Didi
Man, it’s good to be home,” Zac says, sighing with satisfaction as we stare at the view.
His new house in the Hollywood Hills is a modern affair, all concrete and glass. We’re standing in front of the window. LA stretches out beneath us. We could be standing on the bridge of a spaceship staring out at a galaxy of glittering stars.
“How was Vietnam?” I say, turning to face him.
He smiles. “It was okay. Reshoots went well. Like I said, though, it’s good to be back.” He holds my gaze when he says this last part, and my breath catches in my chest.
I keep having to pinch myself. It’s so surreal to be hanging out with someone who’s famous. I keep making assumptions about him based on the roles I’ve seen him play on-screen—a break-out part in a vampire movie in which he played a blood-sucking John Keats, and another part as the young doctor heartthrob in a romcom. I have to keep reminding myself that in real life he probably doesn’t know anything about poetry or how to remove a burst appendix.
“What do you think of this painting?” he asks me now, pointing to an enormous abstract canvas hung on the living-room wall.
We stand in front of it. I know a little about art—I took a history of art class in my freshman year, and my parents collect a little—but I know a lot more about psychology, and my guess is that someone very angry painted it. It’s a black canvas with vivid white scratches scored through it—like it’s been clawed by a wild beast. It looks like the painting Dodds described to me that he drew in his art therapy class.
“Um,” I say, clearing my throat. “What do you think about it?” Oh God, classic therapist tactic—throw the question back at the questioner. I hope he doesn’t call me on it like Walker did.
“I’m not sure,” Zac says, tapping a finger against his lips. “My interior decorator bought it. She says it’s an investment. But I don’t know anything about art.”
“Well, really, with art, it’s not about what it looks like,” I say, “so much as the way it makes you feel. Good art should always make you feel something.”
Zac tips his head to the side and frowns at the painting. “I feel depressed when I look at it. It’s kind of ugly.”
I laugh. “You have to have this painting on your wall and look at it every day! If I were you I’d choose something that at least makes you feel happy. Or hopeful. Not one that makes you want to jump out the window.” I think for a brief minute about the platitudes on the wall of the rehab center. I guess there’s a middle ground.
“Come on,” Zac says, turning from the painting and nodding toward the kitchen. “Can I get you a drink?”
He strides to his industrial-size refrigerator and pulls open the door. “I’ve got three types of water, beer, vodka, champagne, wine . . . My PA does all my grocery shopping for me. She likes to keep me stocked up. What’s your poison?”
“Just water, thanks,” I say, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the windows, which act like giant mirrors. I tug on my dress. Is it too tight? He keeps staring at my boobs.
Zac looks at me with raised eyebrows and a one-sided smile. “I can’t tempt you to a beer or a glass of wine?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to drive.”
He pouts and gives me a look that I’ve seen him use on-screen, when he was the vampire John Keats trying to seduce the human Fanny Brawne. “No you don’t,” he says. “You could stay over.”
My stomach flips. It’s tempting. He’s gorgeous, and every time he looks at me my heart goes into arrhythmia. And it’s not like we haven’t had sex already . . .
But I stand firm on my convictions. I don’t want him to get the idea that I’m just there for a quick bootie call whenever he’s in town. I want it to be more than that. But then again, if I don’t stay over maybe he’ll figure I’m not interested. God, it’s confusing.
“Let me start with water,” I say, buying myself some time.
He gives me a curious, appraising look, then smiles. “Okay, one water coming up.”
He brings it over and sits down beside me on the sofa, leaving a few centimeters’ gap between us.
“So, how’s it going with you?” he asks.
He does this thing of always looking right into your eyes when he speaks to you so it makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the room—in the universe, even—and that whatever you’re saying is the most important thing that anyone has ever said. It makes me incredibly self-conscious. I wonder if he likes that, though?—enjoys seeing women get flustered when he fixes them with his gaze?—so I determine not to show any sign of anxiety.
“How’s your job?” he asks. “You’re working, right?”
I frown a little. The last time we had a date I told him all about my summer internship and my PhD. I guess he’s forgotten.
“Well, I’m doing my PhD . . .” I remind him.
“Wow.” He grins. “You must really like school, huh? I hated it. I was out of there the first chance I got. Acting was all I ever wanted to do.”
I nod. “Yeah, I get that. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a therapist. Other kids used to play doctors and nurses, and I’d play therapist and patient. I’d try to talk my Barbie dolls off the ledge and diagnose them with anorexia and body dysmorphia.”
Zac gives me a quizzical look. I hurry on, embarrassed. “I’m actually doing some work experience over the summer at a center for wounded marines. It’s where my dad works.”
He nods again. “Wow. That’s awesome.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s interesting. These guys . . . some of them have the most awful injuries—they’ve lost arms, legs, some of them are blind, and yet the atmosphere in there is so positive.” I shrug. “Mainly. I mean, there are a lot of people with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder too.”
Zac nods again, his eyes burrowing into mine.
“There’s this one guy who’s blind,” I go on, feeling a little flutter in my stomach. Why am I bringing up Walker? “You might have seen him on the news a few weeks ago. He was part of that marine unit that got ambushed in Afghanistan. Five people died.”
Zac shakes his head. “No. I try not to watch the news. I have Google alerts set up, but that’s it.”
“Oh. Well, most of his unit was killed, and he was blinded by the explosion but he managed to carry one of his men to safety. It’s . . . I don’t know . . .” I shrug. “Humbling, I guess. As well as heartbreaking.” I think about Walker talking in his sleep, crying out “sorry.” That was what he said. Something twists painfully in my gut. “I can’t even imagine what that must feel like. So, yeah, I’m learning a lot.” I take a sip of water. “It makes you think twice before complaining about the silly things in life, that’s for sure.”
Zac suddenly sits up straighter, his eyes bright. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You just gave me an idea. My agent’s putting me up for this role. I have an audition for it next week. It’s about a guy who’s in this car accident and ends up paralyzed from the neck down and fighting for his right to assisted suicide.” His eyes light up. “It’s a total Oscar role.”
“What’s an Oscar role?” I ask.
“You know—one of those roles you’re almost guaranteed to be nominated for an Oscar for. The kind of role where you have to lose fifty pounds and make yourself ugly or play a blind person or someone mentally ill, or, like, in a wheelchair.” He grins at me.
I frown.
“Do you think I might be able to come into the center with you one day?” he asks next. “To hang out, and maybe research a little bit for the role? You know, get a feel for what it’s really like to be disabled?”
I bite my lip.
“Oh, come on,” he says, pouting hopefully. “You’d be doing me the biggest favor. I’d pay you back.” His gaze dips to my lips and I feel an answering tightness in my belly.
“Let me ask,” I hear myself say.
“Okay,” he murmurs, his gaze still fixed on my lips. “Now come here and kiss me.”
He curls his hand around my neck and pulls me closer. I draw in a breath and close my eyes, and when his lips touch mine, I feel like I could be starring in a movie. I’m half expecting someone to yell “Cut!” but no one does, and we keep on kissing, but I can’t fully relax into it. I feel stiff, too self-aware, worrying about whether or not he thinks I’m a good kisser and where this might be leading.
His hands slide down my neck and then lower, running down my sides to my waist and then back up again.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most amazing body?” he whispers in my ear.
I laugh under my breath.
“I can’t wait to see you naked.”
Butterflies swarm in my stomach. He already has, I think to myself. Has he forgotten?
His lips find mine and we kiss for a few more minutes, until, breathing heavily, Zac pulls back and strokes my hair behind one ear.
“Stay the night?” he asks.
He sees me hesitate, and his eyes glimmer with intensity in just the same way as they do on-screen.
“I promise you won’t regret it,” he murmurs.