Hollywood Sins

by N. K. Smith

  As I say the words, I’m sort of surprised that I actually feel them. When I wrote them and even all those times I practiced with Natalie, I never felt them the way I do now. I’m full and confident. My mood is so elevated, I know it translates onto my face. I hope my expression doesn’t show my self-satisfaction because there’s so much more work to be done. What I hope comes across though is the pleasure and pride I feel about having done this.

  But I can’t deny it. I’m happy.

  “Well, I’m not pretending any more. So now I’m not just a recovering drug addict, I’m a recovering pity addict. I’m a recovering child star.”

  I finally look up, but only at the attentive people in the front rows. No one has their phone out. No one is recording it. I let out a long breath and let myself relax a bit.

  I’m grateful the speech went over so well. I’ve been dreading this whole NA thing for weeks. I’ve been to a meeting every day, but actually speaking and sharing all of my story scared the hell out of me.

  Everyone is super encouraging here, but sometimes listening to everyone’s stories makes me sort of crazy. It makes me want to use, but I’ve been assured that’s normal. Tonight, however, I haven’t thought about doing anything like I used to do. There’s something about reliving my life through the retelling that makes me remember all if it. Not just the high, but the depths of the lows as well.

  I haven’t thought about getting high in days and days. I haven’t actually gotten high in four months. I’ve been an active part of the land of the living for three months.

  “Who would’ve thought I had to come to a place like this to meet a girl like you.”

  My breath gets stuck in my lungs, and when I turn around, I feel as though I’ve been caught the middle of a relapse. “Peter.”

  He smiles that genuine Peter smile. “I swear I wasn’t stalking you.”

  “That’s an interesting thing to start with.” I look around at the other attendees. There are some famous people, but no one I know personally. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a card-carrying member,” he says as he pulls the coin from his pocket and shows me.

  I glance at the dull coin for a moment, and then look up at him. “Right. The partying you did when you were young.”

  Peter turns his eyes from me, and I can tell he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He shoves the coin back into his pocket, and when he pulls his hand back out, he wiggles his fingers back and forth before curling them into a ball. He’s nervous even though his casual greeting a second ago made it seem otherwise.

  “I’m really glad to see you,” he says. “I was beginning to think you were . . .”

  “Dead?” I ask when he doesn’t finish. “You couldn’t have thought that since I’m on the gossip shows every other night. They’re still fascinated by me for some reason.”

  “Everyone loves a comeback story.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just—”

  “It would have been nice if you’d called me.” The way he says it isn’t sharp, but it cuts me. There’s no time to defend myself or even think about the invisible wound because Peter continues to speak. “You know, let me know you were okay, but yeah, I saw you on TV. You look good, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Roman’s gotten me back on track, and I’m—”

  “You’ve got a tattoo now,” he says and points to my shoulder. The jade lotus flower is still shiny with new skin.

  “Oh, yeah. Just the one. To remind me that I’m in control.”

  Although he chuckles, I don’t get the sense that Peter is enjoying any of this. He shifts on his feet, and there’s something jittery in the way he stands. “You look good, like I said, but you look like, you know, that guy you’re hanging out with. Brandon Williams or whatever? A tattoo, edgier haircut, the—” He stops himself before he says anything else.

  I run a hand through my hair. It is crisp with the styling product. “Yeah, this is just because I went and shaved my head. I got tired of that in between state and decided to get it styled.” I chew on my lip and shift my feet. “I mean, a lot of stars have this kind of punk pixie cut now, right?”

  Peter shakes his head. “Yeah, they do. You’re right. I mean, I like it. You hair, that is. It looks nice.”

  He doesn’t look at me again, but I want him to. I can’t explain why I want his eyes on me. Maybe because I’m used to his certainty in everything he does, that this sort of shy, tentative, hesitant, rambling Peter makes me feel uncomfortable. Why is he being like this? Because of Bran? Because I’ve been seen with him?

  Shit. Peter thinks I’m with Bran. It’s so far off the mark. I touch his forearm quickly, then catch myself and withdraw my hand. “I’m just hanging with him, you know. He’s like a Zen master for me. He—”

  “I wish you would have come to see me, Adra.” My reassurance that I wasn’t dating Bran seems to have done nothing to help this conversation. Peter probably has a multitude of topics he can pull from his back pocket. Every time I answer something, another question will be waiting for me.

  It’s not like he’s wrong in asking. I’ve avoided this for far too long.

  “I thought about it. I thought about coming to see you many times. I called once, and Sue said you were on location.”

  “I still had my cell. It would’ve been cool if you had called. I was worried and wanted—”

  “I know.” I glance over at Bran who is drinking coffee with another guy and my sponsor, a fifty-three year old woman named Katie. Their eyes keep flitting over here from time to time, and I think they’re happy that Peter is standing in front of me. Both of them have mentioned how I haven’t had to confront how my actions hurt those closest to me yet.

  When I focus on Peter again, the ice that always kept me from saying what I wanted to say melts. He’s here, in front of me. Right here, and I have to own up to everything, not for him, but for me. “I just wasn’t ready. You’d just broken up with your girlfriend and—”

  “No. You are my girlfriend, Adra. Shyla was a momentary distraction until I had you. I didn’t break up with you.”

  Are. He said are. He still considers me his girlfriend, even after I abandoned him for half a year.

  As sweet as his sincere words and intensity are, I can’t get lost in them. “Fine, but I ditched you for drugs. That’s a lot to own up to, and I just wasn’t ready.”

  Peter looks at his feet but nods. “Okay. What about now? Are you ready now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looks back up at me. “I can help you. I can—”

  “I have to do this on my own, Peter. I have to. Even though I’ve pretended to be my own boss since before splitting with my parents, I’ve been dependent on so many people and things. The independence was an act. I gave control of everything—my career, my love life, my body, my emotions, my thoughts, everything—to whomever was around, and I can’t keep depending on people to—”

  Peter folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head, his mouth set in a firm frown. “That can’t be what you learned in rehab. Recovery is about depending on people. It’s about building a network of support and—”

  Damn, this is hard. I need to make him understand that I’m not trying to push him away anymore, but I do need to step away for a little bit until I have a better handle on all of this. “Yeah, I know, but with new people, I can set the tone, I can make brand new connections without the heavy shit of the past.”

  “So I don’t fit?”

  God, his voice sounds like he’s regressed fifteen years and he’s a little boy again. It hurts my heart to hear it. “No. You fit, just . . . just not right now. Not like this.”

  “Then when?” Peter’s voice shakes. Oh, my God, how can I do this to him? Am I making Peter—strong, confident Peter—cry? There are no tears yet, but I can see he’s just barely keeping it together.

  “When I can safely stand on my own. When I’m sure of who I am, and when I know I won’t hurt you again.”

 
Peter draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He drags a hand down his face, and when it falls back to his side again, he looks around with a small grin on his face. It’s not genuine, and I’ve never hated a smile more in my life. “Okay, well.” He stops like he’s struggling for words. “Um, so I love you. I would like to be a part of your life. If I can’t be your boyfriend because you don’t want me or because the spot’s taken, I’ll—”

  “I’m not seeing anyone, Peter, and of course I want you, but I have to focus on this,” I say as I touch my chest to indicate my heart. “And this.” I touch my temple. “And once I’m okay, we’ll be okay.”

  He nods as he looks away from me again. “Cool. I understand.” He pauses for only a second to swallow before rushing to fill the air and change the topic. “So, uh, sobriety, right? What’re your plans for working?”

  I hate that he’s changed the topic, but I don’t return to what I’ve just said to him. I don’t circle back to how much I love him and how much I want to be with him. I’ve spent my life shifting subject matter and topics when things got tough, and it’s only right that I give him the same option. Hurt feelings or not, I think Peter truly understands that I can’t be with him right now, not because I don’t want to be, but because I cannot put energy into a relationship until I’ve fixed what’s wrong within me.

  If he wants to talk about work plans to build some distance between the pain we both feel, I’ll give him the respect he’s always given me, and not make him think about something that makes him hurt. “Um, yeah, so right now I’m volunteering at a shelter. You know, they say being of service can help former addicts, and I’m also donating my voice talent to this organization that makes recordings of books for the blind.”

  “That’s . . . that sounds great.”

  I let an honest smile form. “It is. I volunteered at a shelter a while ago, a few times, actually, and I got nothing out of that experience. I mean, I did. Now I can see that I did, but back then, when I was still getting high, I got only what I put in, which was nothing. And Natalie and I are going to travel to focus on wr—”

  “Who’s Natalie?”

  “Natalie Diaz. She’s a screenwriter. We were in rehab together, and we just want to take a trip to see the world with our new, sober eyes, maybe get some writing done.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re a writer now? Damn, so much has changed in a few months.”

  “I’m not really a writer now, just playing with it. You draw,” I say with a little chuckle. “I mean, I know it’s a hobby for you, but it’s kind of like an outlet, right?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Writing’s like that for me. It gives me something to focus on, and it helps me process things. It’s like the journaling I’ve done since I was a kid, except instead of my life, I can create a story around an emotion and maybe share it with people it might help.”

  “That’s great. I wish . . .” He stops and pushes out a breath and shakes his head. “Never mind. Have fun.”

  “What about you? What are you—”

  “Just waiting for you.”

  I open my mouth to say something but close it when I find there’s nothing to say.

  “No pressure.” He chuckles, and this time the grin is real. “Seriously, that came out odd and needy and full of pressure and expectation on you, but that’s not what I meant. I meant to say that nothing that’s going on is more important than figuring things out with you. I just wrapped a movie, and I’ve got a month until I fly to Hawaii to start the next one.”

  Pushing my brow up and forming my mouth into an O, I let out a sound of interest. “Playing a wealthy beach bunny?”

  Peter smiles—a genuine, real smile—and I can see him let his shoulders down a little bit. It’s good to see him relax. “It’s a small cast with a low budget but great writing. It’s about a guy—me—whose dad was a world class surfer, but one day he washes up on shore, dead. So his son takes it upon himself to investigate. Sort of a family drama, crime thriller.” He shrugs. “With surfing.”

  “And you in a wet suit?”

  Peter licks his lips. “Yes. Me in a wet suit, and oddly enough, me out of a wet suit.”

  If possible, my eyes widen even more on their own. “Oh, my God, you’re doing a nude scene?”

  He nods slowly as his face turns bright red. “Yeah. I mean, just my ass, but I may need to call you for moral support.” He looks away for just a second, then returns his gaze to me. “Can I call you?”

  Although it feels sort of awkward and I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, I reach out with both of my hands and take one of his. “Absolutely. I’d love to help.”

  He takes a breath and this time the shakiness of it is gone. “Remember that scene in one of our movies. I can’t remember which one, but I had to cry? You had to coach me through the whole thing?”

  I do remember, but instead of saying anything, I move closer to him and press my body against his. He wraps his free arm around my shoulders as I close my eyes. For a long moment, neither of us do or say anything. We just hold each other, breathing in as deeply as we can.

  “I don’t know why I brought that up,” he mumbles against the top of my head.

  “It was kind of funny, right? Us sitting in a room together, sobbing over nothing.”

  His chest shakes with a light laugh. “It wasn’t nothing. You kept telling me to picture my cat dying or my grandma falling out of a window or something horrific.”

  “Yeah, that’s not so funny.”

  “I don’t need to do that now, though.” Peter takes a deep breath. “I have enough ammunition for tears just thinking about my time without you. I missed you, you know?”

  Nodding, I say, “I know. I missed you, too.”

  I want to do this on my own, but being within his arms makes me feel like I can do anything; like I can be anything. And even without his support, I’m beginning to think I can handle anything.

  Chapter 59

  Here we go. On a plane, headed to Italy, one of many planned stops. Natalie’s right next to me, sneaking peeks at my screen, telling me to work on my screenplay, which is actually my second and much, much better than the first one. She’s telling me to use my energy to progress that instead of writing a boring blow-by-blow of the flight. So . . . here I go, writing.

  ***

  Traveling the world with Natalie is so different from traveling the world with a production crew. Sure, we have an unlimited bank account and can stay in whatever five star hotel we want. While we sometimes do, we grow bored and restless of just wandering the world and haphazardly taking an outsider’s look on the suffering of other people.

  “I mean, why not document it?”

  I turn to Natalie as I set my laptop on the coffee table. “Document what?”

  “All that we’ve seen. What we’re seeing right now. We can’t keep saying this is a writing retreat.”

  Picking up my coffee mug, I nestle back into the sofa. “But we are writing.”

  “Yes, but what? I mean, your screenplay is coming along, and my projects are . . . well, I can write them in my sleep. I want to do something important, you know?”

  I think about this for a moment, and all of a sudden, I get what she’s saying. She’s saying that we’ve inadvertently been seeking out experiences on all of our stops. And it’s not the touristy side we’ve craved. We’ve been talking to people, trying to gain an understanding of all those things we’ve seen and heard. I’ve certainly seen a lot, not just on this trip, but when I remember my work in the shelter, I realize just how much people need a voice. Not everyone sees the world this way; not everyone has had the opportunity to. “So, you want to write an essay or something?”

  “Exactly!” Natalie claps her hands once, licks her lips, and with passion gleaming out from her eyes, begins to pace. “But why just write an essay to be published in a magazine? Why not do something bigger? I’m not a filmmaker, but I’ve been on enough shoots to get the gist, and Jesus, girl, you’ve grown up
on film sets. Why don’t we grab cameras and make a documentary?”

  She needs to stand still. All her movement is setting me on edge. I place the mug next to my laptop, stand up, and walk to her. My solid body stops her movement. “I’ve been on film sets, yes, but I have no idea how to create a documentary.”

  Natalie grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake. “It doesn’t matter! We can do this. All we need to do is figure out what we want to show, what our theme is, shoot the footage—probably interviews and the like—and we’ll figure out how to thread it together later.”

  It’s hard not to catch her excitement, but it still seems like the idea is still out of our depth. “But who’s going to set up the interviews? How are we going to find people to—”

  “Don’t burst the bubble before we even try! What would Bran say? He’d say negativity never gets things done. He’d tell us to go for it.”

  “I don’t—”

  She brings her hands to cup both of my cheeks. With our eyes locked together, she says, “Think of the change we could make, the impact. We could turn this trip into something more than what it is. We can help people, Adra. Like, share their lives and change the world because of it.” I pull away from her, but she continues. “Didn’t you tell me about all those people in the shelters you felt bad about? That woman with the face tattoo and the pimp and black eye? Don’t you want to share her story—or at least a similar one? Because if people knew, if they were forced to know what—” Natalie cuts herself off and goes quiet as she thinks. “Yeah, we can capture suffering around the world. Or maybe poverty, you know? Or no, women’s issues. This can be—”

  I hold my hands up to her. “Slow down.”

  “No, I can’t. This is the best idea I’ve ever—”

  She’s freaking me out a bit, so this time, I grab her. “If I help you with this, if I agree to make this documentary, even if it goes nowhere, you have to promise to calm down. I can’t deal with this frantic shit.”