t h i r t y - o n e
“The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone
too much, and forgetting that you are special too.”
—Ernest Hemingway
Zach and I are walking on the sprawling grass between tombstones at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It’s movie night and already there are hundreds of people camped on blankets waiting for the sun to slip from dusk to darkness. A large screen has been erected in the middle of the cemetery. Music is playing and people are enjoying picnics.
We spread our blanket and cuddle up in the cool breeze, staring at all the palm trees lining the horizon and tombstone silhouettes guarding us with their ghosts.
There’s an introduction fifteen minutes later, followed by commercials, then the feature movie: Casablanca. I was hoping we would catch an old Brat Pack film like Sixteen Candles, but I’m just happy to be out and not thinking about everything for once.
“Have you seen this one?” I ask.
“A long time ago,” Zach says. “I don’t really remember it.”
“It has beautiful shadows,” I say. “I’ve never seen more perfect lighting.”
His eyes scan the audience. “Is that right?” he says, half listening as he shifts away from me to the other side of the blanket.
“What are you looking at?” I sit up. “Is that Cristina?” I ask, pretty sure I’ve spotted her sitting twenty feet away. I doubt that this is a coincidence. Is she following us? Did Zach tell her we were going to be here? Are they closer than I thought?
“Are you guys still talking?” I ask.
“Don’t be jealous.” Zach starts to get up. “We need to leave.”
“Are you serious?” I say, trying to pull him back down. “What’s going on?”
“We need to go.” He’s already up.
I let out a confused sigh and stand. He doesn’t even fold the blanket, just bunches the fabric together and hurries off without waiting for me. I apologize to other people on blankets as I step between them to catch up to Zach.
“Hey, is that...?” a woman starts to say to me.
“Yes,” I assure her. “That’s him.”
“Stardom,” the woman says. “Always hard to find privacy.”
I hurry after Zach. By the time I catch up, he’s halfway to the car.
“Zach. Zach,” I say. “Can’t you wait? It’s not like she’s going to follow us all the way out here.”
He slows down. “Yeah. Sorry,” he says.
I take the blanket from him and fold the fabric.
“Maybe she really just came to see the movie,” I say tentatively, hoping Zach might offer up some information. He seems testy and I don’t want to push him too hard.
Zach runs his hands through his hair. “Are you done?” he says.
“Okay,” I say. We’re off again.
I start to worry. There’s obviously something I don’t know.
We’re sitting in his Audi a few minutes later. He leaves the movie viewing area and drives deeper into the cemetery. “Where you going?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“Just getting away from everything,” he says.
“We can go somewhere else. Want to go to Mount Hollywood and park somewhere?”
Being surrounded by all these ghosts makes my skin crawl. I’ve never liked cemeteries. Whenever I walk on the grass, I feel like old bones are crunching beneath my feet.
“That’s all right. I like it here,” he says, pulling over. “It’s so hard to just get away from people. I’m sick of being recognized all the time. Let’s just sit here.”
I look at the white mausoleum next to the car shining under the moonlight. “Here? In the car?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to walk around. Is that all right?” He brushes some hair out of my eyes.
“I guess. It’s just... I was having a good time.”
“Come on, Liv.” He smiles. He still has a hand on my shoulder. “There are other good times to be had. Am I right?”
Am I right? I don’t even feel like looking him in the eye.
Now he puts a gentle hand on my face. “Am I right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“That’s my girl,” he says and kisses me. “Are you my girl?”
“Yes,” I say between kisses. I’m still wondering what’s going on. Is he trying to distract me from what just happened back there? Or am I acting like a jealous girlfriend?
As we kiss, I don’t lose myself in him like I usually do. I keep seeing Cristina in my mind. Why was he freaking out? He didn’t at the gallery. Though he did look at her weird, now that I remember. Is he seeing her again? Is she following him around, trying to mark her territory? Am I falling for the oldest trick in the book? A man’s charm?
I pull away. “I need to go home.”
His touch on my skin makes me feel sick. Something must be going on with him and Cristina. Maybe they never really broke up all the way. Why would she follow him otherwise? He must have given her some hope to hold on to. Was Zach lying at the boat party when he said the breakup was hard on Cristina? Is he the one who can’t let go?
“Wait. What?” he says. “We just got here.”
“No, I’m serious. I need to go home.”
It serves me right, thinking a guy like Zach might actually like me. He probably asked me—the weird artsy girl—out to make Cristina jealous. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. She’s always been a better match for him, even though I’m as skinny as I’ve ever been.
Zach looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m not going home.”
“I’m not joking. I’m getting sick.”
It’s not an excuse. I am starting to feel intense nausea.
“You’re really going to give me the cold shoulder?”
“Will you just quit being a selfish jerk?” It suddenly feels too warm inside the car. I feel like I’m suffocating. “Please. I want to go home.”
“Me? You’re such a tease. Why’d you even let me kiss you? I don’t like this hot and cold act. Here, let me help you.” He reaches over and opens my door.
This isn’t the Zach I know. It’s like some other guy has taken over.
He’s acting just like Ollie. And Jackson.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You want to go. So go.”
“I’m not getting out in the middle of a dark cemetery.”
“Get out or I will throw you out.”
“Who are you?” I start to tear up, but I don’t want to cry.
I get out.
“Stupid tease.”
I slam the car door, basically crying, not saying anything else as he speeds farther into the cemetery. I watch his taillights—they’re like ghoulish red eyes hovering in the night.
He’s gone.
He’s really gone.
I let out a breath, feeling the excruciating pit in my stomach churn. I didn’t want him to touch me, but now what I want more than anything in the world is to reverse time back to before we started fighting. When I try to imagine a guy wanting me ever again, I can’t—and I don’t mean that dramatically. I never used to be like this. Hope was such an easy thing to have. Now I honestly can’t bear the idea of having to go through letting someone touch me only to have him realize he never really wanted me at all.
I start walking toward the distant movie screen, trying to dry up my tears. All I see is the glow against the night and trees. I call Sam. He doesn’t answer. He must be at his debate tournament. I let out another breath, sobbing into my palms.
“This is not happening,” I say, crying all over again.
I scroll through my parents’ numbers. Not calling them.
Mason. Not calling.
Royce. Not calling.
Jasmine. Not calling.
Antonia. Calling...
She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, she stays silent.
“Antonia?” I say.
She’s still silent. I hear her breath.
“Antonia,” I say. “Antonia? I’m sorry.”
Finally...
“Yeah?” she says.
This time I’m trying to be quiet, though the painful sobs are racking my chest. I feel like cutting right here in the cemetery, blood running black into night.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Are you crying?”
“No... Yes... I need a ride. Please help me? I think something bad was about to happen with Zach. Or did happen. I don’t know what happened.”
“What did he do to you?” Antonia sounds like she wants to kill him.
“I’m alone now. I’m scared.”
“I’m coming. Where are you?”
I tell her how to find me. We decide on a place to meet, and I hang up. I didn’t tell her I feel shadows all around, invisible hands all over my body, touching me.
I start running. I won’t tell her I’m about to scream. I won’t tell her I fall on the ground, that I feel completely violated, or that I drag myself behind a tombstone and shove fingers down my throat and cry and grunt and try to puke, but there’s nothing there. I’m empty. I’m so completely and utterly empty.
I’m an abyss. I’m a void. I’m a cage of bones filled with dark matter threatening to crush me from the inside.
I slip a razor blade out of my purse. I haven’t cut myself in a while, but I’ve started carrying a package of them everywhere now. I can’t let myself go anywhere without them. Even running my finger over them makes me feel better for a moment, until I realize what I’m doing and hate myself all over again for not being normal no matter how hard I try. I’m a total mess.
In the pitch black of night, listening to the faint whispers of Casablanca playing across the cemetery, I pull the razor across my left thigh three times.
Slice. Slice. Slice.
Blood drips then slides down my legs, dampening the grass. The cuts are deep, but they’re not deep enough. I wish I could flay myself open. Let the darkness out.
I don’t think I want to die, but I can’t live with all this pain.