Chapter 10 Ryan

CHAPTER 10 RYAN

December 2006

Los Angeles

My date with Sarah was the night after U-Turn. I got to the restaurant, Jack’s, a little early and snagged two seats at the end of the bar, my favorite place to sit. My back was to the rest of the restaurant, facing the bartender—it was like having your own private show. Sarah seemed like a sit-at-the-bar kind of person. Casual yet intimate. The place had a nice buzz going. Not so loud you couldn’t hear each other talk, which I tested when the bartender leaned over and asked me what I’d like. I felt good about the vibe she was walking into.

“I’m actually waiting for—” Damn, what should I say? My mind spun through my options and their consequences for what I hoped was only the briefest of pauses. “Someone,” is what I finished with, then wondered if I’d failed a test of my own making. What would Sarah have said if the roles were reversed? I imagined, given my read on her, that she wouldn’t care one bit who knew she was going on a date with a woman. I wished I could be that person.

“But I’d love a seltzer with lime for now,” I added. The bartender gave a rap of his knuckles on the wood and went to grab a glass, but then some realization seemed to descend on him. He turned back to me and asked, “Are you waiting for Sarah?”

Hearing her name on his lips at first filled me with a feeling of warmth, like we all knew each other and had created this beautiful bubble of intimacy. I think I smiled a little, kind of shyly, which in a second would feel embarrassing. “I am waiting for Sarah,” I said.

“Then, oh, shit.” He did a quick spin like he was trying to remember where he put something, finally landing on the register and a little pile of notes. Mostly receipts tucked to the side. Over his shoulder he said, “She dropped something off earlier and told me to give it to you.” Then he shuffled through the small papers, found what he was looking for, and brought it to me.

It was a white envelope. Inside was a folded newspaper clipping. I was bewildered as I pulled it out. My first thought was that I didn’t want to get ink all over my fingers. But that disappeared as I realized it was one of the paparazzi photos of me and Johnny from the night before. The caption read: “New It Couple? Ry Channing and Johnny Muir, who star together in the upcoming Beneath the Same Moon , seen cozying up at hot spot U-Turn.”

Before I noticed the little note written by Sarah in the margin, I had a moment of pure appreciation for how easily the studio, and Maxine, had scored hundreds of thousands in free advertising for the movie. No wonder shit like this was always in the publicity plans. Then I saw it—in pencil—in the right column: “ Ryan— I’m sure there’s an interesting story behind all of this, but where I am in my life, I just can’t have the drama. Sarah .”

The bartender, mixing someone else’s drink, was pretending not to watch me read the note. I quickly folded it back up and stuffed it in my pocket. Suddenly, and irrationally, it felt like everyone at the bar was looking at me.

Maybe I’d dodged a bullet with Sarah, I told myself as I walked the two blocks home. She was probably possessive and controlling and would want me to be out way sooner than I was ready. But there was also this nagging sensation beneath my hurt. That she’d articulated how I felt. Doing that stunt with Johnny was sick on some level. Of course, of course, of course she should run far away from the insanity of the business I was in.

But, I guess, when you get abruptly dumped for being an actor willing to do anything for fame, the best thing to do is double down, go further into the belly of the beast. So, I curled up with The Very Last . I’d read the book twice and was in the process of going through it again with sticky notes. It was early winter and filming was starting in two months—February, in Charleston. In a town where turning a book into a movie frequently takes a decade (or many decades), this thing had gone from hot property to production in just seven months.

People were obsessed with the futuristic world Cate Kay had imagined. The story had a little bit of everything. A gay female lead, unheard of back then, as well as a Black costar. Bonkers box-office potential plus Oscars equaled studio executives losing their minds. But beyond all that, what really caused unprecedented attention was the author’s anonymity. She was nowhere to be found. I’d lost count of the number of newspaper and magazine stories with the headline W HO I S C ATE K AY? above a shadowy illustration. A proper mystery, as the Brits would say. Everyone was stunned. Who, in fame-hungry America, doesn’t come drink from the hose when beckoned?

This last part is what I kept coming back to, lying in bed that night. I’d just been rejected for my own shameless pursuit of fame. Before the U-Turn affair, I’d run through all manner of thought experiments. What might I be willing to do for a breakthrough role? Not a whole lot, I surmised. But Hollywood was a sneaky bastard, coming in through the side door and snatching my robe when I least expected it. But this Cate Kay person, she chose to remain fully clothed.

I fanned through the pages, thinking about the story the author had written and wondering what clues existed about who she (or he?) might be. Tough, considering it toggled between two time periods: Manhattan, in the hours before and after a nuclear attack, and 2025, when the island was no longer habitable.

But then I remembered one little scene:

They met sophomore year of high school, working on the school newspaper. Two years later—Samantha always laughed thinking about this—and Jeremiah still didn’t know she was gay. Samantha didn’t know how Jeremiah could not know. She had introduced Jeremiah to her girlfriend at least half a dozen times, always when her girlfriend would stop by with dinner while Samantha and Jeremiah laid out the paper.

One night toward the end of the year, Jeremiah leaned in to kiss Samantha. Their two chairs were nestled into one computer station. All night, Jeremiah had been noticing each time their knees touched, pinned together as Samantha reached to point at an image on the screen. Then she did it once more, crossing into his space to type out a word, and he reached his right hand to her cheek, then slid his hand to her chin. She had kissed him back for a long second. She remembered the moment so clearly: his strong hands on her skin. He was so beautiful and smart and kind.

Safe, that’s what she remembered feeling. But then she pulled away and looked at him. He was smiling dreamily, his eyes still closed.

“Wait,” she said. “But you’ve met my girlfriend?”

“Your girlfriend?” His eyes flew open. He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes, the girl who has stopped by this whole year?” Samantha leaned back to fully take in Jeremiah, to see if he was feigning ignorance. He was not.

A second later, he started laughing uncontrollably. When he regained his composure, he explained how growing up he’d spent most afternoons with his grandma, who had her “girlfriends” over every Thursday to play spades. He’d just always assumed “girlfriend” meant “friend who was a girl.”

“That is,” he said, leaning back, “until this very moment.”

They had laughed for a long time that night. And still, years later, if someone used the term “girlfriend” to describe their friend who happened to be a girl, Jeremiah would flash Samantha a look that translated to See ?

A straight woman did not write that scene. That came from lived experience. I tossed the book onto the bed and grabbed my phone. I had a fleeting pang of guilt about calling in the middle of the night, but not enough to stop myself. It rang five times before Matt answered with a groggy hello.

“Yes, I know what time it is,” I jumped in, though I didn’t. Late, I was sure, but how late? I craned my neck to look at the clock on my bedside table, was stunned to see it was one forty-five in the morning. Midnight would have been my guess. I continued, “I’m lying here reading The Very Last again, and I need you to do something for me, and no it can’t wait until the morning.”

It absolutely could have waited until the morning. But I’d just possibly located a fellow queer in the wild, and I wanted to bring her in for questioning. Also, I was young and thrilled at my ability to manipulate a (supposedly) powerful man. My ego had been stepped on earlier that evening; it needed rebuilding.

“I want to meet Cate Kay,” I said, and it sounded reasonable coming out of my mouth, but the request was met by a long stretch of silence. So long that I asked Matt if he was still there. In response, he sighed.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“It’s not about anything. If I’m going to play Persephone properly, I need to meet the author.” As I said this, I thought it sounded like solid, professional reasoning. I almost convinced myself that was why I wanted to meet her. Not because I wanted someone gay in my life, a consolation prize for my disappointing evening, certainly not that.

“Ry, nobody knows who she is.”

“Come on, Matt, somebody knows who she is.”

“Okay, one person knows who she is, but this isn’t one of those vanity pseudonym situations where everyone at the publishing house actually knows who the real author is and it’s all just a ploy for media attention. Literally everyone, even her editor—even her agent —is in the dark.”

Matt seemed particularly appalled that the agent—the agent!—would not be in the loop. A level of secrecy he could not fathom. In his world, he was the secret keeper, not the other way around. What I heard, though, was that one person knew who Cate Kay was. As I mentioned earlier, casting directors swooned over my auburn hair and wide-set blue eyes. Imagine how frequently I got what I wanted, how addictive that could become.

“So, talk to the one person who knows her,” I said.

“Have you ever considered maybe there’s a reason she wants to be anonymous? That she isn’t going to come running just because Hollywood is calling?”

What Matt didn’t understand was that I had a personal connection to Cate Kay. I could sense it. No doubt Matt, red-blooded Matt from the Upper East Side of Manhattan, graduate of the finest private schools, could not picture a world in which I desired anyone but the finest male specimen. Telling Matt the truth was a nonstarter, which meant I couldn’t trust him to approach Cate Kay with the necessary passion. I would need to do that myself.

“I’m going to write a personal letter to Cate Kay,” I said. “And you’re going to give it to the one person who knows who she is.”

“I’ll do my best.” He sounded done with the conversation, which really irked me. Earlier that week, he had sat in my living room and asked me to do something slimy, not even admitting that it was.

“Did I deliver at U-Turn—for Moon ?” I asked. But it wasn’t a question, and he knew precisely what I was saying.

The reviews for Moon were stellar. Words like moody, unique, must-see, brilliant , and on and on. It was a strange feeling, the praise, my career on solid footing. I was never sure I’d make it in Hollywood. The absurd confidence I observed in everyone else I rarely found in myself. (I didn’t yet understand confidence as performance—red-carpet life.)

That week, as I endured endless photo shoots and magazine interviews, I imagined Cate Kay by my side. I wondered what she would think of it all. I pictured someone older and wiser, a mentor, but secretly I hoped she was sexy and fun.

I got the call from Matt about a week later. “I don’t know what you wrote in that letter, but it’s going to happen,” he said. “Although you’re going to have to sign the most ridiculous NDA I’ve ever seen.”

At the time, I didn’t think of this as the coup it would end up being. Cate Kay was in the opening months of her anonymous fame. No one had maintained their privacy in the face of such scrutiny. I figured she’d be stepping into the spotlight within weeks, that I was just getting a sneak peek.

But Matt was right about the NDA. It was absurd. I could tell no one, not even my mom (and we still talked twice a week, at minimum). Plus, I had to guarantee the privacy of my home. When I signed the document, I knew I’d made promises of privacy and security, and secrecy in perpetuity , that I couldn’t necessarily keep. But it was one of those cross-the-bridge-if-you-get-to-it situations. Half the things in there I wasn’t even sure they could hold me accountable for. But what the NDA clearly communicated to me was that I had been wrong, Cate Kay’s privacy wasn’t a short-term stunt. And that she had a very good lawyer.

I’d just finished three weeks of relentless publicity for Moon , and there was a near-certain Oscar nomination coming down the pike. Remember Jennifer Lawrence right after Winter’s Bone ? It was like that. I went from Who? to A-list in a month. If you’d asked me, back then, what my dream was, I would have said becoming famous.

And then, suddenly, I was.

Those early weeks, I still tried to live my life. Workouts at the gym in my neighborhood, dinners out, reading a book at a coffee shop. But I was like Pig-Pen, but with a cloud of onlookers always around me. It started to make me feel self-conscious. Like everyone was whispering about how I must crave the attention. Satisfied only by swallowing gallons of public adoration each day. Only now do I understand this is just what happens to young actors oblivious to the life they’ve said yes to.

Pretty quickly, I missed my anonymity.

Janie started bringing my morning coffee. We’d sit in my backyard on the blue-and-white-striped chairs, sometimes dipping our feet in the sliver of pool. She’d signed the NDA, too. Only three people knew about my impending meeting with Cate Kay: me, Matt, and Janie. That was as wide as the circle was allowed to get.

“So, we heard from Sidney Collins yesterday,” Janie said during one of these mornings in my backyard. I’d just started wondering when we’d get details from this Sidney character, apparently the only person who knew Cate Kay. Shooting for The Very Last was starting the following month in Charleston, South Carolina. The director felt the lowcountry could mimic, as well as anywhere else, his vision for the water-logged Core.

I took a small sip of my coffee and grimaced. Each swallow was making me grouchier. I realized that Janie had cut back on the cream and sugar. Did she think I wouldn’t notice? She knew I didn’t like coffee. I liked cream and I liked sugar, and coffee was their vessel. I lifted my cup toward her and said, “What is happening here?”

To her credit, she didn’t feign confusion. She just sighed and explained that the assistant director on Last had called and said they needed me down to a size 2, preferably 0, before filming. I rolled my eyes for a dozen reasons. The first being the infantile treatment. The second being some dude talking about my body to other people. The third being Janie believing she could ruin my morning coffee without me noticing. I pointed at her cup, which was sitting between us on the lip of the pool.

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“A dirty chai with whole milk,” she said and picked it up, jokingly cradling it against her body like a prized possession.

“Give it to me now.” I motioned for the cup. “Just one sip before I plunge into the abyss of body neuroses that will perpetuate a shame cycle for every woman on the planet.”

Fake-reluctantly, she handed over the drink. The richness of the milk and the sweetness of the chai tasted pillowy in my mouth. I avoided swallowing for as long as I could. The chai was then returned to Janie, and I pretended it didn’t exist as I worked on my bitter, bitter coffee. I knew Janie wasn’t to blame. Hollywood had been like this since the beginning. At my lowest moments, Janie would look me dead in the eyes and bolster me with our motto: “Our game, our rules—soon.”

“Sidney Collins. What’s she like and what did she say?” I asked. Janie seemed relieved to have come unscathed out of the sticky diet conversation. She pounced on this change of topic.

“She’s so buttoned-up,” she said. “One of those hate-to-play-against-them, love-to-have-them-on-your-team kind of people. She’s thought of everything that could go wrong with this. Made it clear she’s not a fan of the whole thing. Oh, but one thing to run by you—apparently Cate doesn’t want to stay at a hotel, says it’s too risky, wants as small a footprint as possible. She insisted she at least first meet you here.”

“She can totally stay with me,” I said quickly. These days, I wouldn’t let a delivery guy through my front gate to set something on the porch, but this was different—Cate was different.

“She’s going to be here for a week,” Janie said, eyeing me to see if that changed my offer.

“Perfect,” I said. If things were weird, which they wouldn’t be, I’d tell Janie and she’d fix it. No big deal. “But wait, back up. Did you say she insisted ?” I added playfully. These were my first weeks of understanding that now I could bend people to my will, and it turned me on, thinking Cate Kay could do the same.

“Apparently, Cate insisted .” Janie nudged me like we were girlfriends (old-fashioned usage) gossiping in the high school cafeteria. I loved her in those moments. “She also said Cate would come to your house this Friday.”

“This Friday, as in two days from now?”

“Yup,” Janie said. “I’m not allowed to be here. Matt can’t be here either. Nobody can be here but you. Obviously. You’ve read the NDA.”

That Friday, Janie dropped off my coffee, which now had even less sugar and less cream. She told me that Sidney (first-name basis now!) had called and relayed that Cate would be at my place “late afternoon, early evening.” Janie wished me luck and left quickly. But not before standing on the threshold of my front door and admitting her wild jealousy. An unfathomable amount of money, she said, is what she’d pay to meet the mysterious Cate Kay.

“And also, RyRy,” she whispered, glancing around to make sure no one was walking their dog. “It’s taking me a truly shocking amount of willpower to not call Vanity Fair with a hot tip. This is like a really big fucking deal.”

I rolled my eyes, said, “I absolutely will not let you know how it goes, under penalty of law.”

Was it a big fucking deal? I played out the scenario of Janie calling the media and imagined how many cameras would descend on my little bungalow. Hundreds. So, yeah, I guess it was a big deal.

How shall I prepare for my evening with Cate Kay? I wondered as I lowered myself onto the tile surrounding the pool. I swung my feet into the water and considered what I should do about food. Eating it myself was happening less and less these days. But I remained aware, and jealous, that other people did. An author, with no reason to severely restrict her body, would want dinner. These logistical thoughts were helping drown out my growing anxiety about the meetup.

Eight to nine more hours of this kind of ruminating is what I figured I had in front of me. The morning was chilly, and I was wearing a hoodie and Kansas basketball shorts, which made me think of home.

I’d left Lawrence the summer after my freshman year at KU. College just wasn’t for me. My dad said I was throwing away my future. My mom said nothing but drove me to Los Angeles, and we listened to Maroon 5 the whole way. This bungalow was the first house we looked at. Over my budget, of course. I only had two commercials booked at that point. But my mom and I walked around and absorbed all its details. The crown molding, built-in bookcases, the Moroccan tile lining the pool. Mom had pulled me aside. We were in the kitchen, away from the real estate agent. She whispered, “I love this place for you.”

“Me too, Mom,” I’d said.

She grabbed my hands. “I know it’s a little expensive for where you are right now, but I could help you with the rent. We’d just have to promise not to tell your dad. You know how he’d be.”

I understood. Mom wished she’d had an adventure like moving to Hollywood. Like living alone in a lovely little bungalow. Like chasing her dreams. But her life hadn’t gone that way.

Call Mom . I was making a mental note when I heard something at the front of the house. I leaned back and glanced through the sliding glass door. I squinted and held my breath, waiting for another noise. None came. Janie would know to come around the side for whatever she needed.

I leaned onto my elbows and dropped my head back, staring at the cloudless blue sky. Fame had happened quickly, and it was scaring me. The loneliness of it. Not just the frequent physical isolation from daily life, but also the impossibility of communicating how it felt. To anyone, including family. Probably like an astronaut describing floating in outer space. Trying to use these clumsy, everyday words to relay an experience that could only be understood by being felt. I

Suddenly, I heard this soft knock on the side gate to the backyard. I jumped to my feet, knocking over my coffee. Shit . I righted it quickly, losing only a small amount. My eyes flew to the fence, which was taller than me and painted a dark gray. The thought that this person could be Cate Kay hadn’t even entered my mind. But when I unlatched the gate and opened it halfway, I saw the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

Half the clauses in the NDA were being jeopardized by her lingering in my side yard. I darted onto the flat stone walkway, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged Cate Kay into my backyard. As I latched the door, I had this flash of realization: Oh, I get it now, this woman doesn’t just have a secret, which until that moment had felt very high school cafeteria to me, very low stakes. No, she was a secret.

I stole a glance: She didn’t look like someone being hunted—or haunted. But obviously she believed something was chasing her.

I . Note from Cate: I once read this book about near-death experiences. In it, people tried to explain what it felt like when their souls left their bodies, and they all seemed frustrated at the inadequacy of language. They all bumped up against its limitations and eventually concluded that this thing they wanted to convey to the reader, that no words could do it justice. These parts of the book made me think of Ryan, which interested me—what did fame have in common with near-death experiences?