Chapter 61 Cass

CHAPTER 61 CASS

April 2013

Charleston

I carried the box—quite heavy, actually—to my backyard writing studio and placed it on my desk. With a pair of scissors, I sliced through the tape, folding back the cardboard flaps, revealing a stack of blue binders. Resting atop was a handwritten note. It was clearly from Sidney. I would recognize her handwriting anywhere—tiny slanted block letters. Nothing graceful about them. I found a second note beneath the binders—its author was at first a mystery to me. I picked up Sidney’s letter, to get it out of the way. I’d heard nothing directly from her in six years—all business correspondence went through her assistant—and the truth was I didn’t think about her much.

I was speed-reading, glancing ahead for keywords, trying to find what the point was. She was explaining the binders, what they contained, the documentation, bank info, fan mail P.O. box, key correspondence. All well organized, efficient—trademark Sidney.

I was anxious for the why; why she was forwarding me all of Cate Kay’s correspondence. Knowing Sidney, she probably wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of an explanation. Then, finally, the last paragraph:

Cass, I know we took turns hurting each other—I’m sorry for that. Some of it was inconsequential, some wasn’t. When you were in Los Angeles I was the one who had the reporter call you. His name was Jake Fischer—he’s written a note I’ve included. I was hurt, angry, jealous. Ryan had nothing to do with it.

Be well. I’ll think of you—fondly. xo, Sidney

Jake Fischer. The name didn’t ring a bell. I quickly scanned the guy’s note. He was nothing to me—just Sidney’s tool. I instantly forgave him, a small payment against my gigantic cosmic debt. And sustained anger for Sidney I just couldn’t do. The reason I couldn’t rage at her was because I pitied her. I once heard a story—a parable, no doubt—about how fish balance their relationships and environment by alternating which fish chases, which fish gets chased. All I could do was picture Sidney, who doesn’t understand this delicate balance, who only chases, and who everywhere she goes spins up a maelstrom with her obsessiveness. It’s punishment enough being her. Also, honestly, most of my brainpower was being spent conjuring memories from Los Angeles, rebuilding that last night with Ryan. I squeezed my eyes shut and replayed those final minutes, Ryan frozen on the sidewalk as I climbed into the Escalade, the confusion in her eyes, apparently 100 percent authentic.

What had I done?

I leaned back in my chair and tried to remember the chain of events from all those years ago. I could see now what role Jake Fischer played, with Sidney pulling the strings from New York, but not everything clicked into place. What about the photographers outside the restaurant? And Ryan, later that night, with another woman—neither Sidney’s doing. But even so, maybe this was a justification for calling her? Hey, just found out this thing, maybe that changes how you feel? If not, totally cool. At the very least, I could tell her I read her Vanity Fair interview. She didn’t need to know how many times.

Then, before I could stop it, my brain was jumping the tracks, and I was engaging with far-flung scenarios such as whether I should sell my house in Charleston and move to Los Angeles, just in case—a question I spent a full minute pondering before realizing its absurdity. I physically shook my head, told myself to slow down. One thing at a time.

First, the blue binders. I spent an hour with them. Two items stood out: the note from my agent, Melody Huber, pitching me on writing a memoir. (Maybe someday.) But most exciting was the P.O. box info for Cate Kay/ The Very Last fan mail. How had I never thought to inquire about fan mail? I imagined the bags of letters, the fan fic, the artwork. For nearly a decade, I’d subsisted on message board comments. Now I imagined feeling the paper between my fingers, smiling at a crossed-out line or misspelled word—such intimacy with readers.

The mailbox was in New York. I would drive there the next day—a road trip. Road trips always made me think of Amanda.

That was one thing settled. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the cell phone on my desk: Should I, shouldn’t I?

I’d deleted Ryan’s number two years prior—the morning after watching her film the final scene of The Very Last . Janie, though, I still had her number. I picked up my phone, went to Contacts, brought her up. I stared at the digits until they went fuzzy and my mind emptied. After a few minutes, I pulled myself back and glanced at the time, watched it change from 11:10 to 11:11.

Do it , I told myself, and I called Janie Johnson.