March 2002
L.A.
When I passed by Stephen in the hallway the next day, I felt like it was by divine design and not an accident. “Oh, the Oscars,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”
The dimples made an appearance. “Good. I’ll pick you up?”
“Fine.”
“And Merry . . . she’s okay?”
I felt my eyebrows lift in surprise. “Merry? Why wouldn’t she be?”
Sliding by me in the hallway, he called, “Check a newspaper,” and swept around a corner.
A newspaper? I could just ask Merry once I got to the meeting. But when I entered the room, the only other person there was Yumi. “Did I miss something?” I asked.
Yumi sighed and pushed a ratty copy of the Los Angeles Times across the conference table toward me. It was folded open to an article: “House Fire in Malibu Torches Kidd Home—Arson Suspected.”
I fingered the headline. “Grant’s house? ‘Firefighters were called to a blaze in Malibu on Wednesday evening. Once on the scene, around two a.m., they found heavy fire blazing in the west wing of the mansion. Owner Grant Kidd was not home at the time; the fire department was alerted by a guest staying at the house.’ Let me guess. Merry is the guest.”
“She is still at the hospital getting checked out for smoke inhalation,” Yumi said.
“They think someone set the fire on purpose?” I said, reading on.
“I think they suspect Marisa. Sorry,” she said, yawning. “We didn’t get out till close to eleven. How’s Rose?”
“She’s okay. Bruising on her spine or something. She kept mentioning the pain she had, even though they said it would go down in a few days, so they gave her a script for Vicodin. She’ll be good as new in a week.”
When Yumi learned I was going to the Oscars, she invited herself over for the prep. She sounded as though it was like going to the biggest prom ever. I hired Gail, an Oscars stylist who wore red-soled Louboutins and said such things as “you have the neck for this,” and she in turn referred me to a makeup artist who arranged to do my hair and makeup at the house.
Now, two days later, I was sitting in a barstool in my master bedroom while the Gail-appointed hair stylist curled tiny pieces of my hair and Yumi roamed around. “Strange, about the house,” Yumi remarked, as her fingers skimmed the bottom of my simple, sky-blue sheath made of slippery silk. The dress was draped over a hanger by its narrow camisole straps, and Gail had instructed me to only wear strategic body tape, which made me immensely nervous.
“What do you think of it? I know you didn’t like the driveway—”
“Not this house,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Grant’s house. You know, I think it’s weird how the police aren’t arresting Marisa for torching it.”
“Maybe it was an accident.” I shrugged. The stylist lightly touched my shoulders to remind me not to move.
Yumi fingered my jewelry—long drop earrings and a thread-thin necklace with teardrop gemstones, nestled on velvet beds—and changed the subject. “How is Alex taking this whole Oscars thing?”
“Not great. I think we’re over.” I hadn’t heard from him since the fight, and he’d hung up on me. Wasn’t that a breakup? I’d been too busy to devote much attention to his absence in my life. And if it didn’t hurt, then maybe I didn’t need him . . .
The gate buzzer rang and Yumi’s head swiveled toward the open bedroom door, as though she could see whoever was down there. “I can get it,” she said, already scurrying downstairs. A moment later, she returned with a frown. “Speak of the devil.”
I pulled away from Antonio’s latest brush, swiveling in my seat. Alex had followed Yumi and was now hovering on the other side of the threshold. A quick glance at his expression told me that he knew exactly what day this was.
I was careful not to show any emotion. “Could I have the room, please?”
The stylist said, “Are you sure, hon? The hair’s not quite finished—”
My eyes didn’t leave Alex’s. “I’m sure.”
Antonio excused himself and started down the stairs, but Yumi lingered by the door. Hesitating, she said, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “Could you have Antonio leave the lipstick on the kitchen island and tell him to send me the bill?”
When the house was quiet, Alex and I simultaneously let out a long breath.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was low, guarded.
“Hi.”
A long pause. Alex stood in a darkened corner of the room, shadowed in blue, a perfect embodiment of an unshaved college student with uncombed hair and a wrinkled T-shirt. The mirror’s reflection showed me sitting under a spotlight of white, my legs exposed from under a short dressing robe. I looked almost screen-ready, minus the sapphires I still needed to apply to my ears and neck. The disparity between our two lives was suddenly very clear. I spoke carefully.
“So . . .”
He ran his hand over the chair before he spoke. It was a heavy, tense moment that felt longer than it was. “I had this whole thing planned out. But it’s kinda left me.” He gave a tiny huff of a laugh. I folded my fingers together, checking my manicure. When I looked up again, he had a fierce expression on his face that made my heart drop into my stomach.
“I just wanted to tell you how fucked up all of this has been. We’ve been friends for how long, Cassidy? And we’ve always talked. We’ve worked through our issues. I supported you throughout this entire singing career, even before you moved out here. And what do you do? You treat me like shit, like I’m some groupie or something, instead of a real person you knew when you were a real person. God, are you even a real person anymore?”
It stung to hear this from Alex, who was normally so mild-mannered. “Of course I’m a real person. Why would you say that?”
“Look at how you’ve been acting. Like going to this show with a guy who obviously digs you.”
“Not obviously. Not everything you see out there is real, Alex. Do you understand that? He’s acting a part, I’m acting a part. That is the act.”
He crossed his arms. “So you don’t have feelings for St. James?”
I batted this away. “That doesn’t even matter. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be me? To have this pressure to be perfect all the time?”
“Fuck, Cassy!” he exploded. “I can’t believe you’d cheat on me!”
“Are you deaf? I haven’t cheated on you!” I hoped that Yumi and Antonio had left. It was a big house, but the bedroom door was still open and we were shouting.
He breathed fast. “Why are you lying?”
“You can’t be serious. I think you’re so in your head, worrying what everyone else thinks about me and therefore about you. Why can’t you just believe me when I say that Stephen is a friend? Yes, he’s good-looking and yes, I had a thing for him, like, two years ago. But it’s not like that now. Stop reading the gossip rags and stop listening to your roommate and fucking listen to me.”
We glared at each other for another minute.
“Or is that it?” I gained control of my voice as I struggled with my temper. “You’re ‘just’ a college kid. You’re not a superstar. So you sell my photos to tabloids. You make money off of me, just like everyone else.” God, the photo. Couldn’t Alex see that by releasing the MVA after-party photo he was helping the Sassy–St. James narrative?
“I’ve never done that.” He squeezed his fists. “I just don’t understand why I’m not your date to these things. You’ve never asked me to walk the carpet with you. Why is that? Are you ashamed of me?”
I rolled my shoulders back and tried to breathe evenly. “My Gloss life doesn’t even feel like my life, Alex. It’s all out for consumption. You should be glad that you’re not a part of this fucking circus. I’m a commodity and everything I’m a part of is, too.”
“And he gets it.” He stated it; it wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, he gets it because he is a part of it too. Being handled by like five different people. Every move we make gets dissected. And if I gain an ounce, I can get kicked out of my promotional deals. No one wants to buy soda from a fat pop star.”
“You’re joking, right? Cassidy, you’re so thin now. Like, unrecognizable-since-high-school thin.” I shook this backhanded compliment off and he said, in a monotone, “So I’m not part of your image.”
I avoided his gaze and resisted the urge to pick at the smooth new polish on my thumbnail. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m protecting you. Protecting us.”
“What if I don’t want to be protected? What if I want to share this overwhelming, big-world shit with you?”
My lip twitched. “I don’t want this life for you. Hell, I hardly want it for myself.” There. A thought that had been circling the bottom of my heart had emerged.
“I’d do it for you. I don’t care. All I care about is you, Cass.” He didn’t say it, but I could sense it: the I love you.
A pause, but to both of us it felt like a year. “I wish you could be a part of it, Alex. I do. But I don’t . . . I don’t think that I feel for you the way you seem to feel toward me and I don’t want you to get mixed up in all this if it’s temporary.”
He looked as though I’d slapped him. Everything was quiet while he absorbed this news.
I murmured, “I’m sorry. I should have told you this sooner.”
When he found his voice again, it sounded strangled. His words made everything feel cold. “I don’t think I can be your friend anymore, Cass. It’s just . . . I can’t watch you with someone else, and I can’t fight for a part of your life when there are so many other things going on, vying for your attention. It hurts too much knowing that I’m not a priority to you.”
Breaking up with Alex was a given, but losing his friendship altogether? That hurt. I swallowed, wishing to suppress the lump in my throat that was giving way to tears. “Listen,” I said, voice wavering, “I know this is the worst timing ever. And I’m sorry. But someone is going to be waiting on me, and I can’t let him down.”
Alex stepped toward me, and the light on his shirt grew brighter as he came nearer. I was just in eyeline with his chest when he spread his arms and gave me a warm hug, an Alex hug. I was wrapped up in all of him, hands clasped in front of my heart, so I couldn’t hug back. Swallowing thickly, I pushed away from him and patted his chest. “Don’t,” I said. If he hugged me any longer, I’d break. I wouldn’t be able to fix runny mascara.
The front door slammed and there was the thump of enthusiastic steps on the stairs. “Sassy!” called a familiar baritone.
Then he was in the bedroom doorway: Stephen St. James. In a tux.