Page 36 of Falling Like Stars

And that’s when I notice I’m still wearing his jacket. I was cold and Zach gave me his jacket, and neither my mind nor heart freaked out at the echo between that gesture and what killed Josh all those years ago.

But it will. Eventually.

My eyes well with tears. I squeeze them shut to keep them in, and hunch deeper in Zach’s jacket, arms crossed, as if holding onto something I can’t keep.

Chapter Nine

MY PHONE BUZZES in my pocket. The powers that be—J.J.—permitted me to keep it. I fish it out and shut off the alarm. The room is dim, and Rowan is beside me. She fell asleep sitting up, arms crossed, as if standing guard against something. Me, maybe. Us. Possibilities.

There is no us, I think and rub my face to wake up. But there is a maybe.

I smile in the dimness. Rowan’s room is neat but filled with art. Nothing fancy or famous—just an eclectic collection of blankets and prints and decorative things handmade by talented people no one’s ever heard of. Artsy, like her. She has a story but I’m not sure I’m going to get to hear it. There are only so many times I can suggest she come to Alaska without sounding like a creep. I don’t even know why I’d be disappointed if she didn’t. We’ve only spent a handful of hours together, but the feeling I get when I’m around her is the same as when I’m offered an intriguing movie or TV script. The feeling of knowing, even before I get to the ending or know what it's about, that I'm going to say yes.

I glance at sleeping Rowan, with her sketchpads and sharp observations and guard walls a mile high. I don’t know this girl, but what I do know is that whatever attraction I have for her is going to be swallowed up by the realities of my job and the drama of my life. Few people can hack being around the kind of scrutiny I get. Some days I can barely handle it myself. Eva experienced it too, and I thought that would make us perfect together.

Shows what I know.

My smile fades and I slip off the bed. I’d fallen asleep fully dressed except for my jacket that was currently wrapped around Rowan. It’s a nice one. A lightweight Tom Ford in black. Rowan likes black. The only way to get it back is to wake her up.

Don’t do it. Let it—and her—go.

Yet…I can’t go without keeping the door open. I won’t harass her to walk through it, but I can leave it cracked.

I grab a stray scrap of paper and a pen from the small desk under the window. Dawn is still hours away, and the surrounding forest is dark and thick. The cabin is tucked safely inside it, peaceful and quiet. No traffic noise, no glittering lights of the city that block out the stars, no luxuriously spacious rooms with nothing in them.

I scratch out a message and set it on the bedside table. Rowan stirs. I freeze. But she burrows into my jacket, then lets out a sigh, sinking deeper into sleep.

“Happy birthday,” I murmur and step out.

Rowan,

The Great White North beckons, but I can’t leave without throwing out one last ask that you lend us your talents on this little project. Cons: terrible conditions, industry-standard pay, zero benefits. Pros: no insects and I hear the Northern Lights might make an appearance.

The second AD is Carla. If interested, give her a call at 213-555-9285. Tell her I said you got the job, (exec producer perk). If not, thank you for inviting me to celebrate your birthday with you.

Yours, Zach

“Let me be plain,” my agent, Chase Lewis, says through the speaker phone. “I’ll kill you if you miss the Academy Awards.”

“Zach, he’s right,” my manager, Sydney Griffith, chimes in. “You have to go. It’s bad press not to.”

Sydney is an old-school Hollywood type who likes to do business over dry martinis and rare steaks at Morton’s. Chase is young and slick and calls everyone “chief.” Rarely do the two agree on anything. This solidarity is an intervention, the two calling in jointly from Chase’s office in Beverly Hills.

“If you win,” Chase is saying, “and you’re not there to accept, it could be taken as a snub. The Academy might think twice about a future nom. That’s just politics, chief.”

I sigh and glance out of my private jet’s window. All clouds and gray, breaking now and then to show endless blue of the Pacific. I’m not a big fan of PJs and their excessive pollution, but I can’t be landing at Anchorage International on a commercial plane. It’ll draw too much attention to the production that needs to stay small, private, and as un-Hollywood as possible.

Un-Hollywood except for my personal assistant, Andrew Chen, who—as he put it—wouldn’t dream of leaving me to brave the untamed wilderness without him to keep the lattes flowing. Truthfully, he’s too good at his job, and I might’ve forgotten how to function without him.

“It’ll be cutting it close to the end of this film, and I probably won’t win anyway,” I say. “Felix was more comedic and comedic roles don’t win. You’re always telling me that, Syd.”

“It’s one weekend,” my manager replies, and I can picture him running a hand over his impressive mustache like he does when he’s trying to gently convince me of something he’s desperate about. “And yes, comedy rarely wins, but you were comedic and heartbreaking—a winning combo. You had the entire country crying in their popcorn when Felix kicked the bucket. Including yours truly.”

That my character is shot and killed defending Tom Hiddleston’s lead gangster well before the end of the movie had been a selling point for me. I had no idea it would be the highlight of the film.

“It was an ensemble piece,” I say, knowing it’s a losing battle. “A group effort.”

“Something I’m sure the Screen Actors Guild Awards has noticed,” Chase says. “But this is the Big Show we’re talking about. You need to be there, Zach.” A pause. “It’ll be good press for your Alaska project.”

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