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Not wanting to get stuck in the crowd, Charles and I are the last to leave. When the last of the audience has walked out in front of us, we walk out into the night where darkness has fully settled above the hazy Los Angeles lights, and I realize that Istillhaven’t found her. A part of me feels like I dreamt her. Like she’s an illusion that my mind forged into reality because… I don’t even know why.
“Are you going to the after-party?” Charles asks. Amelia is close to his side after having spent most of the night apart so that Charles could tend to his duties.
I don’t really want to go, but looking into Charles’s concerned face with his firm smile and wrinkled forehead, I give in. “Uh, sure. I guess I’ll pop in for a bit.” There’s also the matter of finding this mystery woman.
“Great. We’ll see you there.” He pats my shoulder and turns towards the line of cars. His arm snakes around Amelia’s waist as he leans down to kiss her, only for her to turn her face to give him her cheek, no doubt not wanting to ruin her makeup. I follow behind, locating the same black Lincoln Navigator I had arrived in parked up against the curb.
“Hey.” I hear the familiar voice of Bella, hushed down to a seductive tone, right at my ear.
My hand is halfway towards the handle of the passenger door when I turn to look at Bella, her coy smile peering over her turned-up shoulder. “Hi, Bella,” I answer, my tone distant and distracted.
“Can I catch a ride with you to the party?” she asks with narrowed eyes.
“Um, sure, I guess.”
“We can be carpool buddies,” Bella responds with a hearty laugh.
I open the car door for her as a wave of flashes blinds us, a rush of photographers caging in the two biggest stars of the night. I already know Bella’s angle, but I have no choice but to comply. Any disagreement on my end, she’s sure to cause a scene.
I watch her scoot herself down the length of the back seat. She makes sure her dress doesn’t catch on the leather beneath her as she smooths out the material. Once she’s settled, I enter the car and close the door behind me, keeping a fair amount of distance from her. When she realizes that I’ve situated myself as close to the opposite door as possible, she slinks up to me.
“I don’t bite.” Bella giggles as she moves closer, her bare arm grazing my suit sleeve. Then her voice turns serious. “I’ve been thinking about our time in Paris a lot lately. I miss you.”
“Bella, we talked about this then. You’re a great friend and a talented actor, but I really don’t see us going beyond that,” I reason.
She responds with annoyance, a huffy expression on her face and her arms crossed. It’s definitely not the answer she was hoping for. Noticing a new idea simmering within her, I can see she’s carefully contemplating her next move.
She shifts her body towards me, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder, and places her hand across my chest, running her manicured fingers along the thin fabric of my shirt. She looks up at me, her eyes rounding and lashes fluttering, and I stiffen under her touch.
“I think I recognize a challenge when I see one,” she whispers into my ear. The scent of muted florals and alcohol invades my nose. I turn my head to avoid her closeness. While any man would succumb to her advances, her cluelessness makes me frustrated, wanting to get away from this situation even more.
Thankfully, Chateau Marmont, the location where the after-party is located, is nearby, and we arrive at our destination quickly. Without any further words, I open the car door, unable to wait for the attendant to open it from the other side, and both Bella and I spill out of the car. Photographers go frantic, eagerly pointing their cameras toward us. I can’t focus on what’s in front of me, but I rush to gently remove Bella’s hand off my neck, where she had quickly and conveniently placed it in an attempt to regain her balance. I slowly exit the car, leaving behind Bella to wave at the cameras with a big, flashy smile.
Flustered, I walk away and make my way into the building. The sounds of the commotion behind me fade into the background with my plans to avoid Bella and maintain my stance on our nonexistent relationship blowing up in my face as I walk past the attendants manning the doors.
The whole night feels so chaotic. The crowd, the noise, the suffocating attention. I want it all to go away. The strain in my neck settles throughout my whole body, the tension twisting tighter and tighter. I shouldn’t even be here. Maybe I just need a drink. Or two.
The bar is easy to track down, as it’s constructed in the middle of the ballroom, right under the massive chandelier. I order my scotch, requesting the unopened Macallan on the top shelf, and lower my head towards the spotless counter, the reflection of the floating crystals bouncing in front of me.
I’m rethinking my decision to come here instead of heading straight home when Charles sidles up to me, a fresh drink already in his hand and his expression turning serious.
“You okay?” he asks.
I clear my throat into my fist. “Sure.”
His hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. When I lift my face to look at him, he firmly presses his lips together and nods. He gives me the same look he made when he found me, one month into shootingUnrestrainedin Paris and hours late for our call time. I had completely missed hair and makeup, unable to leave my hotel room. When I heard the door swing open and his voice calling out my name, I didn’t have the strength to hide or make excuses. So instead, I looked up at him, slumped on the floor next to my bed, pleading for help. I wanted to scream or cry or anything that reminded me that I was alive. But I couldn’t.
He covered for me, told Michael that I had come down with a bad case of food poisoning, and even claimed he rushed me to the hospital. Instead, we stayed in my room. We silently watched TV, and he listened to my aimless conversation about my family and how exhausted I had become. How I lost my way, and that wayward path had somehow brought me to that exact moment.
I knew then he didn’t fully understand what I was going through, but he didn’t have to. His being there, a presence that I didn’t know I had needed, was enough.
“So no date tonight?” he asks, changing the unspoken subject we had somehow landed on.
I look at him, an amused look on my face at the absurdity of his question. “Uh, no, not tonight.”
“I just thought you might have someone special on your arm.”
“Maybe the next one,” I answer jokingly. Up until about two years ago, I always had a date by my side. It was never anyone important. Sometimes I would even forget the woman’s name by the end of the night. It was all in the name of good fun, and the tabloids sure got a kick out of it, labeling me as Hollywood’s playboy. The bachelor that would succeed the likes of Clooney or DiCaprio. Gradually, those dates became fewer. I completely defaulted to attending events solo, not wanting to struggle as I chewed over any sort of meaningless conversation with a woman, every word sounding superficial coming out of their vacant smiles.
