by N. K. Smith
“You can’t save me.”
“I’m not trying to . . .”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, instead he reaches for me, intent on touching my cheek again. But, I lean back as far as I can. “You’re not my knight in shining armor, and I’m not some damsel in distress.”
I think it’s the way I’m shouting and my angry tone that get to him. He rocks back onto his heels, rubs his mouth and chin with his hand, then stands up. “You sure seem like one.”
I want to challenge him, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “What else do you call someone who overdoses? Someone who gives interviews where no one can tell what she’s saying? Someone who gets so lost she doesn’t even know what city she’s in? Or can’t even remember that her phone has a GPS? I’d say you’re pretty much in distress. You’re going through something—”
“Fine.” I stand up so he no longer towers over me. “Maybe I am, but you’re not my hero. You can’t save me, so you should stop fucking trying to.”
Peter shakes his head as he holds his hands out to the sides, palms up. “You call me.”
My heart hurts, as if an iron cage has clamped down on it to keep it safe. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have. I can deal on my own. You’ve got your own life to lead, and I apologize for involving you in my shit.”
Any emotion he wore on his face disappears. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work.” His emotionless words frighten me. Have I pushed him enough that he doesn’t care?
“What am I trying to do?”
He walks back to his chair and sits down. With an exaggerated and dramatic manner, he picks up his fork and takes a bite. After he swallows, he takes a drink of water, and looks up at me, his kind, soft eyes now steely with resolve. “You’re trying to make me leave. Maybe no one else can figure you out, Adra, but I have. If you push me enough, I’ll leave, and you can sit in the dark little fissure of your mind and feel justified in your belief that no one loves you enough to stick around.”
“You don’t know—”
Peter tightens his grip on the fork. “I’ve loved you since the second day of filming our first movie, and I’ve made a habit of knowing everything I can about you, so don’t sit there and say I don’t know you.”
Loved me since the second day? I try to think back to These Days; try to figure out what happened on that day that could make him love me, but I come up with nothing. I mean we met months and months before shooting began and had at least a month’s worth of skating lessons together. Why the second day?
I’m sure he didn’t mean love anyway.
“Will you sit down, please?”
I don’t know why, but I do. Maybe it’s the way his voice holds all the tenderness in the world or maybe it’s because his eyes are now begging me to give him this little victory. Or maybe it’s simply because I can’t always fight off everything.
Maybe his use of the word love disables me.
When I’m seated across from him again, he continues. “I’ve given it considerable thought, you know. It’d be so easy to say I loved you the moment I saw you. I remember the first time you came in to read with Lili and me. Your hair was so bright, and the way the light struck it made you seem angelic or otherworldly. And when you read, it was like . . . I don’t know, magic. But all that is clichéd. And how I feel about you is anything but a cliché. While I took note of you the very moment you entered my life, that second day on set, I couldn’t get my feet under myself. After a month of practicing, I still kept falling off the damned skateboard, and then I screwed up my lines so much they broke for lunch because they didn’t want to waste anymore film.”
Again, I struggle to recall that day. If it made such an impression on Peter, I should have some memory of it, but I can’t seem to grasp it.
“You brought your lunch over to where I was sulking, and you just ate. You didn’t say anything at first, but after fifteen minutes or so, you told a stupid riddle. Remember? A boy fell off a hundred foot ladder, but didn’t get hurt. Why not?”
“Because he fell off the bottom rung,” I answer, remembering the joke but not the situation.
Peter nods. “It was enough to get me smiling, and then we went off onto the lot to practice on our boards, and you said that all it took was balance and not thinking about it so much. You said that if you thought too hard about the lines you had to deliver and the moves on the skateboard or rollerblades, you’d fall over everything. That day you taught me that I just needed to let go and believe I could do it without thinking about it all the time.”
My world seems small at the moment as I think about the young me saying that to the young him. I must have been a better person way back then. “My dad said that to me. He used to say I could do anything if I just believed in it enough.”
Peter’s expression brightens, but it barely registers for me. My dad was always full of wisdom and encouragement. He was always there, saying the right thing at the right time, just like I guess I did to Peter that day. I wish I could remember it, but memory of that shoot is my mother’s pressure to nail the performance so they’d ask me to do the sequel. I vaguely remember my father during that time, but most of my memories of him get clouded by anger. He left me alone in this world after making me believe he had my back. I was so naïve and gullible.
“It meant something to me.” Peter’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
It’s nice he can remember those little moments in our friendship, but it’s not love, and even if it is, it’s not the kind of all-encompassing love that connects two people for a lifetime.
Even Peter has a breaking point, and soon, he’ll reach it with me.
“I don’t know everything about what’s happening with you, but I hope you can remember your advice and stop trying to balance everything all the time. Just do it.”
He makes it sound so simple, and I’m so tired of trying all the time, but what he’s asking for isn’t simple or easy. “You’ve changed the advice given by a girl about acting and skating at the same time into some kind of hyperbole with a deeper meaning. The world isn’t like that, Peter.”
“Why not? Why isn’t it as easy as just letting go and believing?” As he says it, his face clears of any annoyance or frustration. He’s so handsome when he speaks with confidence. He takes his effortless hope and tenacity for granted. In Peter’s world, letting go is no sweat, believing is a piece of cake.
“Because believing in the world and in other people is what I’ve done my whole life, and all it’s shown me is that no one deserves that kind of trust, and the world will never reward your faith with success.”
He looks down at his hands for a brief second before returning his gaze to me. “I don’t deserve your faith, your trust, or your belief? I’ve been the one who has never—”
I cut him off by clearing my throat as I straighten again. I slide a palm down my face and then bring it back up to smooth down my hair. “Let’s just eat, okay? I’m sorry I’ve screwed up this meal. Thank you for making it for me.” I pick up my fork and shovel in food, no longer considering the flavor or aroma.
It’s true, Peter is the only one who has never steered me wrong, never been selfish, left me hanging or wanting. But, no matter how hard I try, I cannot accept it as more than a fluke. It is just a matter of time before the fissures of my mind grow too dark, too consuming and drive him away.
Chapter 37
“Did you hear me?”
I blink up at Peter and set down my coffee mug. The fresh air has almost made me dizzy. I’ve kept myself secluded for a week since getting out of the hospital. Peter’s stayed with me the entire time, but he has to get back to filming in order to keep his gig and not get sued. He suggested going out for breakfast at a quiet little spot, and we were enjoying our scones, fruit, and coffee when he received an e-mail.
My mind is drawing a blank as to what he’s just told me, but Peter doesn’t let me wrack my brain for too long. “You’ve been nominated for an Os
car!”
I’ve been so high for so long, I’d forgotten awards season is drawing close. “For which movie?”
Peter cocks his head to the side like I’ve just asked the stupidest question in the world, but so many things are a mess in my head.
“This of All Things.”
I nod. It should have been obvious. Of course it was for This of All Things. I force a smile but I feel nothing. Back for the Golden Reels, I was nominated along with Liliana. “Lili, too?”
“Yeah. She’s the one who called with the news.”
Turning my phone over, I tap the screen. “She didn’t call me.”
Peter’s cheeks go a little pink. “I kind of wanted to be the one to tell you, you know, either way.”
Maybe that’s why he wanted to go out for breakfast; to keep me away from the television, but it’s not like I even remembered nominations were out today. “So she’ll win this one, too. Good for her.”
The blush disappears as his wide eyes narrow in a critical gaze. “Nice attitude. I thought since you were off the drugs that you might be more optimistic.”
I pick at my scone with one hand, and turn my cup with the other. The coffee swirls. “I’m trying to be something, anything, but I’m just flat.”
“It’s probably just withdrawal, right?”
I fight back the instant, white hot anger that comes with his assumption. “I wasn’t fucking addicted.” Obviously, the anger wins.
“Okay,” he says, holding up his hands. He flashes me a smile. “But an Oscar, Adra. A fucking Oscar! You can be down all you want but just think about the fact that on all your posters and DVD cases, your name will be preceded by Academy Award Nominee. That’s badass. And you can think Lili’s going to win, but I think the Academy will take your entire resume into consideration. They’re going to see your solid work, and they’ll see Liliana’s dependence on the teen blockbusters from a few years ago. This is your award.”
That’s what he said about the Golden Reels, but how can I dash his hopefulness? I mean, his smile isn’t only handsome, it’s genuine. I guess if it makes him happy that I’m nominated, there’s no harm in letting him pretend I’m going to win. The thrill in Peter’s voice creates a tickle of excitement within me.
Chapter 38
So, first entry in a while. What a life. This is insane. Two weeks ago I woke up in a hospital, and now I’m running around like crazy trying to get everything done for the Academy Awards. It’s good though because it keeps me busy. It keeps me from doing the stuff I know I shouldn’t do—the stuff I promised Peter I wouldn’t do—but it also keeps me from thinking too much about the past few months. It helps keep my mind active enough that I don’t have to think about the fact that I overdosed and that I could’ve died.
This nomination is a blessing, if only for the distraction.
***
As the days go by, the excitement builds. Peter goes back to work full time and back to his life with Shyla, but checks in on me several times a day, both by phone and in person. Things don’t seem so bad, and I don’t feel the pressing need to get high, probably because there’s tons of stuff to do.
I have to pick a dress, pick jewelry, do another interview with Ronnie Reynolds, participate in an actress’s roundtable with other nominees. It’s got me on a natural high. I don’t know if I’ve always been better when I’m busy or if this is a new thing. Constant movement keeps my thoughts off cocaine and keeps my mood elevated.
I look at myself in the mirror and run a hand down the silky blue fabric covering my abdomen.
“It looks beautiful on you,” one of Pierre Gardiner’s assistant says.
“You don’t think it makes me look too bony?”
She shakes her head which makes her long, dark hair sway. It reminds me of Liliana’s. Mine has a tendency to frizz toward the roots, and while they say everyone prefers blondes, my current state of dark, dishwater isn’t attractive. I make a mental note to get it colored, but then turn my attention back to the mirror.
I screw my lips up. I think I’m too bony. I’ve been eating like crazy. I guess I should call Roman and let him know I’m ready to work out again. Maybe he can get me into shape in the short time between now and the ceremony. I have almost a month. If I bulk up on protein and do a bunch of lifting, I might be able to fill out this dress more.
“Do you know if Liliana Addison has come to Pierre yet?”
“She has.”
“Did she pick out a gown?” When the woman nods, I ask, “Can I see it?”
“I’m not supposed to show it to anyone. Pierre made it special for her. They began the process after the Golden Reels.”
All of the sudden, my body temperature spikes, and my palms between to sweat. Lili’s been planning to wow everyone on the red carpet and win the award for months and months. I’m so far behind. The inside of my cheek sears as I bite down on it. Why didn’t I think of having someone create a dress for me instead of just picking any old thing?
The assistant said she couldn’t show it to me, but I need to see it. “I’ll give you five hundred bucks for just one little peek.”
“Miss Willows, I can’t—”
“A thousand. I don’t care if I see the actual dress or just the picture taken during the fitting.”
“One thousand?”
I nod. I’d like to claim a victory when she turns and leaves the room, but it isn’t victorious to feel like this. There is no triumph in the desire to be better than someone who was once my good friend. What the hell is wrong with me?
The woman comes back with a tablet. Lili’s beautiful body, encased in a gorgeous one-of-a-kind dress, fills the screen. She’s tanned. Perfectly tanned and toned. She’s already ahead of me in so many ways. She won’t have to scramble to be camera ready.
Her dress is a slimming but flowing silver gown with sparkling accents dripping down the straps and seams. I need something like this. I need something that was made to fit my body, made to accentuate the good portions of me and hide the rest.
“Does Pierre have time to make something for me?”
“No.” The woman pulls the tablet back and closes the cover. “You may choose from any of the dresses in this room.” She uses her hand to indicate all of the gowns hanging up around us, but I see nothing special. Anyone with the right amount of money could have the one I’m wearing or any of these others.
“I’m not interested in any of those. I need something better than Lili’s dress. If Pierre can’t give that to me, I’m sure Mic Gutierrez will.”
“I assure you, Miss Willows, all designers will be swamped this time of—”
Thinking like Lili would think, I interrupt. “Yeah? Well I have tens of thousands of dollars to bet that not all designers will turn down making a dress for a nominee. You might want to ask Pierre if wants to piss me off. I’m only a nominee now, but soon I’ll be a winner, and I’ll need a dress for the next awards ceremony as well. If he turns me away now, I’ll never think of him as a viable option again.”
My bluff must not be too bad. She licks her lips, lets out a deep breath, and then raises her lips in a smile. “Let me see what I can do, Miss Willows.”
I feel like a horrible person. Is this me? Making threats and forcing my desires on people? I don’t know if it is, but thinking about it makes me feel like shit, so I take the time the assistant’s gone to text Jude. He’s somewhere in Europe, but I don’t care what time it is there, he’ll probably still be awake partying.
Hey, looking @ dresses for awards. You’re still coming back for them, right?
I don’t receive a reply before the assistant returns. “Mr. Gardiner will make your dress; however, he requires a special deposit and an increased fee. Once you sign the contract, I will retake your measurements, get your design ideas, and he will return sketches to you within the week.”
I guess there’s a reason Lili usually gets what she wants. There’s a benefit in acting like you own the whole world and commanding a situati
on. Whether it’s truly me or not, maybe I need to assimilate more of Liliana’s tricks into how I deal with the world.
“Perfect,” I say as I slip out of the ordinary dress and begin to think out loud about what I want my custom-made gown to look like.
Chapter 39
After signing the contract for the dress, I leave Gardiner’s and go to a few little boutiques do some everyday shopping. My wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired, especially since more photogs are trailing me around since the nomination. I want to look good, even for the tabloids.
My cellphone buzzes and chirps, and some strange giddiness overtakes me. I hope it’s Jude. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I miss him. We had more than drugs between us, so even though I’m off the stuff, I still think we might be able to salvage something. I don’t love him, and I’m not sure I ever will, but he has a way of making me feel special and, if not loved, at least cherished, and maybe a little adored. It’s stupid, I know, but there’s so much I want that I don’t have, and Jude makes it easier to pretend that it’s all mine.
When I unlock the screen, I’m rewarded by the fact that it is a message from Jude, but my smile is quick to fade: Sorry, babe. Tour got extended. Just found out last night. The Oscars are a no go.
I take deep breaths to counteract the clenching muscles in my chest. My heart beats faster and just like when I was picking out a dress, my temperature rises and I start to sweat. Unlike at Pierre’s, the walls start to close in and my legs feel wobbly and weak, like I’m going to collapse. My vision grows blurry and spots appear around the edges.
Imagining how ridiculous it would look to go to the Academy Awards without a date, I press myself against the dressing room wall and slide down. Liliana will have her latest boy toy or Hollywood’s Hottest by her side. Peter will have the flawless Shyla. And I’ll have what? No one. I’ll have sadness by my side.