. “He didn’t know it was Oscar night, that’s how stoned he was, how far apart we’d become. He wanted to talk. I don’t know what about. I blew him off. I was more interested in the fucking speech, in how I’d come across, in whether I’d fucking win in the first place. All that bullshit…that was all I ever thought about…all I cared about…all that fucking bullshit…”

  She winds an arm around my shoulders and leans into me.

  “It’s not your fault, Dylan. You didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t have to. I didn’t care either way. He didn’t die that night, he was dying for a long time before that – falling to fucking pieces. Tearing himself apart. And the only thing I worried about was whether he’d bring me down, make me lose all the fucking fame, and money, and acclaim. That was the only thing I cared about: my fucking pathetic career.”

  Gemma’s hands pull my face toward her, her gentle palms guiding my eyes to hers, eyes that I can feel are now wet and red with anger and regret.

  “Dylan. Look at me,” she says, and I open my eyes to a different kind of sunset, a different kind of light. “You’re right. You probably could have done more. Maybe you could have spoken to Cal and stopped him from killing himself that night. But who’s to say another night wouldn’t be even worse? Or that he’d ever be ready to stop with the drugs and the drinking and the personal shit he just couldn’t deal with? None of that was your job to fix, and there was no way you could have, no matter how much you wanted to. There are things to blame yourself for in life, and there are things to let go – this is one of them.”

  “I’ll never let this go,” I cry, struggling to push the words out from my constricted throat, “never. I killed him. It was my fault. I left him in the dark, I was so selfish. I left him.”

  “No! Dylan,” she says, stroking my cheek. “You didn’t. Cal killed himself. He had a wife, he had a kid. So he wasn’t getting acting work, and was struggling – big fucking deal! This is LA! The city’s full of actors who don’t make it. He had every reason to live, and he still did it – it’s not your fault, Dylan. It’s no one’s fault. Nobody could save him.”

  “You don’t fucking get it!” I shout, pulling her hands off me and standing up. Gemma follows me, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back around to face her.

  “No, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, Dylan! Cal made a mistake. A dumb fucking decision – probably while he was out of his mind on drugs and booze. It’s tragic, it’s sad, it fucking hurts – but that’s life. You know, you’re always talking about focusing on what’s ‘real’ life – well, that’s real life. Bad shit happens, and it makes no sense, and you’d give anything to change it – but you can’t. You have to move on from it. Good people do shitty things, make bad decisions, and live lives full of mistakes. There are no happy endings, no easy way out when the shit hits the fan, and it’s never fair. That’s just fucking real life, Dylan.”

  I watch the strands of hair flow over her face, framing it like a golden, glowing halo. The sky goes reddish-blue, casting whirlpools of color in her eyes. I gaze into them like gates to a better life, to freedom, to a place where there’s a younger me, still waiting to shed the miserable armor and distancing weapons I’ve been holding for so long.

  “I wish it was that easy, Gemma. But I can’t just let it go.”

  Gemma shakes her head, casting a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “It isn’t easy, Dylan. That’s the point. Forgiving yourself, letting go of the past, is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. It’s easier to let the pain and the regret chew you up. To let yourself turn into a miserable, hateful person. It’s easier to fight every day, fight yourself, fight the people around you, fight the pain, because it feels like you’re doing something – but you’re not. You’re just treading water. It’s harder to stop fighting, and just let it go.” She moves toward me, placing a delicate hand against my chest, as if feeling for a heartbeat in this shell of a man. “You need to stop fighting, Dylan. I give you permission. You can let go.”

  My head thumps and swirls, feeling so light that the gentle breeze makes me sway. My mouth goes dry, and I have to force myself to breathe. Something swells in me, powerful and long-dormant, a beast that I’ve been keeping caged for a long time, that’s been growing stronger and stronger, somehow fighting now to escape, to be released…taking the weight of years of pain and loss and grief with it.

  I raise my hand to cover hers, still pressed against my chest. I touch the smooth skin, the delicate fingers, carefully and slowly, as if cautious not to sully them with my own rough, firm touch.

  “Think of all the people you’ve hurt because of this, Dylan. All the people that you’ve pushed away and treated badly. You’ve spent so long worrying about what you did to Cal that you’ve been doing the same thing to other people over and over again.”

  “Like I did to you,” I say.

  I notice her gulp slowly.

  “Yeah. Like you did to me.”
>
  I brush her cheek with the back of my other hand, and she smiles slightly as she presses up against it.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say, dropping my head. “Sometimes I look at myself and…I see Cal. The way he was towards the end. Just always looking for something to ease the pain. Sometimes I feel like I’m taking the same path he did. Treading in his footsteps.”

  “Oh, Dylan…you’re not. You just—”

  “I am, though. And I don’t know how to get out. How to do things differently.”

  She takes my face again in her hands, and brings her lips to mine, gently. A tender, loving kiss. The kiss of someone who wants to share your pain.

  “Then let me help you, Dylan. Let me in. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  I almost shudder at the words. Almost fall to my knees. I didn’t know how much I wanted to hear them, but now that I have, it seems so fucking obvious that they’re the words I’ve needed to hear for a long time. A part of my soul seems to fall into its rightful place.

  “Gemma.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you think I’m crazy if I told you I loved you?”

  She breathes deeply a couple of times before speaking, and my heart ties itself into a knot in the silence before her answer.

  “Yes.”

  I hang my head, feeling like I just threw myself from the fiftieth floor.

  “But I think I might be crazy too,” she adds, with a small smile. “Because I love you.”

  I snort a laugh and we slowly wrap our arms around each other, pulling ourselves together slowly, like we’re taking care not to crush the beautiful thing between us. I kiss her, this time with love, with the firmness of a man who knows how special she is, a man who wants to change for her, a man who finally realizes she’s what he needs.

  When we break apart, the kiss seems to continue inside of me, vibrating with a new kind of energy, a positive kind. An energy that makes me feel like I can take the world on.

  “Why do I feel like I just transformed into a different man?”

  “Maybe you have,” Gemma grins. “Is that such a bad thing?”