The Comeback(87)

I decline Dylan’s calls, and I keep the blinds down so that when he inevitably comes over to try to talk to me, which he does at around ten a.m., I can pretend not to be home. He knocks on the door and says my name softly, as if he can feel that I’m just feet away from him, my back pressed against the wall. When I don’t answer, he stands outside on the porch for a while, before his car engine starts and he drives back up the hill.

I try to muster some relief, or anger, or self-pity once Dylan has gone, but I can’t even pretend to myself that any of this is about what he told me last night. This is about what I told him, and how I can’t bear to see the truth reflected in his open, familiar face because, without ever meaning to, he’ll show me what I really am, which is a powerless, scared little girl. A victim. Everyone always tells you that the truth will set you free, but now that I’ve said the words out loud, I feel more alone than ever. I should have listened to Laurel when she tried to talk to me yesterday. It turns out some people aren’t supposed to have anything for themselves. I take another pill and wait for the clouds to slip over me. I will tread more lightly from now on.



* * *



? ? ?

The day slides past without me noticing. Darkness falls and I come to slightly, realizing that it’s time for me to go to Emilia’s. I consider messaging her to tell her I can’t make it, but I can’t admit to myself that it was all for nothing in the end.

I get dressed in a daze, putting on a vintage Smiths T-shirt and a faded pair of Levi’s. My body feels heavy and sluggish, and I stare at myself for so long in the mirror that I can almost see what I’d look like if someone were meeting me for the first time. Anemic skin, purple slugs under my eyes from lack of sleep, and that much-discussed extra weight padding out my belly and thighs.

I walk up to the peach house via the beach steps, something I haven’t done since that first day. I count eighty-six steps, and I’m out of breath by the time I reach the top. My boots are covered in a fine dusting of sand as I walk alongside the peach house until I’m standing in front of the entrance, holding the Le Labo bag and the small jar of Marmite I brought with me to remind Emilia that Able let her down.

Now that I’m here, I understand that the plan has changed. Expensive cars line the cul-de-sac, people just leaving them in the middle of the street as I stand there. The peach house is lit up from every room, a warm, inviting light that promises only beautiful people and golden-hued memories. I walk up to the front door as a feeling of snaking inevitability wraps itself around my insides.

I ring the doorbell, trying to disguise my trembling hand. Emilia answers the door and pauses for a moment when she sees that it’s me, one slender hand on the door frame.

“Grace. Thank you for coming,” she says rigidly. Already everything feels worlds apart from when we spoke on my porch yesterday, and I wonder whether I imagined the entire exchange.

“Of course I came . . .” I say, holding up the Marmite.

Emilia leads me into the thick of the crowd, and of course she has curated the ideal ratio of beauty to power, and I already recognize many of the guests from movies I’ve worked on or publicity tours I’ve done. I keep my head down as I follow her, and a pressing sense of dread falls over me.

I stop walking and Emilia does too. Her fingernails dig into my flesh, and there is something different about her, too, an undercurrent of something I can’t identify. The ghost of Frank Sinatra croons from the speakers, barely audible over the heavy thrum of conversation. I turn around but there is a smiling stranger there, poised to greet me, blocking me from the exit. I turn back to Emilia and search her face. She looks dazed, untethered.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

“Able wanted to celebrate, so he invited a few friends over. You’d think that these people would already have plans on Christmas Eve, but you know Able. He snaps his fingers and people come,” Emilia says shrilly, snapping her own fingers. I turn away from her so that she can’t see the stunned look on my face. Despite her efforts to appear normal, Emilia seems as unsettled as I am by Able’s unexpected return, even vulnerable, and instinctively I want to protect her as she has tried to protect me.

Emilia hands me a glass of champagne before catching herself and apologizing. She swaps it for a glass of water and then introduces me to a few of her friends, all publicists. When I reach for her arm, she slips away from me, and I’m left trying to catch my breath alone.

“I hear you’re not working with Nan anymore?” one of the women asks me, and even though I’m still reeling, trying desperately to scan the room and locate Emilia, I pull my attention to her. They are all indistinguishable to me, these women with their glowing skin and haircuts as blunt as their questions.

I excuse myself as soon as possible and lean against a wall on the other side of the room. You can see the whole living space from here, even through to the expansive deck that overlooks the ocean. And that’s when I see him. The man who both created and destroyed me. He stands with his back against the doors that lead onto the deck, telling a story to his crowd of fans. He speaks quietly so that those around him have to lean in toward him to catch each word. People are drawn to him like this. They hover around him and laugh too loudly, even when he’s not being funny, which is most of the time. I remember how important it felt to remain in his glowing orbit, to do whatever it took not to be cast back into the dark. He controls everyone around him, refusing to acknowledge my presence because he doesn’t have to, even though I know that he’s spotted me from the deliberate way he will look anywhere but at me.