Chapter 43 Cass

CHAPTER 43 CASS

February 2007

Los Angeles

Those weeks, they couldn’t have meant nothing to Ryan. Maybe she could get her eyes to fill with love, or her body to emit desire, or her words to be perfect on camera. But all three, always, every day? Only love—not its facsimile—could produce that.

I was telling myself this as we walked to Jack’s, part of a larger campaign to convince myself that dinner was a good idea. I reverse engineered the logic: if I wanted to trust Ryan—and I did—then I needed to trust her completely.

And I told myself if anything appeared amiss, I’d leave immediately. Sidney had texted me the flight information. She said when I needed the car, to just send her the address, she’d have one on standby in the neighborhood.

Plan A: Ryan.

Plan B: Leave.

I fidgeted in my chair. In front of me was a linen place mat and coaster, and I spent a few seconds moving them until they appeared centered on the table. When I looked at Ryan, her eyes were down. She was tilting her head slightly, bringing her fingers to her right temple. If she thought the movement subtle, it wasn’t.

I grabbed my napkin and placed it in my lap, tucked my phone into the napkin’s folds. The ridiculousness of hiding my phone struck me—what was I even doing? Why was I being so reckless?

Then, sitting there, I had this crushing thought: Since Amanda, I’ve been nothing more than a visitor in other people’s worlds. Sidney’s in New York; Ryan’s in Los Angeles; Samantha’s and Persephone’s in The Very Last . I’d abandoned my best friend, lost her forever, for what? To not discover who I am?

I kept my eyes down, continued readjusting the napkin around my phone. Thankfully the server was still explaining the specials.

“I’m surprised,” I said to Ryan once he was gone. Maybe I should have just been straightforward, said, Sidney thinks you’ve sold me out to the press . That’s probably what my mom, or even Amanda, would have said. A fastball down the middle. But not me. I could only tiptoe around, backpedal my way into conversations.

“What are you surprised about?” Ryan was fighting to stay present, but her eyes kept shifting. Please no , I thought, no more weirdness, no more red flags .

In my mind, I was being clear: Tell me your true motivations for contacting me! But instead, somehow, we got onto the topic of the book, the movie, and Ryan was telling me some story about when she first read it, repeatedly glancing over at the bar as she spoke. I followed her eyes. Our server was whispering to the bartender.

No, no, no.

When our drinks arrived, Ryan barely looked up. Were the two of them in cahoots? Was I being set up, just as Sidney had warned? Then she reached her hands across the table, hoping for mine. But I was already gone.

Escape was my default setting. I needed to get myself some breathing room. Space to think.

Beneath the table, I texted Sidney: Jack’s, 2030 Hillhurst Ave . Then I heard myself saying things with an edge, getting up and leaving the restaurant, Ryan following me. The photographers didn’t surprise me, but the energy of the interaction did. I’d always imagined the paparazzi as sexy, exciting. Instead, it felt like that moment someone pushes open the bathroom door that you’ve forgotten to lock—an invasion.

I hustled down the street.

If I’d climbed into that Escalade at any other moment of my life, I’d probably have been awed by it. In the cup holder was bottled water, the seats were a rich black leather, and a music video was playing on a small drop-down screen. A glass divider separated me from the driver. He slid it open to speak with me. “LAX, right?”

I nodded.

I glanced around the back seat—floor vacuumed to within an inch of its life, not a speck of dust to be found. My dream car, quintessential Hollywood. And yet everything was wrong. The fanciest cars, the nicest wine, all the accolades in the world were no match for what was hurting me. I wished I was in my broken Civic because at least then the outside would match my insides.

And isn’t that what Amanda always wanted for me?

I let my head fall back and tried to calm myself. Making decisions with my heart thrashing like a caged animal was a terrible habit I couldn’t seem to break. I interlaced my hands in my lap, closed my eyes, and took three deep, full breaths.

What did my insides want? What were they telling me?

I replayed the final moments at the table with Ryan. She was reaching for my hands, but what was she saying—with her words and her eyes? I pressed my eyelids tighter and concentrated.

Love?

I pictured Ryan in that moment—deeply confused, seemingly hurt by my behavior.

I replayed the last weeks, imagined that Ryan had hatched some sinister plan to bring me out to Los Angeles, to woo and expose me. I couldn’t find a motive. But also, how to explain the sequence of events? I mention Amanda one day; a reporter is calling the next.

I thought of Sidney, of the day the Vanity Fair piece came out a few months before when the book was first released, when everyone was losing their minds. We were sitting at the kitchen table in our Harlem apartment, and she closed the magazine and said, “You know, being the gatekeeper to a cultural secret—it’s kind of fun.” Sidney rarely vocalized her inner monologue, and there were so few things she seemed to enjoy, so, no—no way Sidney would willingly abdicate her throne.

Another few deep breaths. What if the truth was this: I’d been reckless, introduced room for human error. I’d expanded the circle of who knew the truth about my pseudonym and was paying the price. Maybe Ryan had nothing to do with the reporter or the paparazzi. It could have been Janie or Ryan’s agent or some greasy publicist working on promotion for Moon .

I leaned forward, muted the music video. The back seat went silent. I glanced out at the palm trees and stoplights and endless brake lights. If what was happening was out of my control anyway, then maybe I should let the universe choose.

And into my mind slipped a thought: If the driver knew Ry Channing, I’d stay; if he didn’t, I’d take that flight. Already I was knocking on the glass. The divider opened.

“Do you know Ry Channing?”

He looked at me in the rearview mirror, trying to read me, then said, “Yeah, yeah, the one from that new movie, uh, damn, I can never remember the name. It’s like, Howling at the Moon , or something.”

I smiled, said, “ Beneath the Same Moon .”

He snapped his fingers, pointed at me in the mirror. “That’s the one.”

“Change of plans,” I said. We were waiting at one of those uniquely LA stoplights that let one car at a time onto the highway. For a split second I worried that Sidney might have told him to take me to the airport and nowhere else, but his response was so blasé I was disappointed. He was craning his neck over his shoulder looking for cars, then back at the upcoming merge, as he said, “Where we going?”

He clearly didn’t understand the life-altering decisions being contemplated in his back seat. I gave him the address of Ryan’s bungalow and relaxed into the soft leather. What should I say to Ryan? Maybe just start at the beginning—“I met Amanda when I was nine years old…”—and tell her everything? She could help me figure out what to do: kill the story or step out of hiding. I mean, if anyone understood the variables in my decision, it was her.

For the next few minutes, every yellow light he stopped for, every slower lane he chose, stole a piece of my soul. Each second seemed vital—like the universe had me on a clock. Finally, he was slowing in front of Ryan’s house and my door was open before he stopped.

“Need me to wait?” he asked.

“Give me a minute,” I called to him over my shoulder. My heart was pulling me forward, the rest of me catching up. I jogged toward the back door, making sure each footfall landed on the center of each stone in the walkway. (Again, good universe juju.)

But then, hearing something, I abruptly stopped. Held my breath. Voices drifted from the backyard. Quietly, I stepped forward and peered between the slats. A silky yellow blouse was the first thing I saw. Unmistakably Ryan. She had her back to me, sitting at her outdoor table, facing a striking woman I didn’t recognize. The woman was smiling, uncorking a bottle of wine, the definition of her arms so impressive I had a twinge of jealousy. Then she reached over and touched Ryan’s hand, which struck me as devastatingly intimate. I loved Ryan’s hands.

I stepped backward. I was suddenly out of breath. No air. Just woosh, gone. My focus now was returning to the car without anyone noticing me. I hurried back, climbed inside, and quickly pulled the door closed.

My second thought was: I guess Ryan really is a wonderful actor; she made me believe in our love.

My first was: Alone, again.

“Sorry about that,” I said to my driver, pretending everything was a-okay.

“Back to LAX.”