by Carla Hanna
“I’m so glad you like it,” he whispered. He pulled me off the floor into a bear hug, backed me up to the hallway wall, and began kissing me passionately. His hands moved all over my body. He unzipped my dress and touched my breasts. It felt nice.
“Maybe you want to?” I asked.
He stopped me. “After just now? Byron? There’s not a chance.”
He backed up from me and folded his hands across his chest. He bellowed, “You did want to?”
“No way, gross.” I shook my head and approached him to resume kissing. “I don’t want any part of Byron’s life.”
He refused the kiss and glowered at me reproachfully. “And I don’t want any part of your actress life!”
Disarmed, I walked to the living room not knowing what to do with that statement. It infuriated me to such an extent that I suppressed my desire to slap him.
The light from the kitchen was enough to illuminate the room but not too much to ruin the view of the canyon from the glass wall of living room windows. The darker the room, the better the view was at night. I could see the lights from a yacht on the Pacific Ocean, probably a birthday party for someone I knew. I got several invitations to yacht parties but declined because I didn’t want to be trapped on some boat when I was ready to leave early. I always left early. I sat down on the couch and calmed down.
I heard Manuel get a bag from the kitchen and go to my room. Then I heard him stop at the entrance to the living room. He held a bag of stuff and seemed completely confused. I had hurt his feelings.
“Come sit with me, please,” I said, not having the energy or the will to smile.
He didn’t want to come over to me. He was frustrated. He hated me being an actress. I had ruined my birthday.
He was an eighteen-year-old with the best heart of any boy I knew, who shouldn’t have to endure such a sex-focused culture. I knew I was broken somehow but still wanted to be with him. I had no idea how I could ever explain how I felt to him. I had no idea how he would ever comprehend what I felt.
Manuel was my best friend. He deserved to be happy. I looked back out the window. I was not sad, not weepy. I was glum, hollow, bummed.
“Tell me something—the truth,” Manuel insisted.
“I only want you—not Byron, not Evan, just you.”
“No. The way Byron looked at you. He knows he can have you. What the hell did you guys do the night before prom?”
I looked down, busted. I admitted, “He came to my trailer before the wrap party to make me talk to him. We talked. He asked for one last kiss.”
“Details. How far did it go?”
I studied Manuel. His face was stern and eyes were dark. My heart raced. I swallowed the acid that burned my throat.
I exhaled. “I was in the shower when he was banging on my trailer door. I told him to go away. He was making a scene. He wanted to end my hostility, be friends. After we talked, he asked for a kiss. I kissed him.”
“Did he leave your robe on?”
I gulped, surprised Manuel made the connection. “No. He stopped the kiss and covered me back up. I hate that I didn’t reject him. I’ve thought about why I kissed him a thousand times. I’m stupid.” I averted my eyes again. “I love you more than anyone. I’m so sorry.”
He stood in the doorway. Guilt turned into a need for answers. “Why did you kiss Beth the morning of the Oscars? You love us both. Why choose me and not her?”
“I told you. I kissed her to prove to her that she’s full of it. She thinks she’s everyone’s second choice. But she pushes all of us away. If she’s so in love with me that she keeps dumping Mitch then it shouldn’t matter that I love you more when you’re not mine. She was so mad that I was late for our ride, accused me of always dropping my commitments any moment you grazed my world. Of course I did/do. It’s you.” He sighed. “She dumped Mitch the night before the Oscars because she was scared, not because she loved me more. The next morning I called her bluff. I told her I loved her, wanted her, and kissed her. She pushed me away. That was my point. I knew she would.”
“Did you and Mitch share her?”
“Alan’s rumor? No way, gross.”
“I hate that you love her. It drives me crazy.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite. You love Evan and clearly want Byron.”
“But I love you so much more.”
“Ditto with Beth. And I would never just stand there!” He bit his lip. “I think I should go home,” he grumbled, looking down, still standing in the hallway. “I left some presents for you in your room. I’m sorry I ruined your birthday.”
I tried to look into his eyes but he would not look up. I added, “I want you to know that I appreciate you and love you. I’m sorry.”
I gazed out the window and heard the door close. Sadness and fear that I lost Manuel left me breathless. A vacuum greater than anything I had ever felt crushed me. It was a black hole.
~ LIANA MARIE & MUSE ~
Someone’s warm body propped up my head. Her hand was on my arm. A blanket warmed my legs. In my bad dreams, I was convinced that Manuel dumped me. I was a Borg, assimilated into the collective. I became the Borg Queen. I woke up sure that I was going to be alone with thousands of voices in my head sharing their intrusive thoughts.
“Mom!” I sat up and snuggled into her. She had told me that she was going back to work after the party. She was in the middle of shooting. I didn’t expect her to have stayed.
It was still dark outside. I didn’t go back to my room. I changed in Mom’s room, washed my face and borrowed her robe. I sat back on the couch and looked out the window for a very long time, feeling numb. I fell asleep maybe an hour after Manuel left.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Liz called me. She’s very sorry. I blew all of the candles out in your room and cleaned up the petals on the floor. Manuel left you some presents and they are in a bag in your closet. I understand completely how you feel, but it will be hard for Manuel to understand. He’s just a boy, and Byron manipulates you.”
“I’m worried that he’s going to dump me,” I confided. “We’ve been friends for sixteen years and now it will end because I showed him my Hollywood life. He’s going to break my heart, Mom.”
“Hmm. Perhaps you both will keep your hearts strong and manage to maintain your life-long friendship. Give it time and see what happens,” she said.
“Mom, Byron stopped the kiss or I would have slept with him. How can I be both a cheat and a prude?”
“No, that’s not it, Marie. Byron loves you and draws you in with his sincerity. He’s relentless. He disarmed me, too, remember. He glosses over objections. His love is not what you need. You shouldn’t be pushed into anything you don’t want to do. It’s not fair to you and it ends up hurting everyone, and you the most. Honey, be proud of yourself. You’re still pure in this culture. That’s incredible.”
She smiled sadly at me. She still had that haunting deep look of guilt and strain on her face. Her expression made me shudder.
“Mom, everyone wants and loves a piece of me. I want someone to love all of me. I saw last night that Manuel loves me but he doesn’t even know me as an actor. Will I always be a jigsaw puzzle that loses pieces every time it is moved from one surface to another?”
“Sweetheart, you need to be confident about your unique sensibilities and your own morality. You have a very strong spirit that guides you. You know what is right and wrong for you. God will lead you.”
“Mom, that sounds so corny. Where has God been for me?”
The way she talked made me uncomfortable. I talked openly about relationships with her, but I felt weird talking about God with her. We used to pray together, and it was natural. She took Manuel and me, and sometimes Kate and, later, Janet, to Sunday school every Sunday during our entire elementary school years. But we hadn’t prayed together for several years.
“I know you’re angry about Matthew, how we handled it. I’m so sorry you can’t quit Muse.” She stopped talking and hugged me while she w
iped her tears.
Mom smiled. “Marie, you are whole. I need to get you some books to read. I’ll get you an appointment for a spiritual guidance counselor. I’ll give you some books I have here at the house to read today. I’ve failed you again. I should have nurtured your spirituality.”
“What? Mom, no. I don’t really believe that stuff anymore. You dragged me to church until I was thirteen and there was always such a disconnect. There’s so much “sin” in my world that the religious stuff doesn’t make sense to me. Marriage means nothing. Everyone gets divorced. People are constantly having affairs. If the Bible is true, then ninety-nine percent of the people I know in the world are going to hell for their sins. The only person I know who is kind and good like you’re supposed to be from the teachings is Celia. Honestly, Mom, religion seems kind of absurd to me. The rules are totally unrealistic.”
“I wonder, though, if it might be what you need to find peace, to understand who you are. Religion isn’t just about rules. Your dad grew up in the peaceful Salish tribe. His step-dad, Bill, was Lutheran. I grew up Catholic. You seemed to like Sunday school; you had a good foundation. But then with the divorce, I didn’t think I belonged in church. I had sinned too much to be forgiven.”
“No, you’re no sinner, Mom. You’re too hard on yourself. Who cares if you had some affairs after the divorce? You’re way too old school.” I smiled at her and shook my head. I still thought she was going off the deep end.
She continued, “You must be confused right now. I’m a rule follower: no premarital sex; no adultery. It was easy for me to be the Hollywood good girl because I believed it so entirely. It was in my faith.”
She paused, remembering someone fondly.
“The wonderful nun who taught us sex-ed in eighth grade talked about how making love between a husband and wife was one of God’s gifts to us. She said casual sex was sinful because it did not celebrate the union of God’s love. I have found in my life that the nun’s words were true. Making love with Tom was an eclipse. I felt sinful with anyone else because I haven’t loved anyone else. I can see that you feel the same way without being taught the rules.”
I felt more comfortable. She continued, “I didn’t grow up in this L.A. culture. Tom didn’t grow up in this culture. I didn’t realize you would have such pressure at such a young age. I didn’t realize that all these high school kids and actors think that growing up means having X-rated sexual relationships. I’m glad you and Manny don’t want that.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Liz said something about Manny becoming unglued about a threesome?”
I laughed. “Yeah. So Byron is stuck in the limo with us because Manny and I caught him and Claire doing it. She got out and went to my party. Manny’s shocked, right? Byron proposes to Manny that they work together to make me orgasm.” I sighed. “Oh, Mom, you could feel Manny’s anger. I worried that he’d pummel Byron. But at the same time, Alan told me yesterday that Manny and Mitch had shared Beth. I worried that it was true, which it wasn’t, of course.”
“Be careful of Alan. There’s something off with him.”
“Yeah, he scared me yesterday morning. He was waiting for me on San Vicente before my workout with Elise to give me my present and tell me the gossip, which I think he started. I’m gonna have Elise meet me here from now on.”
She moved on to a related thought. “I have made so many mistakes raising you. I was so busy working. I think you turned out very strong despite all of that. Your dad thinks you’re a filly—smart, gentle but incredibly strong and powerful, introspective, and beautiful. You’re unique. You’re wonderful.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. “That makes me feel better.” She was corny but comforting. I’d look through the books, have an open mind.
She moved my hair off of my face and analyzed my expression. “Stay true to whom you are and your friendship with Manuel will endure. Remember that we all have both good and bad, light and dark, in us. We make mistakes. Pretend to be someone you’re not and you both will have broken hearts.”
She was right. I listened and understood. I felt more peaceful.
“You should go to bed now. Let me tuck you in.” She said as she helped me off the couch. “We’ll have a lovely breakfast tomorrow at the Huntley. I’ll have Attila prepare some comfort food for you this week. Sleep in.”
I was thinking about what she said as I fell asleep. Being committed is much more significant than being married. Marriage does not mean love and vice-versa. Almost every adult I know is gay, divorced, or remarried. Liz and Carlos were happily married and so were Beth’s and Mitch’s parents, but that was it. Sam’s mom was committed to her current partner, but Sam existed so that wasn’t her only relationship. My first experience with Hollywood was confusing and it made my relationships with men confusing. My experience with Matthew freaked me out.
I woke up to the sound of a text coming in. I checked the phone. It was just past 9 am. The text was from Manuel, “Pls read email.”
He was gonna dump me. My shoulders slouched, defeated. I gulped as I read the email.
This is embarrassing. I should be more macho. I’m not. I was an idiot last night. I didn’t know who you were and I didn’t know who I was. You dancing with Franz in that sexy dress that flaunted your boobs. Me wearing metro-sexual clothes. You eating that fancy food. All the gorgeous girls and model and actor guys. The party. Not knowing what to say. Standing there like an idiot. The cameras. I wanted to shove the cameras down their throats. Then the limo. That complete prick who I worried had you and then no shame at all. I wanted to kick him in the nuts and mess up his face.
Now you. You glowed at the restaurant and knew everything on the menu, like the bitches I bus tables for. You talked with your friends about the fabulous islands and resorts you’ve been to, the troubles with maintaining your lake house, the complications of your mom buying her own jet. I didn’t even know you owned a house on some lake in Montana. Crap like that I can’t even get my head around. All these people—guys and girls—kissing your lips, hugging, small talk, slutty dresses and sissy posers.
I was this miserable, dumb puppy at your side and you were this supernatural goddess having a really good time.
Then you were so calm, smiling with those assholes in our faces, the lights blinding. I can’t think, and you’re posing, taking charge. Then the limo. The guy kisses you after we start dating, and you’re laughing with him, talking to him, listening to him prattle. You say you’re mine and he grins and wants to share.
After all that, you thinking about doing it. You tell me you didn’t want to perform, that I’d get frustrated trying stuff. I am frustrated. Nothing works for you.
You think I didn’t want to do it before Kate because I was Christian. It was out of principle. I didn’t want to mess up, be vulnerable, get distracted. Kate was safe to date because she didn’t want to—I didn’t have to worry about it.
But with you, it’s totally different, consuming. I want to have you all the time. You tell me you want to be friends, to take our time.
In the back of my mind I know you’ve been reamed and betrayed, but I don’t know what that’s like. Why won’t you tell me about it? I see grossness in front of me and you’ve seen that in person before. It freaked me out.
I watched your films last night/this morning, your TV episodes, interviews. Mom had bought everything you’ve been in and your mom has been in. I only had seen Muse and Romeo & Juliet before. But this time, I was even more amazed. That movie about Virginia Woolf was haunting. Wow. I even saw the movie where you scream and run from vampires. I searched you online. I didn’t know you’ve been in about twenty films. I read your fan pages. Pictures of you and me from last night are already everywhere.
I know I promised you I’d never see Left to Die. Sorry, I just broke my promise. I started it about an hour ago. I was so turned on watching you on that swing. I went limp, like last night. That rape scene freaked me out. I thought I’d puke. I turned it off and d
idn’t watch the rest of the film. I just sat here feeling so bad for you. What you’ve had to endure alone—trying to understand you.
You’re incredible—beyond me—stronger than me. Maybe Franz was right that I criticize you because I’m insecure. I don’t know. I don’t want to criticize you. I think you’re amazing, perfect. I just want the best for you, to be healthy, modest, and happy.
You’ve talked about “compartmentalizing.” I see that. I think you have 3 pieces: school girl I know, actress I don’t know, and Salish Indian I fell in love with on Navajo lands. I think the Salish girl has the energy to hold it all together. She stuns me. I don’t deserve her but I want to hold her so close and never let go.
I’m mad you kissed Byron but it follows classic patterns of manipulation. He was demonstrating that you can trust him. YOU CAN’T TRUST THAT GUY!!
Will you take me back after I was such a prick? Best friends who just kiss and hold hands. Please don’t break-up with me. I love you. — Manuel
I already had his number selected. He answered the phone immediately.
“Yes, that makes me so happy! Kiss and hold hands.” Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I needed him and still got to have him on my terms. “I thought you were going to dump me for being a prude and kissing Byron.”
“No…. Thanks for not dumping me for being an asshole. I’m so relieved. Sorry to be so dense.” He sighed. “I’m mad you kissed Byron. I’ll drop by before I go to work, give you a big hug and the opportunity to grovel about kissing a creep.”
I had a surge of happy energy and practically danced my way to the bathroom. I wanted to get the Muse contract from my safe deposit box before going to breakfast with Mom. Celia made me curious and I didn’t want to wait until Monday to fax the contract to her. She was so busy but always took Sunday off. She goes to a Christian church every Sunday morning while Dad rides his beloved horse in the Woodside hills. Then they meet for lunch at a coffee shop in downtown Palo Alto. They both liked routines.