Hollywood Sins

by N. K. Smith

  I am watching myself as my mind and body work together to get relief. I reach for the knob of the cabinet, pull it open, and grab a pill bottle. Two pills in my hand. All I can do is blink down at them and wait for the next event.

  I walk over to the vanity, place the pills on it, grab my toothbrush, and crush them with the handle.

  Now I get it.

  Now I understand, and I seem to merge back into myself. I could snort the pile of white dust, but somehow I know if I do that, it won’t do what I need it to do. So I pinch as much as I can between my thumb and forefinger and place the white dust under my tongue. I continue doing that until there’s nothing’s left on the counter.

  Very mindful not to swallow, I imagine the powder being absorbed into the big veins at the bottom of my mouth. I can picture the chemicals entering my bloodstream and flowing to all the places I want it most. The calm hits my brain almost instantly and my thoughts are quieted.

  The more the stuff sits under my tongue, the more pronounced the calm becomes. My legs don’t seem to want to cooperate, so I crawl out of the bathroom down the stairs and to the glass doors that face my green backyard.

  I manage to open the doors and crawl out onto the tiled patio that gives way to concrete. There, I sit by the pool with my legs drawn up, and arms wrapped around them. My head rests on my knees as I stare out at the dark night.

  Time is irrelevant as I sit there. The breeze holds a chill, but beyond recognizing it, I pay no attention. I can hear the soft laps of the water in the pool next to me. If I tilt myself a little to the left, I’ll fall right in. My leaden body would sink right to the bottom, and my sluggish mind would be too slow to send out the message to my body to fight against the water.

  The fact that I almost have no feelings one way or the other about drowning in my pool while loaded down on lorazepam strikes me as odd. I should feel something.

  The thought of the award ceremony passes through me. I should probably stay alive for that, but if I don’t, there will be that tribute to me that everyone will see. Someone said that to me not long ago, but I don’t remember who it was. If I died, I could be cemented into the memory of Hollywood. People would weep at my unrealized potential. They’d flock to the films I made, and every year on this date, someone would post pictures of me as a memorial—a remembrance.

  But I think winning the award would be better. I could stand up on that stage and look out at my peers and fellow industry professionals and feel the utmost success sink into me. Plus I’ve already paid too much for my dress.

  And maybe, if he ever comes back, I’ll be able to walk that red carpet with Peter by my side. It’ll be the talk of the town, and instead of video and snapshots of me reacting to jerks telling me to enter the porn business, the gossip shows will run footage of our relationship, beginning from when we were kids to our extraordinary appearance as a solid couple at the Oscars.

  Yes. That’s a much better plan.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  I look up into the face of the very man I’ve been thinking about.

  “Jesus,” Peter says as he touches my face and then trails his hands down my shoulders and arms. “You’re freezing. It’s nearly dawn, have you been out here since I left?”

  I shake my head, or at least, try to shake it. The crushed pills are long gone under my tongue but still waft through my veins. “I’m really tired,” I say.

  “What?” He squats down and looks at me, first directly into one eye, and then into the other. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “I’m tired,” I repeat, but his quizzical look doesn’t go away; in fact, it deepens.

  “You’re slurring your words, Adra. Did something happen? Are you okay?” Maybe there’s panic in his voice, but I’m not sure what I’m hearing.

  I bring my hands up to his where they cup my face and enunciate slowly. “Sleepy.”

  The concern doesn’t budge from his expression, but his eyes soften. He moves his arms under my legs and behind my back and he lifts me. With my head against his chest, I feel almost certain that I’m happy I didn’t lean to the left and fall into the pool.

  Chapter 43

  I start my day like any other. Once out of bed, I stretch, go to the bathroom, and make my way downstairs to where the automatic coffeemaker will supply me with the necessary substance to not only wake up, but to make sense of this blurry world.

  The difference is that it is very obviously mid or late afternoon. I ignore this.

  I’m very single-minded about getting to the coffee, so I ignore everything else in the house. But when I’m in the kitchen, standing in front of the machine, I realize it has failed in its duty to provide me the one thing it was designed to do.

  I lift the lid. No coffee. No water. Did I even set it up last night?

  Trudging over to the freezer, I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes, but all that does is make me want to keep them closed. The gush of frozen air helps me peel them open, but as I reach into the freezer, it seems like my hands make contact with everything but the canister of beans.

  When I finally find it, I pull it out, nudge the door close, and then jump when the gentle nudge translates into a loud thump of the door slamming against the frame. I manage to keep a hold of the canister as I shuffle back over to the machine and pour some beans into the grinder next to it. Only¸ I pour too much and my favorite forty-five dollar a pound Jamaican coffee beans spill onto the counter and onto the floor.

  “Fuck.” I set the canister down.

  Crouching, I try to use my hands as brooms to sweep the beans to me, but I only seem to get air. What the hell is wrong with me this morning, or afternoon as it is? Finally, I get onto my hands and elbows and the sides of my hands connect with the floor, and I’m able to pull the beans to me.

  It takes another two minutes before I can get them into my cupped hands and bring them back up to the counter. The hundreds of beans spread out in front of the grinder and counter look like defeat, so I let those in my hands spill out again.

  I just need the fucking coffee. I press the button on the grinder. The smell of the beans is enough to give me a little pep, and I allow myself a small grin of victory. I think I’m being careful as I take off the top, but somehow I pull too hard and the grinds spray up into the air and land in my hair, on my chest, on the counter, and at my feet. “Motherfucker!”

  “Need some help?”

  My heart pounds as I jump in fright. I twist and see Peter leaning against the island counter. “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to see you’ve lost the fight with your kitchen.”

  As the question of why Peter’s in my house rolls into my brain, I stop myself from asking it. I already feel stupid because of my ineptitude with small appliances, and I don’t want to ask a stupid question to further solidify my idiocy.

  I put my hand over my thudding heart and will it to settle down. “I don’t know what’s wrong this morning. I guess I’m in a funk.”

  He gives me a look I can’t quiet interpret as he shoves off the island and walks to me. He places a kiss on my forehead, then moves to the coffeemaker to finish the job I failed. Although I feel like just standing where I am and watching him do it, I force myself to the closet next to the pantry and pull out the broom and dustpan.

  Peter is waiting for me when I turn around. “Oh, no you don’t. I’d hate to see what kind of mayhem you and this broom could do.” He takes the items from me, then nods over to the stool at the island. “Have a seat. You can be the princess today. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I do as asked and sit. He’s beautiful and perfect as he squats down to sweep up the coffee. The black T-shirt he wears pulls up as his shoulders roll forward, and I can see the skin of his lower back as well as the elastic top of his underwear peeking out above the waist of his jeans.

  “Are you hungry? I was going to make something to eat anyway.”

  “Toast, I think.”

  Peter stands up,
moves to the trashcan, dumps the grinds in, and sets off to make food.

  What I end up with in front of me is not simply toast. He has made me an elaborate vegan breakfast complete with tofu omelet, homestyle potatoes, soy sausage, toast, and coffee. It’s more than I can eat, but I keep that to myself. “Thanks.”

  I take a few bites. It tastes great, but there is something unsettled in my stomach, so I focus on the toast. The margarine is too much, so I get up.

  Peter stops me with a hand on my arm. “Where you going?”

  “I think dry toast would be better.”

  “Sit.” He stands up and draws his eyebrows together as he looks at me. “You’re the princess today, remember?”

  “I don’t need to be the princess, Peter. I just need toast.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “I’m not helpless.” I don’t know why I say it, and I’m not quite sure why it feels so untrue.

  “No, you’re not, but you also suck at asking for help, so instead of waiting for you to come to me, I’m forcing my help on you. Sit down and let me make you dry toast.” He picks my plate up and walks away.

  I hate that the food is going to go to waste. I hate that he wasted that kind of effort on me, but I’m powerless to change it.

  The stool is uncomfortable. I feel like I’m going to fall backward, so I rise and move into the main room where I pick up the remote and click on the television. I flip it to the Hollywood Channel where a panel of people sit discussing Liliana’s wardrobe. The scrolling text at the bottom of the screen tells me Locker’s Confidential is on next.

  It must be later than I thought. I glance at the clock—it’s nearly five at night!

  “Here you go.” Peter extends the plate of bread to me.

  Three slices is way too much, but again, I don’t say this to him. “Thanks.”

  He carries two coffee cups in his other hand. “You forgot this.”

  I take it and place it on the table next to me, then nibble at my toast. I try not to look at him while he watches me eat. Nestled inside of me is shame; I’m just not sure why.

  When I’ve eaten half a piece of toast, I let the rest drop onto the plate and set the plate down on the sofa between Peter and me.

  “So are we going to talk about this morning?” Peter asks.

  For a second, I struggle to remember what happened this morning, but since it’s already early evening and I have no clear memories of how it came to be so late, I give up. I can’t tell him I don’t remember, so I ask: “What about it?”

  “Oh, you know, me coming back to find you almost comatose.”

  My eyes widen, despite my trying to remain cool and look passive, as I remember last night and parts of early this morning. Peter had left, and I grew impatient. I wanted drugs but something stopped me from going out. Then I took my medication and sat out by the pool, which is where he found me.

  Even if I can’t remember it all, I know there’s stuff I don’t want to talk about. It’s the stuff that makes me feel too ashamed to look Peter in the eyes today. “How’d things with Shyla go?”

  Peter shakes his head in an exaggerated manner. “Nope. Not going to let you change the subject this time. Drew said he found you out by the gate, and your fall was shown this morning on Cuppa Joe. Most of the blogs are saying you’re either pregnant or addicted to something. You’re not pregnant, right?”

  The fact that he doesn’t ask if I’m addicted seeps into my mind and festers. I can’t let that small, seething piece of me out though. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, I’m not addicted to anything. “Why were you so late?”

  “We’ll talk about me after we talk about you.”

  When I manage to look him in the eyes, I can see the resolve. I might as well make it easier on myself and just talk to him. Maybe once he’s seen me as I truly am—a weak, shameful mess of a person—he’ll just leave and be done with it. “I couldn’t just wait for you anymore. I was going nuts. I wanted to go out . . . just for some air, but then there were guys at the gate.” The night comes back to me the more I think about it. “They said horrible things.”

  “Like what?” Peter asks.

  I look down at Peter’s legs. “Doesn’t matter. I just reacted badly and almost fainted, I guess.”

  “That’s why you were so out of it this morning? That’s why you sat outside until your body temp dropped?”

  My reply is a whisper. “Yeah.”

  Peter places two fingers under my chin and applies careful pressure to get me to lift my head and look at him. “What was the white powder on the bathroom counter?”

  Does he always have to be so goddamned observant?

  A commercial for toothpaste is on the television. I hate this one. It is not even subtle as it tells women that if our smiles aren’t bright enough, we’ll never catch the attention of a man, so all those dreams of getting married on the beach, of diamond anniversary necklaces, two children, and a dog will never come true. Not unless we use their whitening toothpaste.

  I should probably have my teeth bleached again before the ceremony.

  Peter gets my attention again by physically turning my head to him. “I’m not mad, you know. I mean, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I know there’s more to you than what you give me. There’s a whole working city within you that you keep hidden from everyone, but you don’t have to—”

  “—McGuinness was out an about in the City of Lights today, sporting both a new tattoo and a new woman on his arm.” I turn back to the television where a leggy brunette host stands in front of the images of Jude with a fit looking woman with black hair. “While the rock star has refused to give details about his relationship with troubled starlet, Adra Willows, as you can see, his body language toward this new woman make it clear that he has moved on. This may be the cause of the actress’s latest odd behavior and her fainting spell last night.”

  Peter tries to move my head again, but I’m not willing to be pliant. I’m not hurt by seeing Jude with another woman. He was never going to love me, plus I’ve been here making grand declarations of love and kisses to Peter. But, still. There’s pang within me that grows bigger as the vivid memories of cocaine and alcohol-fueled nights with Jude fill my mind.

  That is something Peter will never give me. I can’t imagine him giving in to the pure hedonistic, chemical pulse that thrums underneath my skin. I don’t think he even possesses it.

  Maybe I don’t either. It’s not like I have ever been a reckless sexual adventurer. The drugs and alcohol allowed me to engage in something that wasn’t exactly my cup of tea with Jude, but before that, with Danny, I was ever really at ease with sex.

  I gave the control away to both of them. Danny used it in a very vanilla way, and I grew bored. Jude used the control I gave him to get out of control, and took me along for the ride. And Trent. Poor Trent. I took the reins with him, hoping that having the power would fit me better, but all I did was burn the poor guy.

  If none of those personas fit—the bored but willing girlfriend, the wild lover, the aggressive partner—I guess I should figure out who I truly am, not just in the bedroom, but outside of it as well.

  But the idea of figuring anything out with this soggy, slushy mind is ridiculous. Jude and I are no more. We are done, and it is okay, even if there is that deep stitch of rejection throbbing just below the surface of my being.

  “In other news,” the journalist’s perky sorority house voice pierces into me again, “actor and producer Peter Truelove has apparently renegotiated his contract for his current film. Get this: he’s giving part of his salary back! No, this isn’t an altruistic move on his part. Sources tell us this action is a proactive step to avoid a legal suit claiming he is impeding its progress.”

  I turn to him as Peter drops his hands into his lap. His face betrays nothing as I study him. I may have a hidden city within me, but so does he. His poker face is the best I’ve ever seen, and that’s why he’s so good at playing characters right on the edge; they
could go either way, be a big softy or harden into stone.

  “Why would you do that?” I ask.

  Peter chuckles as if the answer is as plain as day, but the laugh is dark and without humor. “Because I want to be with you, and I want to make the film, so if I give back some money, I get an extended schedule.”

  “But why?”

  His grin slowly fades and blends into his look of gentle confusion. “Because movies are pretend but you’re real.”

  I shake my head and lean away when he extends his hand like he’s going to touch my face again. “But you’re giving up money and making a name for yourself as a trouble—”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve worked hard in my career to be dependable and accountable. I’ve never used the star card and forced my will on filmmakers and because of that, no one thinks badly of me just because I need a little more personal time for this one.”

  “Welcome back to Locker Confidential! With the Academy Awards fast approaching, we’re going to turn our attention to our predictions—not just which nominees will win but also what they’ll be wearing.”

  Peter takes the remote and shuts off the television. “I don’t give a damn about the money, Adra. I’d do this film for nothing.”

  Why would anyone give their salary back? I mean, I’ve never gotten a role that was so fantastic I thought about doing it for such a low pay, but I guess Peter’s always been into the artistic side of acting more than I have. My parents always wanted the money. So did Elsie.

  I guess I do, too.

  “So what was the powder on the counter?”

  “Crushed medication because I wanted it to work faster.”

  He sits back and folds his hands together in front of his lips. When I look into his eyes, I don’t see someone who loves me. I see someone who views me as a pet project to work on or a burden to bear. “You know, they have clinic that can help—”

  “Fuck that, Peter,” I say, surprised at the fire in my voice. I stand up and stretch. If I act like nothing is wrong, eventually, nothing will be wrong. “I don’t need rehab because I misused my pills last night. I just need to get a handle on my anxiety. I mean, don’t you think being nominated for—”