The Comeback(24)

I bit my lip and stared down at the floor. “It’s not true.”

Able nodded once.

“Are you saying that Carrie is lying?”

I turned to Carrie, and in her bald, stricken face I saw a version of myself that I didn’t want to acknowledge existed. I could smell her weakness, and it made me resentful.

“She’s lying,” I mumbled, without looking at either of them.

“Say it properly, Grace,” he said, and I stood up a little straighter.

“Carrie is lying.”

It’s been hard to forget the way Carrie looked at me after I said that, like she just felt sorry for me. Able let her go on the spot, and she would be the last studio teacher I ever got close to. Over the years to come, Able would repeat the same move with various on-set teachers and guardians and, eventually, with my own parents. The only difference was that the pity on Carrie’s face would soon be replaced with a look of betrayal as people became more convinced of my complicity. Eventually it would just become easier not to get close to anyone.

That day, I left the trailer and climbed back up the fire escape steps as if I were on my way to my own funeral. My hands were slipping down the handrails and I willed myself not to cry again. I knew that it was my last chance. When I reached the top, I closed my eyes and told the actor playing opposite me to push me as soon as Able shouted action.

I felt a pair of hands on my chest and then the sensation of falling, of the wind rushing on either side of me, and it was so instantly exhilarating that I had to try not to shriek. It felt like I was flying. When I hit the crash pad, the crew cheered for me, but I barely heard them. The only thing I cared about was that Able had been right all along. The relief I felt was overwhelming: I was at peace again.

Able made me do the stunt over and over again until I got tired and careless and I cracked my head on the railing on the way down. Afterward, Able took me into his trailer and stroked my hair as I cried, while Fleetwood Mac played from his radio. The dull, thudding pain felt rich and delicious because he was being so nice to me again now that I’d shown him just how much he could trust me.

I promised myself that he would never have a reason to doubt me again. After that, whenever I was scared, it was always him I thought to run to.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN





The road down to my new house from Pacific Coast Highway is steep and winding. I can see Dylan in my rearview mirror, driving behind me and wearing the Ray-Bans that I think were once mine but that maybe I stole from him first. We both get out of our cars at the bottom of the track, standing in a thick cloud of dust.

Coyote Sumac is a small, U-shaped community located on the beach underneath a bluff in Malibu. The houses are mostly clapboard bungalows with a few more-modern properties built from steel and glass. Vines of bougainvillea and wisteria frame the wraparound wooden porches, and a few of the houses have golf carts with surfboards strapped onto them parked alongside the Jeeps or pickup trucks in the driveways. Like Laurel said, this is a community for surfers and hippies and, as of now, famous former child actors who just want to be left alone.

My house is set away from the others, closer to the beach, and it is unfathomably dark inside with a damp patch the shape of Russia on the ceiling over the bed. The bungalow came with a TV, a cream leather sofa with grease stains on the arms, and a red-framed double bed in the bedroom. When we saw the inside, after a last-minute viewing with a sweaty real estate agent who couldn’t stop apologizing, Laurel described it as “the kind of place an abusive husband rents when he can’t accept that he’s finally been kicked out of the family home, so he, like, gets this place for when the kids come on weekends, but they never turn up so he hangs himself in the shower to get his revenge. This shower, Grace,” while acting as if she were planning to commit me at the closest opportunity. Say what you will about Laurel, but she really knows how to paint a fucking picture.

Dylan and I unload the boxes from his car in silence, and when we’ve finished, he stands in my doorway with his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you, Dylan,” I say awkwardly, because here we are—ten boxes containing my only possessions in the world. “I think I can do the rest.”

“Okay.” He nods, but shows no signs of moving. “Look, are you sure you don’t just want to take the glass house? I’m serious. I can be out in two days, max.”

“No way, I don’t want to be there anymore. Too many . . . stairs,” I finish lamely. Dylan looks at me for a moment and then surprises me by starting to laugh.

“All right, Grace. We wouldn’t want you having to face any stairs.”

I grin as he shakes his head. I remember now that sometimes, when Dylan smiles, I would do anything in the world to keep him happy.

“Wren said she’ll come check on you in a couple days. You know you should really get a cell phone, it’s kind of insane.”

“No, I know. I will.”

“Ask Laurel. I’m sure she can help you out,” he says, without any of the resentment that comment would once have elicited. He turns to leave and then stops again, just before he opens the front door.

“So you’re sure . . . you want to do this?” he asks.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” I ask. He holds my gaze and then he just shrugs. He holds one hand up and then turns away. “Call me if you need anything.”