Page 50 of Falling Like Stars

But first, tonight. For four days, the house was filled with designers, stylists, and makeup artists, all rushing to put “a look together” for her. They’d succeeded; she’s beautiful. Like a flute of champagne: slender, her blonde hair piled on her head, her dress dripping in pale yellow crystals.

Eva was deliriously grateful and sweet and charming…right up until we climbed into the limo an hour ago. Now, the defeated woman in Anchorage is gone, replaced by the “celebrity” version, who fusses over her lipstick and readies herself for attention.

Her fingers dig harder into my arm. “Smile, for God’s sake,” she mutters. “Is it so terrible?”

“Zach! Zach!” the paparazzi call. “Just you! Just Zach! Eva, sweetie, do you mind?”

Eva’s smile freezes, but she steps aside so they can photograph me alone. When the onslaught is over, I return to her death grip on my arm.

“I’m sure you enjoyed that,” she hisses as we head into the Dolby Theater.

I stare down at her as we join the throngs of filmmakers, actors, directors, and producers. “Are you fucking serious?” I hiss back. “I’m doing this for you.”

“Right,” she says, her smile bright and plastered on, her eyes icy cold. “Just me, and not at all for that gold statue. Give me a break, Zach.”

The theater is electric with the chatter of Hollywood elite, all dressed to the nines. Oscar day is like Christmas, New Years, and—for the nominees—their birthdays, all rolled into one. I should be basking in it and taking it all in. Instead, I have Eva wrapped around my arm like a leech, sucking the joy out of the night.

Cry harder, Butler. You have no one to blame but yourself.

I clench my jaw and make it through a hundred small conversations congratulating me on the nomination as we arrive at our seats in the front row. Martin Scorsese shakes my hand and tells me, “We should talk.” When we finally sit, Eva is practically vibrating with rage beside me.

Now what? I wonder, watching the camera crews roll cable and clear off the immense set that is elegant and sleek. A scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off pops into my head: Ferris’ bitchy sister in the principal’s office where she’s greeted by his secretary. “Hello, Jeannie, who’s bothering you now?”

I stifle a chuckle, my shoulders shaking, imagining the fallout if I asked that of Eva.

“Something funny?” she hisses. “You’re unbelievable. Marty was right there. He’s going to ask you to be in his next project, and you didn’t even say a word about me.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I whisper back, laughter evaporated. “Tell him we’re a two for one? I’m not your agent.”

“I don’t need your charity, Zach, but you could have made an introduction.”

“He knows you, Eva,” I say wearily. “We met at his last premiere.”

“He meets a thousand people a day,” Eva says out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes scanning the rows. She breaks into a smile and waves at someone. Maybe at someone she knows. Maybe at no one.

I sigh. Serves me right for falling for the same old shit. If the role Marty has in mind for me is “gullible jackass,” it’d be typecasting.

Finally, the announcer tells the auditorium we’re going live in five. The seconds count down, then Jimmy Kimmel emerges onstage to uproarious applause. In the interest of keeping the show as short as possible, the first award—Best Actor in a Supporting Role—comes up before the laughter from Jimmy’s monologue even has time to fade out.

Last year’s winner, Robert Downey Jr., strides onstage with an envelope in his hand. One that may or may not have my name in it. I shouldn’t care, but I do. How could I not? This is the apex. The Big Dance, as Syd would say.

While a montage of snippets from the Best Supporting Actor nominees’ movies plays on the big screen, a camera man crouches in the aisle, his lens pointed at me. Eva is suddenly playing the role of supportive girlfriend; she wraps her hands around my arm, leans in shoulder to shoulder, beaming with the perfect mix of pride and love on her face.

They should give the award to her for tonight’s performance, since I’m not going to win.

“And the Oscar goes to…” RDJ opens the envelope. “Zachary Butler, Crazy 8.”

Holy shit, I won.

Applause erupts throughout the entire theater. The sound mirrors the waves of shock coursing along my limbs. My personal life might be in the dumpster, but I just won an Academy Award. Gratitude washes out the shock and I manage to get to my feet. Eva, crying crocodile tears of joy, stands with me, grabs my face and plants a kiss on my cheek. I extricate myself quickly because Rowan might be watching. Then I remember Rowan slept with someone else after I abandoned her for Eva.

Then I have no room for thoughts at all.

I stride up the stairs. RDJ gives me a hug and a congratulations, then hands me the Oscar which weighs more than I’d imagined. It’s stupid to invest too much into awards that are wholly subjective, but I feel like all the work I’ve done so far is in that statuette. It’s heavy with it. I look over the audience and my heart fills to see they’ve given me a standing ovation.

“Okay, wow,” I say into the mic. “This is an incredible honor, but I know that applause is for Felix, not me, and there’d be no Felix without the incredible writing of George Gunn. Thank you, George.”

More applause, and I try desperately to say something from the heart and not make a fool of myself in front of the entire world.

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