Page 64 of Falling Like Stars

Chapter Eighteen

I TURN THE key in the door of the Chateau’s bungalow and stagger inside. My role in Scorsese’s American Vice is infinitely more draining than I imagined. A smaller movie in scope than his usual but no less intense. I play a drug-addicted brother to DiCaprio’s DEA agent: opposite sides of the same coin. Working with Leo is intimidating as hell, but I’ve settled into the role with shocking ease. Turns out, I have some experience going back—again and again—to something that used to make me feel good but is actually poison. My character—Flynn—will eventually overcome his addictions and get clean, but we’re shooting in sequence and he’s not there yet, so neither am I.

I shut the door behind me and survey the bungalow that has been my home for a month. The shoot is taking all my time and energy; the Hills house remains unsold, but there’s no chance I’m staying there. My Oscar sits on the best shelf in the bungalow—the back of the toilet in the bathroom.

I slump on the couch. It’s seven p.m. on a Friday. We’re shooting locally and have the weekend off. I could be social somewhere but have become something of a recluse these last few weeks. The role is rough, but mostly, it’s that I don’t have it in me to mingle and make pointless small talk. Since the morning after Oscar night, I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone.

Except her.

For the millionth time that day, I think of Rowan. I never stop. She’s the freedom from addiction my character is pining after. The reward for getting through the tough shit. At least, that’s how I play it in the scenes. Every time Flynn fights back against his disease, I imagine Rowan is waiting on the other side.

I itch to text her. Just to check in, but that’d be like Flynn taking a hit and telling himself it’s just the one. Plus, Rowan is fighting her own battles, and I can’t interfere. I’ll be part of her life again when she’s ready. If she’s ready.

She might be done with you.

Given her radio silence, that’s probably true.

“A guy can dream,” I mutter to my empty place. I’m about to order a pizza, take a shower, and call it a night when my phone buzzes a text from my publicist, Courtney.

Jerry Bruckheimer is having a party tonight and you have to go. Chloé Zhao will be there. Rumor has it she wants you for her next project. Not to mention, you’re a hermit lately. Would be good to get out and be social. Stay relatable.

I frown. Going to a huge Hollywood party makes me relatable?

Her reply is quick. To the industry people. Your peers and friends. We need to keep you circulating. After AV, you have nothing lined up.

I sigh. I don’t have anything after American Vice because I feel like I’m getting close to burnout. I’ve been working almost nonstop for four years, trying to purge my own personal demons with every role. But maybe getting out and seeing some people is better than lying around like a slug all weekend.

Fine. Text me the details.

Great! Incoming.

Forty minutes later, I’m dressed in a dark suit, no tie, and a car service is taking me up Mulholland to a huge mansion lit up with exterior lighting, as if it’s the star of a Broadway show. Inside, I sign a standard NDA that nothing I hear or see at the party leaves the premises, and then a liveried waiter offers me a flute of champagne. I decline.

Not going down that road again.

Deeper in the huge house, the who’s who of Hollywood mingle and laugh, talking in clusters. Everyone looks beautiful and confident, whether they feel that way or not. I’ve never felt comfortable in these situations, whereas my brother would fit right in. Not for the first time, I entertain the silly fantasy that if Jeremy and I were identical, I could do the emotional acting work and hire him out to do the PR.

Everyone there greets me warmly and congratulates me on my win. I’m drawn into a dozen conversations, one after the other, as I make my way through the house. The host himself greets me with a booming voice and strong handshake and asks when I’m going to join a superhero franchise. Finally, I make it to the backyard for some air, fighting the urge to go home.

Home? Home is a hotel room. You’ve never been so far from having a home in your life.

In the backyard, colorful strings of lights illuminate miles of grass, tennis courts, and a glittering pool. Guests talk in clusters around the turquoise water, sipping champagne. I spy a lounger that is unoccupied and make a beeline, but a young woman in a short black dress gets there first.

My heart skips a beat. Rowan.

I don’t speak but watch her for a moment. Drink her in. She’s holding a slim champagne flute, the liquid the same color as her hair that’s pulled up in a classic twist—a contrast to the modern razor-straight line of her bangs. She’s wearing an oversized men’s suit jacket, the sleeves rolled up. The bulkiness highlights her small frame. Under, her little black dress perfectly outlines her every curve and line. The front is a geometric mosaic of black panels, sewn with precision and a certain nonconformity too. Nothing obnoxious or ostentatious, just unique, like her.

Rowan made that dress and that’s my Tom Ford jacket.

As if she felt my sudden surge of—emotion? Lust? Affection? All three?—she turns. The smile that comes to her face is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.

“Zach,” she says, and rises to her feet as if pulled up by a string. I don’t miss how her gaze takes me in from top to bottom before returning to meet my eyes. Lips parted. Even in the dimness, I can see her cheeks are flushed.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

This breaks her out of her spell. She crosses her arms and gives me one of her trademark smirks I love but didn’t know how much until now.

“That’s a good question,” she says. “I feel like a bouncer is going to kick me out any second for lack of credentials.”

---