Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,36
a little. “He didn’t know it was Oscar night, that’s how stoned he was, how far apart we’d become. He wanted to talk. I don’t know what about. I blew him off. I was more interested in the fucking speech, in how I’d come across, in whether I’d fucking win in the first place. All that bullshit…that was all I ever thought about…all I cared about…all that fucking bullshit…”
She winds an arm around my shoulders and leans into me.
“It’s not your fault, Dylan. You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t have to. I didn’t care either way. He didn’t die that night, he was dying for a long time before that – falling to fucking pieces. Tearing himself apart. And the only thing I worried about was whether he’d bring me down, make me lose all the fucking fame, and money, and acclaim. That was the only thing I cared about: my fucking pathetic career.”
Gemma’s hands pull my face toward her, her gentle palms guiding my eyes to hers, eyes that I can feel are now wet and red with anger and regret.
“Dylan. Look at me,” she says, and I open my eyes to a different kind of sunset, a different kind of light. “You’re right. You probably could have done more. Maybe you could have spoken to Cal and stopped him from killing himself that night. But who’s to say another night wouldn’t be even worse? Or that he’d ever be ready to stop with the drugs and the drinking and the personal shit he just couldn’t deal with? None of that was your job to fix, and there was no way you could have, no matter how much you wanted to. There are things to blame yourself for in life, and there are things to let go – this is one of them.”
“I’ll never let this go,” I cry, struggling to push the words out from my constricted throat, “never. I killed him. It was my fault. I left him in the dark, I was so selfish. I left him.”
“No! Dylan,” she says, stroking my cheek. “You didn’t. Cal killed himself. He had a wife, he had a kid. So he wasn’t getting acting work, and was struggling – big fucking deal! This is LA! The city’s full of actors who don’t make it. He had every reason to live, and he still did it – it’s not your fault, Dylan. It’s no one’s fault. Nobody could save him.”
“You don’t fucking get it!” I shout, pulling her hands off me and standing up. Gemma follows me, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back around to face her.
“No, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, Dylan! Cal made a mistake. A dumb fucking decision – probably while he was out of his mind on drugs and booze. It’s tragic, it’s sad, it fucking hurts – but that’s life. You know, you’re always talking about focusing on what’s ‘real’ life – well, that’s real life. Bad shit happens, and it makes no sense, and you’d give anything to change it – but you can’t. You have to move on from it. Good people do shitty things, make bad decisions, and live lives full of mistakes. There are no happy endings, no easy way out when the shit hits the fan, and it’s never fair. That’s just fucking real life, Dylan.”
I watch the strands of hair flow over her face, framing it like a golden, glowing halo. The sky goes reddish-blue, casting whirlpools of color in her eyes. I gaze into them like gates to a better life, to freedom, to a place where there’s a younger me, still waiting to shed the miserable armor and distancing weapons I’ve been holding for so long.
“I wish it was that easy, Gemma. But I can’t just let it go.”
Gemma shakes her head, casting a lock of hair behind her ear.
“It isn’t easy, Dylan. That’s the point. Forgiving yourself, letting go of the past, is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. It’s easier to let the pain and the regret chew you up. To let yourself turn into a miserable, hateful person. It’s easier to fight every day, fight yourself, fight the people around you, fight the pain, because it feels like you’re doing something – but you’re not. You’re just treading water. It’s harder to stop fighting, and just let it go.” She moves toward me, placing a delicate hand against my chest, as if feeling for a heartbeat in this shell of a