Thank You for Listening(51)

If she were Adaku, she might say everything happened for a reason or the universe was harmonizing or some shit, but she . . . well, that wasn’t her.

Still. Something was cohering. Maybe it was one of those seven-year cycles people talked about. Maybe she was finally coming around the dark side of the moon.

She’d text him later: Question. Why does the moon go dark?

But right now, in this moment, she had a question for herself:

Why was she so afraid to talk to him?

It made no sense.

Everything was coming together for her, and he was a part of that. Why couldn’t she bring herself to tell him the story she’d put off telling him? Twice now. Her “Why.”

What was the worst that could happen? She would discover it wasn’t–he wasn’t–the fantasy she hoped he would be? No. Was it that she would no longer be the fantasy she wanted to be? Yes. And how pathetic was that?

The time had come. She would act again and she would stop acting with Brock. She’d be honest. And worst case? They’d stay friends. Colleagues. They’d continue to make a ton of money voice-banging, as the Facebook fans called it. The idea that he would, for some reason, cut her off entirely was as absurd as the idea that the fantasy was real. Both imagined outcomes so equally ludicrous they essentially canceled each other out.

The shit she could convince herself of, to keep her from being herself. Remarkable. Ridiculous. Really.

That was as far as her thinking had gotten by the time she parked in front of Mark’s house.

As she climbed sixty-four stairs, she decided Adaku had been right at dinner: she had to deal with herself. She had to get over it. By hiding, she wasn’t doing herself any favors, never mind him. And wasn’t he the right person to open up to? Wouldn’t he understand? Someone who shared the same fears, a similar past? Who knew what it was like to have the world spread out at your feet, only to trip over it?

From: Westholme, Sarah

To: Brock McNight

Date: March 4, 7:12 PM

Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!

Hey,

To start, I want to apologize. I know I made it seem like I don’t want to talk to you on the telethingy, but that’s not true. I would love to talk to you. But you want to know my “Why,” my Another Time . . . and the problem is I’m not prepared to talk about it. I am prepared to tell you about it, though. I hope you can understand the difference.

So.

I was 24, about two years out of Julliard. I was getting some work, episodic TV, failed series, micro-budget indie film stuff. I was considered a “hottie” (their opinion, but okay also mine) who could actually act. I was getting close on a lot of stuff. My almost-resume was amazing. It felt like it was just a matter of time. Something was gonna hit.

And then it did.

I booked the lead in a film. To be more precise, the co-lead of a major film. It was a DEA thing, kind of like Training Day, but with cartels and a female newbie. Overnight, I went from obscurity to relevance. That’s our business. Nobody to somebody instantly. Like one of those dried up sponges that kids put in water and voila it’s a dinosaur or a cow or . . . never mind.

Sidebar: You ever heard that joke about actors in Hollywood? It’s the five stages of an actor’s life:

Who is Sarah Westholme?

Get me Sarah Westholme!

Get me a Sarah Westholme type!

Get me a younger Sarah Westholme!

Who is Sarah Westholme?

Anyway, we were filming in Mexico. There was a small role for my character’s best friend and I got my real best friend cast in it. (And now I think she’s trying to repay me for this, but that’s a whole other story.) I’d been there for about three weeks. Two weeks of rehearsals, one week of filming. My best friend’s scenes were scheduled early in the shoot, first few days, and they went great. They wrapped her on Friday and I made her stay the weekend because I wanted to celebrate. This was our big break, right, so we looked for something memorable to do. Exciting! Fun! A little crazy! (read: stupid. Well, maybe not stupid under normal circumstances, but the kind of thing you probably shouldn’t do at the beginning of a job in a foreign country known for its dubious safety regulations.) We went skydiving. The kind where you’re strapped to an experienced jumper. So we get into a plane and up we go. The higher up, the more significant the panicking. I was flip-flopping back and forth in my head: am I scared or am I excited? I wasn’t sure. (This is, like, a theme of my life, btw, and prob explains what happened the other night when you called.) Anyway, we level off and suddenly my friend is strapped to her guide and they’re standing at the open door. She smiles big, gives me a double thumbs-up, and they’re gone. My jumping companion walks me forward and I look out, look down, feel the grab of the wind. I don’t jump so much as fall and then there’s nothing under my feet and that wind is slamming against me. I hear a voice. No, not God. The guy on my back is counting down. He’s telling me to pull the cord. But I can’t move. So he reaches for it, grabs it, and yanks.

And yanks.

And yanks.

At that moment, I had a weird acceptance of dying. Truly. I dissociated. An unexplainable letting go. I was finished. And I was okay with that.

But then: the parachute opened. Some reserve something-or-other. Simple as that. And we landed. Albeit (as you would say) harder than normal, but we were fine. We were alive.

My jump buddy unbuckled me and we hugged like we had survived a war together. My friend came running over and we grabbed each other, screaming adrenaline-fueled nonsense. I can’t describe how alive I felt having come so close to death. I was high like I’ve never been high, and lemme tell you I’ve been hiiiiiiiiigh. In the van, on the way back to the airstrip, I couldn’t shut up. I went over every little detail. I remembered everything, every single piece of the puzzle.