Page 74 of This Changes Everything

“I can’t . . .”

Ben and I spent the next two weeks loving each other, crying together, making false promises, and breaking each other’s hearts. We said we would make it work long distance until we could be together again. And at the airport, we both knew deep down that it wasn’t true.

Zoë came with me, and just as I had with New York, I packed my whole life into two suitcases.

As the plane lifted off from JFK, heading toward LAX, I felt a thunderous clap of fear, grief, and an overwhelming amount of intense regret. A small voice poked through the noise that muddied my mind. I wasn’t sure what prompted the voice to rise from my memory, but there it was, as clear as day: She doesn’t belong in the sun.

Chapter 28

LOS ANGELES 25 years old

ZOË AND I BEGAN OUR LIVES IN LOS ANGELES ON HER AUNT’S hardwood floor. She lived in a 500-square-foot one-bedroom apartment in Marina del Rey, and for two months, while we set ourselves up, our bodies lay in the living room while our heads slept in the kitchen.

The LA office of the casting company I worked for was vastly different from its counterpart in New York. I no longer worked in an office building, but in a small house in North Hollywood. My boss was funny and smart and took every single person she talked to as seriously as they took their craft. However, the number of times I said, “I’m not sure if we have the bandwidth to take on this project; let me circle back,” was disturbing. After only a couple of months, I overheard one random manager say to an actor, “Did you not want to look skinny today?” and then follow it up with “You’re a prop, sweetheart, try to make it look good,” and I decided it was time to move out of casting.

If I were going to have any creative say in storytelling, I needed to work directly with producers and in development. I had a few ideas, but I wasn’t going to assume anyone would listen until I proved I could make other people’s ideas a reality. That meant I needed someone to take a chance on me and sponsor my visa; otherwise, I would be shipped back to Canada.

I got a job with an older independent film producer named Dan Burke, who had jet-black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that fell halfway down his neck. His shark eyes were as alarming as his hair dye. I thought it was strange when one of his questions during my interview was “When did you realize you were pretty?” but I shrugged it off as a question from an older man of a different generation. His company had produced two award-winning films that I loved, and he was going to sponsor me. My discomfort grew when Dan opened his jacket by casually propping his hands on his hips, revealing a handgun holstered to his side during meetings. It seemed strange to me how it always magically happened when the conversation wasn’t going his way, but again . . . a different generation? I didn’t know what to tell myself.

Ben grew increasingly wary after I told him that Dan was encouraging his team to take yoga together at lunch.

“Is it just the women he’s asking, or the men in the office, too?” Ben asked through the phone as Zoë and I were unpacking our new Beachwood Canyon two-bedroom apartment.

“I don’t know. There are barely any men on our floor. It’s this strange gray area where I don’t know what’s happening. I think he’s just weird.”

“Are you going to do it?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know. If everyone in the office is doing it, and I’m all up-tight, what does that look like? I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to. I don’t want to get sweaty at work.”

Ben groaned loudly. “I don’t like this.”

“Do you think I like it?”

“No, obviously not.”

I heard a light knocking on Ben’s trailer door. He was filming on location. His pilot had just gotten picked up for a full season order, and his hours were just as ludicrous as mine.

“Hold on,” Ben said to me.

I heard him open the door, and a cheerful voice bouncing in the background. “I’m here to take you to set.”

“Okay.” Ben pressed his mouth back to his phone. “I gotta go. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later on tonight, though, okay? I love you.”

“Okay. I love you, too.” My shoulders slumped.

Zoë pushed herself through my bedroom door and hung her body half off the frame. She held out my lucky golf ball. Her thick, dark bangs hung over her eyes, and she forced them back by blowing through her lips. “Where do you want this?” she asked.

It was the golf ball from the Women’s Long Drive competition when I was a kid. It had traveled with me from Vancouver to New York to LA. It was always with me, and I had no excuse for keeping it all these years, other than that I couldn’t let it go.

“Oh, um . . .” I looked around. “Maybe the car? Let’s put it in the cup holder or something for the traffic gods.”

“Yes. Love it.” Zoë noticed that my phone was on the bed. “Where’s Ben?”

“He got called to set.”

“Oh, shitty.” She pinched her mouth together. “Are you okay?”

I sat on my bed and threw my clothes on the floor. “Yeah. It’s just . . . we haven’t talked much lately, and when we do, we’re in this weird dynamic. Like, I think both of our hearts are broken, but we can’t say that out loud, so we say ‘I love you’ instead.”