by Alexa Land
Nana had been washing up at the kitchen sink, and we told her about our plans to relocate. She thought about this while she dried her hands, then said, “You sure about this? Here you got your family, there you got nobody. Also, aren’t you gonna be kind of exposed at some cabin?”
“We’ll have each other,” I told her. “As long as no one knows we’re there, it’ll be fine. And if they discover us, we’ll just pack up and move somewhere else. Besides, you guys are just a phone call away if we need anything.”
She mulled that over, then said, “Yeah, okay. But before you go, we’re gonna all sit down to a nice family lunch. I’ve barely gotten to know your sweetie.” Nana’s face lit up and she said, “I just got a real hum-dinger of an idea. Zan can cook the meal with me, and we’ll film it for my cable TV show. I never had one of them, you know, guest stars before. Plus, this way I can show him how to make some of your favorite foods, Johnnie, so he knows how to take care of you properly.”
I grinned at that, but said, “I don’t know, Nana. I don’t think Zan’s comfortable in front of the camera these days.”
“Anything for Nana,” he said. “I’d love to learn how to cook for you, Gianni, and if a camera’s rolling while we do that, all the better. Then I can watch the tape later and recall the recipes.”
Nana clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Let’s get cooking!”
*****
Fifteen minutes later, Jessie was manning the camera, the lights were up, and the kitchen island was covered with ingredients. “Here you go, Zan,” Nana said, handing him an apron. “Put this on. We’re gonna be making ravioli and it could get messy.” She looked around and asked, “Where’s Tom Selleck? I want to make sure he doesn’t go nuts this time.”
“I have him, Nana,” Jessie said. “His leash is around my ankle so he won’t be able to get away.”
“I bet the dog knocks Jessie over and drags him around the kitchen,” Skye told us. “Jessie will probably keep filming erratically the entire time, and that footage will make it on the air.” Skye was sitting at the kitchen table with Dare, Shea, Christian and me. Since filming the show rarely went off without a hitch, we’d been trying to predict the upcoming catastrophe.
“Oh, that’s totally a given,” Shea told him.
“I don’t think anything has exploded on Nana’s show yet,” Christian said. “Maybe that’ll happen this time. Is she planning to deploy a pressure cooker? If so, we should all put on raincoats.”
Across the room, Zan had pulled the black apron over his head, which was imprinted in white with I like big buns and I cannot lie, above a line drawing of a large cinnamon roll. I chuckled and said, “Classic.” Nana donned an apron, too. Hers was red and said: this recipe did not call for your opinion.
Nana ordered Zan around for a couple minutes, having him move a big cutting board onto the island, then her bulky pasta machine. My grandmother looked around and told Jessie, “I think we’re ready to roll, but why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?”
“Did you want Gianni on camera, too, since he’s the one Zan’s cooking for?” Jessie chimed in.
“Great idea!” Nana exclaimed while I slumped down in my seat with a sigh. “Johnnie, get your ass up here and put on an apron.”
On the way past him, I shot Jessie a look and he smiled broadly and said, “You’re welcome.”
Nana tried to hand me an apron that was printed to look like a body builder wearing skimpy speedos, but I said, “Um, no,” and took it with me as I went to look in the closet. I knew she had some normal options somewhere, but all I found was her novelty apron collection.
“Hurry up, Johnnie, we need to get this show on the road!” Nana yelled. I ended up grabbing a green and white striped apron that said: Kiss French, Ride Italian. I wondered where the hell Nana had found that, and if she got the innuendo. It was always hard to tell with her. She pretended to be innocent, but I suspected we’d all be shocked if we could read her mind.
Zan broke into a huge smile when he saw the apron. He slipped his arm around my waist, pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “That’s an excellent suggestion.” I grinned as he kissed my cheek and nuzzled my ear.
“Focus, boys!” Nana exclaimed. “Jessie’s already running the camera and we got ravioli to make. We’re starting with the pasta. This part’s gonna get messy.” Zan and I both stepped back as she dumped half a bag of flour onto the cutting board and a cloud rose into the air.
“Do you want to introduce your guests, Nana, and tell your audience what you’ll be making?” Jessie prompted.
“What? Oh, right. Today we’re making cheese ravioli. That’s Zan Tillane, but why am I telling you that? Everyone knows who he is. I guess everyone knows my grandson Johnnie now too, on account of them making out at the airport. Say hi, boys.” We did as we were told while Nana set the flour aside and reached for a carton of eggs. She said, “Go ahead and stick your fingers in that mound, Zan. You need a nice big hole. You have a lot to fit in there, so go ahead and open it up.”
“Dear lord, what are we talking about?” Zan stammered, totally dropping his composure.
I chuckled and used my hand to make a well in the center of the flour. “Your mind is absolutely filthy,” I told him.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not just me, love,” he said with a grin.
After the eggs and some oil were incorporated, Nana tried to show Zan how to knead the dough, climbing up on a step-stool beside him and working his hands like they were her puppets. “Work it real good, Zan,” she said. “Don’t be afraid to wrap your hand around it and really squeeze it. Now work it! Up and down, up and down.” Zan shot me a look and I just smiled.
Next, she set up her automatic pasta roller and showed him how to feed the dough through. While he was doing that, she had me start on the filling, but then a loud knock on the door startled all of us, including the dog, who barked and lunged forward. Jessie’s legs were pulled right out from under him and he landed flat on his back with an, “Oof!”
“Told you,” Skye said as he jumped up to give Jessie a hand.
“For fuck’s sake,” Zan exclaimed. I turned to look at him and burst out laughing. In the commotion, he’d gotten his long hair caught in the pasta roller. He was bent over at the waist, and the side of his head was pressed against the machine.
“You okay?” I asked as I rushed to his aid.
“I’m fine, it shut off as soon as my skull jammed it,” he said. “Not my most graceful moment, I must admit. I’m incredibly embarrassed that you saw this.”
“It’s okay, I’ve done that before too,” I reassured him.
“Really?”
“No.” I smiled at him as I fumbled around looking for the reverse switch.
Dante appeared in the kitchen doorway with Eddie Guerrera and a huge security guard. When my brother saw what was happening, he started chuckling and came to help. As he flipped the switch and freed Zan’s hair, Dante told him, “You were clearly meant to be a member of the Dombruso family. Welcome.”
“Cheers, mate,” Zan said with a grin, straightening up and pushing his no-worse-for-wear hair back from his face.
Meanwhile, the puppy was on some sort of crazed quest to reach the security guard. He’d dragged Jessie to the doorway, straining at the end of his leash. Jessie threw both feet up in the air and braced his sneakers on the frame of the wide entryway. He looked up at Eddie through the V formed by his legs and said, “Um, hi. I’m a big fan of your videos. Thanks for coming.”
Eddie grinned, then reached down and unhooked the dog’s leash from the collar as he said, “Thanks for thinking of me.”
The puppy finally reached his prize and started jumping all over the security guard and licking him. The huge guy cracked a smile as he scratched the animal behind the ears, then looked at us and put on a serious expression as he said, “Dogs love me. They always have. I don’t know why.”
Jessie untangled himself from the leash and handed it to Dante. M
y brother and the security guard went into the living room, and the puppy trotted along happily. Meanwhile, Eddie held his hand out to Jessie and pulled him to his feet, and they smiled at each other shyly. “Sorry I’m early,” Eddie said, fidgeting first with his glasses and then with the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Traffic was lighter than usual.”
“It’s totally fine. It’s pretty much always like this. Did you have any problems getting through security?”
“No, they let me in as soon as I told them my name. The paparazzi was interesting, though. They seem to be turning a bit rabid out there.”
“I think they started out that way.” Jessie walked our guest into the kitchen, and said, “Everyone, this is Eddie Guerrera. Eddie, everyone.”
“Can you boys hang out for a few minutes?” Nana asked. “We’re making lunch and filming an episode for my cooking show. It’s on cable TV, maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s called Cooking with Nana. I didn’t come up with the name. I would’ve gone for something snappier.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie said.
I went up to him and shook his hand. “I’m Gianni, thanks for coming. These are some friends of mine that want to remain off the record,” I said, indicating the group sitting around the table. “Sorry to be all cloak and dagger, but you saw the media frenzy out front. Anonymity is a pretty precious commodity right now.”
“Oh I totally get it. No worries,” Eddie said.
“And you probably recognize Zan,” I said as he joined us.
Eddie wiped his palm on his jeans, then shook hands and said earnestly, “It’s a huge honor, Mr. Tillane.”
“It’s just Zan, no formalities here,” he said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Of course. You don’t even know what this means to me! I’m really going to try not to screw up this interview, even though I have to admit I’m incredibly nervous. I didn’t have time to prepare questions, so I’m just going to wing it. If I ask something you don’t want to answer, feel free to tell me to eff off,” Eddie said. I had to grin at that.
It took a couple minutes, but Nana managed to regroup and get the show on the road again. Jessie got back behind the camera, and Nana turned her attention to teaching Zan how to stuff the pasta. His first batch was somewhat less than successful. Nana squinted at the lumpy ravioli he held up and exclaimed, “What happened there? It looks like a nut sack.” Subsequent attempts were deemed less sack-like.
We’d made a lot of dough, so my grandmother ended up mixing a second batch of cheese filling. As she dumped half a jar of crushed red pepper flakes in with the ricotta and mozzarella, I said, “Isn’t that going to be too spicy, Nana?”
“Of course not! I just want this batch to have a little kick, that’s all.” She gave the ingredients a stir, then climbed up on her stepstool and scooped out a dollop with her wooden spoon. “Taste this, Zan,” she said, holding the spoon to his lips. “It doesn’t have the raw egg in it yet, so it’s safe. Tell Johnnie it’s not too spicy.”
Zan looked a bit concerned, but did as she asked. As soon as he swallowed it, he started coughing and made a little gasping sound. “Oh shit, he’s choking!” Nana yelled. “Code red! We gotta do CPR!”
Before I could explain that he was just reacting to the hot peppers, she grabbed Zan by the shoulders and bent him over backwards onto the counter, in a move I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. Nana then climbed on top of him and clamped her mouth down on his. Zan’s cheeks puffed up as she tried to force some air into him, his arms flailing and one leg kicking. Christian almost fell over from laughing so hard, and I leapt in and tried to talk Nana down.
It took a while to convince her Zan was fine, but finally she climbed off him and daintily patted her hair into place. “Well, better safe than sorry,” she said. “Also, I may have slipped your honey the tongue, Johnnie, but don’t worry, I wasn’t trying to steal your man. That was just one of them, you know, advanced rescue techniques. I saw it on a rerun of Baywatch.” I thought Christian was going to rupture something from his laughing fit, and Zan was quite gracious about the fact that my grandmother had just Frenched him. He kept an eye on her throughout the rest of the prep, though.
Eventually, we finished making the meal (with a less five-alarm filling), lost the aprons, and shut off the camera. Eddie joined us for lunch, and afterwards we went into the formal living room. Like a lot of the ground floor, it was decorated in rich reds and golds. A sleek, black grand piano sat in one corner, and a huge Persian rug stretched over much of the amber-colored wood floor. An ornate fireplace topped with a pretty landscape painting was the centerpiece of the room.
Eddie set up his equipment. It was less than state-of-the-art, consisting of a bulky digital camcorder on a little tripod, a Radio Shack microphone, a beat-up laptop and a swing-arm desk lamp to provide a bit of lighting. While he got ready, our friends and family brought in some kitchen chairs and created a seating area behind the camera. When I went to join them, Zan said, “I want you here with me, Gianni.” He was seated on a loveseat and indicated the spot right next to him.
I wasn’t convinced I should sit in on the interview, but both he and Eddie told me I needed to be a part of it. While the young journalist framed up his shot, I told Zan, “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. Your fans are dying to hear your story and I don’t want to go all Yoko here. I feel like I’m intruding and they will, too.”
“You aren’t intruding, love,” Zan said before pulling me onto the loveseat and kissing me gently. “This is where you belong, right by my side.” I smiled at that.
Eddie cleared his throat and said, “Um, I already starting recording. Sorry. I can edit that out before I air this if you want me to.”
“It’s fine,” Zan said. “Leave it in.”
After Eddie took his seat in an upholstered chair that he’d moved close to the loveseat, he addressed the camera. He introduced himself and us, then said, “I don’t have any questions prepared, because I only found out I was going to be doing this a couple hours ago. I know the question that’s on everyone’s mind though, so I’m going to start with that.” He turned to Zan and said, “If I get too personal or ask a question you’re not comfortable with, let me apologize in advance. The last thing I want to do is offend you.”
Zan gave him a little grin as he picked up my hand. “No worries, Eddie. I’m hard to offend.”
“Great. Well, I’m going to get right to it then, and start by asking what happened in 2002. Could you tell me why you walked away in the middle of that concert in L.A.?”
Zan took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Then he said, his voice low, “I walked away to save my life. I was right on the verge of a total breakdown, and if I hadn’t left when I did, I know for a fact I would have killed myself that night.”
“Oh God,” I whispered.
“That concert was in month five of a seven-month world tour, and I still had over forty gigs ahead of me. I was mentally and physically at my breaking point with nothing left to give. I was up on stage forcing myself to go through the motions, my body full of alcohol and seven different prescription drugs because I felt I had to be there, I had to keep going. I’d made promises, sold tickets. A lot of people were counting on me.
“But then, as I sang my song ‘Whirlwind’ for probably the ten-thousandth time, this tiny, crazy, desperate idea came to me. The idea was: you don’t have to do this. I stopped singing and just stood there for a few moments, right there on stage in front of ninety thousand people, and I mulled that idea over. It was so incredibly simple, and yet it had never occurred to me before. I knew my job was killing me, literally killing me, and yet I’d always believed I had to keep going, rather than risk disappointing so many people.”
Zan took another deep breath and continued, “Afterwards, I couldn’t believe I’d actually gone through with it. I’d actually walked away! It was equally the healthiest and the most insane thing I’d ever done. And then, of course, right after t
hat I was hit with overwhelming fear and panic, the ‘oh shit, what have I done?’ and the realization that I was flushing a career down the toilet that I’d worked for since I was a child. But I was just so incredibly spent. There was nothing left of me. Quitting was about self-preservation. Yeah, it was drastic, but I really don’t think anything short of that would have stopped me from going back to my tour bus and ODing that night.”
Eddie asked gently, “Haven’t you heard this story before, Gianni?”
I shook my head, then realized I had tears streaming down my face and quickly swiped at them with the back of my hand. “I figured you’d walked away because the stress got to you,” I told Zan, “but I didn’t know you were on the verge of suicide. I’m so sorry it got that bad for you.”
“Nobody knew. I never talked about it, not then or in the years that followed,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I kept trying to tell myself, ‘this is what you always wanted, this is everything you dreamed about.’ I had it all: the money, the fame, the success, and I thought I was being ridiculous to complain about what it was doing to me. I knew I should be grateful, and I really tried to be, but it just kept draining me, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I let it wear me down to nothing and kept going and going and going. I was so afraid of letting everyone down, my fans, my agent, my record label, the list went on. But I had reached the absolute breaking point that night in L.A. and I had to make a choice. I chose to live.”
Eddie asked quietly, “Where did you go?”
“I borrowed my agent’s car, well, stole it really, and drove home to northern California. The whole way, I was totally panicked about what I’d done, like I said. A huge part of me was screaming at myself to go back, to finish the concert, because you just didn’t fucking do that! You didn’t just walk away! That little, desperate part of me, the part that knew how close I was to cashing it all in, kept propelling me forward, though.