Chapter 11

Gemma

I arrive at the address to find a scene that’s not much different from the one that greeted Dylan and I on the morning he stayed over. Cars line the road, closely-parked right where Ramona is supposed to be, and there are a bunch of sketchy-looking guys standing around making small talk, their eyes occasionally flickering toward the gates of the address.

I roll my car past them, trying to figure out a way of getting through. ‘The abandoned mother and the homewrecker’ – if they saw me visiting Ramona it would be a dynamite story for them. I’d better be careful. I park up some way down the road and look back at the cluster of paparazzi.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, as I look around for some other way to get to the house. After walking a few steps I notice an alleyway that leads around to the back of someone else’s yard – it wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve done in the past few weeks, and if I hold on to my questions any longer they’re going to explode inside of me.

I keep my eyes on the photographers and dart into the alleyway, glancing in all directions as I take a sharp turn and start jogging across somebody else’s well-preserved lawn. After a few minutes I reach a fence – Ramona’s fence. I see something moving between the wooden panels and lean in close. It’s a kid. I can’t tell, but it has to be Ramona’s - Dylan’s.

“Psst!” I say, waving over the top of the fence as I angle my head to look between the panels. “Hey kid! Over here!”

He turns and sees my hand. I see him stiffen as he runs through all the procedures he has for dealing with strangers – I’m hoping that none of them involve calling the police. After a few more seconds of frantic waving, and smiling like a Disneyworld employee, the kid turns back to the house and runs.

“Mom!” he screams, as he leaps up the steps and enters the house. “Mom!”

I jerk my head wildly as I try to catch sight of the door between the thin gaps, and can just about make out the sight of the dark-haired woman stamping out into her yard, the kid pointing out my position behind the fence.

“Go away!” she says. “This is private property! I’m calling the cops right now.” She waves her phone threateningly. “Leave my kid out of this. Don’t you people know where to draw the line?”

“Wait! I’m not a photographer! Please, I just want to talk!”

She stops screaming when she hears my voice, pocketing the phone and slowly walking towards the fence. I angle my head so she can see as much of my face as possible.

“Who are you?”

“I work with Dylan. I need to find him. I just want to talk with you. He’s…he’s gone.”

She walks past me, and I look along the fence. A second later, part of it swings open, and I jog towards the entrance. She’s a good-looking woman. Dark-haired and tanned. She has an earthy, effortless beauty, and I begin to rethink the possibility of Dylan being involved with her – she’s definitely got what a guy like Dylan would like.

“Ramona?” I say, suddenly realizing that I’m panting from the excitement and jogging.

She nods.

“I’m Gemma. I’m Dylan’s—”

“Babysitter,” she interjects, smiling. “Yeah, he told me all about you. Come in quick, before those rats outside see you. Sorry for the paranoia.”

A few minutes later I’m sitting in front of the glass doors, sipping espresso with Ramona, as the kid – whose name I find out is Ben – kicks a soccer ball energetically around the yard.

“Cute kid,” I say.

“Yeah,” Ramona says, wistfully, “cute and a troublemaker – like most men in my life.”

I turn to look at her over my coffee cup, before putting it down slowly and figuring out where to start.

“Is he…” I start, before trailing off. I suddenly feel bad, intruding on her life like this and digging for secrets – no better than the paparazzi outside.

“Dylan’s?” she says, a small smile showing that she expects to talk about it, and isn’t hiding. “It’s a long story.”

I sip my coffee again, saying nothing. Ramona knows I want to hear it. After a few seconds she sighs a little and looks out over the yard towards Ben again.

“I met Dylan – and Cal – pretty much right after they came to LA. They went way back; growing up together in Ireland.” She snorts a gentle laugh at the memory. “They were two peas in a pod, brothers in all but name. Both loved movies, both were a hit with the ladies, both never knowing when to stop. They came out here together to make it in the business, shared a tiny apartment, scratching up rent God-knows-how. I was living with a roommate at the time, right next door to them.”

“How was that?” I say, trying to put a little humor into my voice.

“A pain,” Ramona smiles. “Actually there were whole weeks when they’d barely be home, but when they were, it was like living next to a frat house, bar, and nightclub all at once.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I say. “Dylan’s a handful.”

“Imagine two of them,” Ramona smirks. “Actually, Cal was worse – or at least, he became worse before too long.”

“What happened?”

Ramona lets out a deep sigh and sips from her coffee again.

“Dylan got the lucky break. And Cal didn’t. It really was as simple as that.” I nod as the picture starts to feel more real. “Both of them tried their best to get an agent, do as many jobs as possible. Both of them were great actors, with so much determination, and such a weirdly obsessive – but kind of admirable – passion for movies. But…well, you know how it is, you work in Hollywood. There’s plenty of talent out there, and without that little bit of luck you can work your ass off and still end up landing on it. Another coffee?”

“Oh,” I say, when she breaks me out of the story. “No, thanks.”

Ramona nods and looks at Ben again.

“It happened so fast, almost overnight. Dylan got an agent, and then he started working all the time. I used to ask him if there was anything he wasn’t auditioning for. In a few months he had his first supporting role in a movie, and within a year he was a lead – while Cal was still struggling to get work as an extra, or a part in a shitty local advertisement.

“Everything changed. One minute they were always together, working on their script, either partying, talking about their careers, or doing minimum-wage jobs to scratch up the rent a week before it was due, and then, Dylan was away all the time, working and working, paying the rent himself. That’s when me and Cal got close. He started spending more time alone in the apartment, drinking and taking drugs, slipping away.”

“Didn’t Dylan try to help Cal with his career?”

Ramona rolls her eyes.

“He tried. Of course he did. I think Dylan still beats himself up about that, thinking he could have tried more, done more, regretting it with hindsight. The truth is, though, that by the time Dylan was big enough to help, Cal was too far gone. It was weird. Before, both of them had been passionate, hard-working, and hedonistic. Then suddenly, it was like Dylan took all the hard work and passion, and Cal was left with the drink and drugs.”

I try to think of something to say, but can’t, and instead settle for looking at Ramona as sympathy and pity fill my heart.

“Anyway,” she continues, “Cal and I got close. I…fell in love with him. I could see he was tearing himself apart, but I believed in him. I thought he’d turn it around. I ended up getting pregnant. I thought it would be okay, though. Cal was a great guy, he just needed something in his life to replace the movies, to put his energy into. I thought I – we,” she says, nodding towards Ben, “would be it. But I was naïve. Nothing could help him.”

Ramona gulps and rubs her eye a little. I see the quiver in her lip and reach out to put my hand on her shoulder.

“What happened?” I ask, prompting her. She gathers her strength and takes a breath.

“I was away at my mother’s. Just visiting. I don’t even remember why. I didn’t even know it was the night of the Oscars, and I didn’t care. My mom wanted to watch it. So we did, not knowing anything…just joking around like nothing was wrong. Then I saw Dylan win the Oscar for best actor, and I was so fucking happy…God damn it…” her voice breaks.

I look around and find a box of tissues on the side cabinet, then bring it to her.

“Thanks. I called Cal. To ask if he’d seen it. If he’d heard Dylan mention him in the speech…” Ramona closes her eyes and begins to sway back and forth a little. “There was no answer. Nothing. I called our neighbor to run over and tell him the news, and she carried the phone there. The door was open. I was sitting there, watching Dylan raise the Oscar and wave as the music started playing, as they all applauded—and she screamed. Right through the phone. And my blood went cold. I knew…I just knew…”

I get out of my seat and crouch next to Ramona, putting my arms around her. She smiles through the tears that shake her body and takes a few deep breaths.

“It’s ok,” she says, patting my arm, “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I’ve told that story.”

“I…I can’t imagine what that must have been like…”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “A guy like Cal…it was always going to end up with something like that. Some bad ending. I just…it was such a waste, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say, softly.

“Dylan was even more torn up than me. He blamed himself for it, for not being there, as if he was the one who’d given Cal the overdose. Dylan changed completely. Started hitting the drink again, as if he was turning into Cal. He beat himself up about it every single day.”

“I think he still does.”

Ramona nods.

“You’re right. Like I said, they were two peas in a pod, and now Dylan’s the one who’s driving himself to ruin.”

I shake my head. “Why doesn’t he just come clean about the story? I mean, the papers are going crazy thinking that Ben is Dylan’s child. Why doesn’t he just tell them the truth?”

Ramona sighs.

“I guess he’s trying to protect Cal, somehow. And himself. Better for the press to think he’s an asshole father who abandons his kids than have them dig into old wounds, force him to relive the tragedy all over again.”

“But the paparazzi outside,” I say, gesturing towards the front her home.

Ramona raises her hand.

“I haven’t told Dylan about them. I don’t want him losing any more of his mind over this. He’s done more for me than I’ve ever really deserved. I don’t care if they take a few pictures. They’ll get bored eventually.”

I sit back in my chair and look at Ramona, trying to understand just a fraction of the pain she and Ben and Dylan have gone through.

“Look,” Ramona says, her voice full of the wisdom of pain, “Dylan’s a good man. He’s been like a brother to me through all of this. God knows he can be a prick sometimes. Stubborn-headed and completely out of line – but when it comes down to it, he’s the kind of guy who’d put himself through hell if it meant the ones he loves won’t feel a shred of pain. Even if they’re dead.”

I hang my head, a sense of shame and regret growing inside of me. We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us dealing with the regrets and hurts that the story has brought to the surface.

“I have to find Dylan,” I mutter, almost to myself. “I have to.”

“I think…I think I know where he is,” Ramona says.

I look at her, eyes already pleading. “Where?”

She stands up, steps over to a shelf where framed photographs sit proudly in full view of the room, and picks one up, walking back to me.

“Here,” she says, handing it over. “The Libro. It’s this shitty motel near the coast in Malibu where we used to go every once in a while, when things were good. Dylan and Cal always loved going there; I think they liked how shitty how it was, the ‘real’ America, they’d say.” She pauses for a beat, her smile dropping. “It’s where we spread Cal’s ashes. Dylan’s either there, or at Kavanagh’s, a bar in a bad part of town. But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“The sun’s about to set. Cal always liked to watch the sun set from the Libro.”

I stand up, feeling some steel in my muscles and purpose gathering in my chest from the hope of finding Dylan.

“Thank you so much, Ramona. I’m really sorry to drag all of this back up again, but I’m only trying to do what’s best for Dylan. I really care about him. I want him to be ok.”

Ramona smiles. “I know you do,” she says, as she stands up and leads me back to the door in the fence. “You’d better go out this way again, the rats are probably still waiting.”

I nod and follow her, stepping through the door once she’s opened it.

“Gemma,” she says suddenly, as if unable to stop herself. I turn around. She looks down at the ground, considering, before looking back at me. “I know you didn’t ask, and I don’t know what went on between Dylan and you, but if it’s worth anything, I know him well. Well enough to know that he cares for you. More than you probably realize.”

The words make my heart flutter a little, and I feel a weird blush come to my cheeks. I’m not sure why; there’s nothing in Ramona’s words that should interest me after all the shit I’ve been through with Dylan, including his latest abandonment and my resolve to avoid falling for him completely…yet my body seems to react to the idea in a way my mind can’t process. I nod, wave a cheerful bye to Ben, and make my way back to my car.

I drive like a maniac to Malibu. Without my car’s GPS, the motel would be impossible to find, but even with it, it’s still tricky. I see a building on the horizon, two stories of faded pink stucco and chipped clay roof tiles, run-down and shitty-looking – just how Ramona described it. I push the car slowly towards it, gazing around for clues that it’s the right place.

And that’s when I see him. He’s far away, a speck in the distance, sitting atop a rock on a viewpoint set against the dusty-orange glow of the sun about to set. There’s no way to tell that it’s Dylan at this distance, and yet there’s the tingle in my body that’s always there when he’s near me. My mouth parts, my heart pounding. It’s him. I’m sure of it.

I park the car in the small lot and start walking toward him. He’s facing away from me, but I can tell by his posture that he’s lost somewhere deep in the abyss of his thoughts. As I get closer I slow my steps, giving myself time to think of what to say, to figure out how I might be able to get through to him, to place a loving hand on the pain inside of him and make him let me soothe it.

He’s the one who speaks first, though. Without looking. As if he can sense my presence as easily as I sense his.

“I killed him. I can’t get over it, and I don’t deserve to.”

“Dylan.”

I reach for him, praying he doesn’t turn away. Praying he doesn’t run again.