When They Fall
"Don't forget those who loved you before you became famous, Pete."
Her words were ringing through his head tonight and he didn't know why. The Independent Spirit Awards had just nominated him for Best First Screenplay as well as Best Supporting Male for the film he had penned and played a small part in, When They Fall. He had just finished up the photo shoot for his cover in Filmmaker Magazine today, and the makeup artist, Jasmine, that had prepped him for the shoot was now laying naked in his arms. His film was opening wide in a few short weeks. Everything was going right.
Except that the tickets he had promised his sister and father to the premiere were no longer available. Amazingly, film critics and big name actors were showing up in droves for their ticket in, and extra seating was growing more and more scarce. His family would understand, though. They had to. This was his big break.
Carefully, carefully, he slipped his arm out from underneath Jasmine's sleeping head and managed to climb out of bed without waking her. His socks were still on his feet, as he pulled his boxers back on, before padding over to where his big plush robe hung in his skimpy closet. The thing had seemed like a joke when the crew bought it for him, his name etched in gold thread on the back, but now pulling it on, it felt like success against his flesh. He had earned this robe. It would be the first of many things I'll earn, he thought with a smile.
He crept out of the room and strode into his kitchen where he had tossed his keys and cell phone before he and Jasmine had started tearing off each others clothes in a frenzy. He picked his phone up. Dozens of texts from friends and family and numbers he didn't recognize. Absentmindedly, he scrolled through them searching for Charlotte's name, while with his free hand, he opened his small liquor cupboard and pulled out the bottle of wine the crew had gotten him along with the robe. Her name wasn't there. He flipped to his voicemail. Forty-six new messages. Maybe she had called?
He set down the phone and began opening the bottle, glancing at the clock. Two in the morning. Why did he care if she called? He had made his bed and he was happy to lie in it...alongside his three picture deal and all of the beautiful women throwing themselves at him and the new condo he would be moving into next week. It seemed a fair trade. If she had really loved him then she would want this for him. She would want him to be happy. Successful.
He thought about getting a glass, but decided he would just drink from the bottle. Grabbing his phone, he walked the few steps into the living room and flopped on his second-hand couch, turning his phone on speaker and taking a swig of the wine as message one of the forty-six began to play. It was his manager. The next four were also from his manager. Then from the bartender he had slept with last week, Josie. Messages from his friends. Distant family members. His sister left a message saying that she and their father wouldn't be able to attend his premiere because their father was in the hospital, but not to worry, it wasn't serious, they just wouldn't be able to make it. That was a relief. That way Pete wouldn't have to tell them that they were no longer invited. Messages from his ex's came drifting out. Girls from high school. A guy he had had a class with when he had attempted community college. Crew members. Their voices and messages all blended together, becoming the same. He drank his wine and waited for her voice. She would ask him to meet her at their cafe. She would ask him how he was doing, and could they get together and maybe talk? But the messages ended as he finished the bottle and her voice was nowhere to be found. Screw her. If she couldn't be happy for him, then he didn't want to hear from her anyway. He drifted off into a drunken sleep halfway through dialing her number to let her know he didn't miss her. Not one bit.
The next few months were chaos. The premiere had landed his picture in all of the film magazines, his movie was number three in the country, and he had been booked to be interviewed at radio stations in Los Angeles, Miami, New York, and Chicago. A publishing house approached him about whether or not he was interested in writing a book. He had moved into the condo, and then had moved again when he realized he needed a little more security and privacy. When he went out, people recognized him, bought him drinks; there wasn't a party he wasn't invited to or a woman who wasn't vying for his attention. He was on top of the world.
The Independent Spirit Awards was a week away when he got his sisters voice mail. Their dad had passed away.
"Congratulations on your nomination," his sister had said shakily. "Don't let this ruin your big night. Dad wouldn't have wanted that. We're all so proud of you. We'll see you at the funeral, Petey."
But he had grimly hung up the phone. They wouldn't see him at the funeral. He had press that day. Important press. They would all understand that he couldn't make it. His dad would have understood. They weren't that close, anyway. He would tell his sister that he hadn't gotten her message in time. He would tell her he didn't get her message at all. He would call her the night of the award show to let her know how he was feeling after he had won or after he had lost the two awards he was nominated for, and he would sound shocked and angry and sad that he hadn't found out about their dad in time. Maybe he would surprise her with a nice gift. Send her money. Something. He would do something to make it up to her.
The Independent Spirit Awards were soon upon him and he ended up taking Mandy, a girl out of many he had recently been seeing that would look really good on camera for the tabloids. "I'm nervous," he told her while they were sitting side by side in hair and makeup, getting prepped for the event.
"Don't be nervous, honey," she said while checking out her lip gloss in the mirror. He hated that she called him that. "I have something for you to make it better. Take another drink and I'll give it to you in the car." The makeup artist poured him another shot and handed it to him without being asked. He drank it. He held onto the glass and stared at the stranger he was taking with him to the biggest night of his life.
It should have been Charlotte. Charlotte had helped him get this far. She had bought him the antique typewriter he had written his screenplay on. She had made him his favorite dinners and taken his writers block tirades in stride. She had kept her music turned down so as not to disturb him while he worked. She had worked so he didn't have to, and would come home after a long day and knead the back of his neck just how he liked without being asked.
"God damn," he muttered down at his empty glass and suddenly felt like crying. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. All of the money, the fame...all of the women. None of it was as wonderful as the smell of Charlotte's auburn hair. The sparkle in her plain brown doe eyes. How she would touch his face. The noise Charlotte made when she would roll over in her sleep-- soft moan ending in a sigh--was the only noise he ever needed to hear again in his life.
"Pete," Mandy's voice broke through the haze. "Ready to go, honey?"
They were in the car. She was pressing her body against his. Pressing a pill into his hand. "For your nerves," she whispered into his hair. She smelled like smoke. She ran one hand across the back of his neck with her hard fake nails. She was stroking him through his pants. It was doing nothing for him. He took the pill. He got out of the car. He posed for pictures with Mandy and gave as many interviews as he could. A reporter asked him what the inspiration for his film had been. Pete had already answered this question a hundred times, always with the same mysterious, "A summer I had a few years ago." But now, with alcohol on his breath and that awful pill pumping through his veins, he answered, "Charlotte."
He had won Best First Screenplay and lost Best Supporting Male. There was an after party, and he was there. He drank. He danced. He took another pill from Mandy before losing her and trying to wrap his mind around the tiny brunette whispering obscene things into his ear. He lost his phone. He jumped in the pool in his suit. A set of keys were placed in his hand and he was suddenly driving through the city, a different brunette in the seat next to him, laughing and shaking her hair in the wind. They were back at his place. They were taking off each others clothes. More alcohol. They were spilling it on each others bodies and laughing. They jumped on the bed. They slept together and he turned her away from him, holding onto her dark hair and pretending that it was auburn.
He woke up the next day to breakfast in bed. He took one look at the food, one look at her smiling face, and asked her to leave. Whatever her name was. He rubbed his temples as she started getting riled up about how she wasn't just a piece of meat, and he eventually walked to the bathroom and locked himself in, content to wait until she left. He wished he had his phone with him. He needed to call his sister. He thought maybe he would call Charlotte. He stepped into the shower, the brunette pounding at his bathroom door, and turned it on hot. Steam filled the room and he leaned his head against the wall, finally letting himself slide down to rest in the bottom of his bathtub, letting the water fall on him like rain. He thought about Charlotte's smile. He thought about how when she said she loved him, he believed her. No one in his life really loved him now. They all wanted a piece of him, but they didn't care about his pieces. They didn't want to know his history. They just wanted a photo. An interview. A story to tell their friends about how they had spent the night with the next big thing. Charlotte cared. She had always cared. He fell back to sleep, shivering even though the water was hot. He dreamt about the last time he had seen her.
He had decided to go for a walk and get some fresh air after writing all morning. He stopped by their favorite cafe and after ordering his favorite piece of pie from his favorite waitress, he caught the eye of a pretty girl. She looked a lot like Charlotte, but she was a little skinnier. Her hair a little smoother. Her complexion milky white rather than dotted with freckles. Her voice was smooth, without the husky undertones Charlotte had. She was the daughter of a hot shot who worked for the movies, she had said. Her name was Stephani. He had told her he was actually working on a script. She wanted to see it. Maybe she could show it to her dad? They ended up back at the apartment he and Charlotte shared and he had slept with her. He didn't know why. She was prettier, but she didn't know how he liked to be touched. She was too loud, like a porn star...fake. She didn't smell right. It was sleazy. Whenever he had been with Charlotte, he felt like he could see into her soul.
Stephani had been an enormous mistake.
When they had finished she said she had somewhere to be, but that she would give his script to her father. He was relieved that he hadn't had to ask her to leave, but as they walked out of the bedroom, there was Charlotte. Sitting on the couch. Who knew how long she had been there? What she had heard. Stephani stopped, looked at Charlotte, looked at him, back at Charlotte, and left without a word. Charlotte waited until the door had shut behind her, and then she burst into tears. He tried to comfort her, but she was inconsolable. She screamed, she thrashed, she broke the lamp they had bought on their road trip up the coast. She had stormed out of there and he didn't hear from her for a week. None of her friends would give up where she was. She wouldn't answer her phone.
He got a call from Stephani's dad, and he was interested in talking to him about his script. Stephani had surprisingly followed through. The day he was scheduled to meet with him, Charlotte had shown up to collect her things. "I might have sold my story," Pete told her uneasily, as she packed her things. "My script. My movie might get made." She had said nothing. "I'm sorry." He finally said. She looked at him then, and he saw the pain in her eyes. "Please don't go."
She carried her things out the door, and he had followed her to the elevator, trying to convince her to stay. He wouldn't go to the interview if she would just stay and talk to him. They could work this out.
Standing in the elevator, the doors about to close, she had said softly, "Don't forget those who loved you before you became famous, Pete."
He had gone to the interview anyway. He had gotten a better offer from a competitor. He had a contract. A deal. A part in the movie that would be made from his script about the summer he and Charlotte had met. He had waited for Charlotte to call him, to come back on her own time...he felt like he was giving her time. But then he had slept with someone else. And then someone else. And even if Charlotte had come back, he was in a new frame of mind. He didn't need her there when all of these new opportunities were presenting themselves. He was busy now. She would only hold him back. He had convinced himself of this.
Months passed. Years. He wrote another script for a movie that did not do as well as the first, but he struck gold again with his third script. He forgot to call his sister, and by the time he remembered, it was much too late. They never spoke again. He married. He divorced. He went to rehab. He wrote a book that made it to the New York Times Bestsellers list for five weeks. He directed a movie that did fairly well. Nine years had past since he had last seen Charlotte as the elevator doors closed. He was going for a walk to his favorite cafe to get his favorite piece of pie when he saw her.
Charlotte.
Fireworks didn't go off, a parade didn't start up. It was the most anti climatic experience of his life. There she was. walking out of a movie theater. Her long auburn hair was now a shoulder length bob. She had put on a little weight, but not a lot. Her freckles had faded.
"Charlotte," He said, and she glanced up. Her doe eyes registered who he was and she suddenly seemed frozen, unsure of what to do. He was drawn to her like the tide to the shore. He swept her up in a hug that was much too friendly, holding her tight, smelling her hair, desperately searching for that old feeling of being loved. She awkwardly hugged him back.
"Peter," she finally said when he pulled back to look at her. "It's been a long time."
"It has. How have you been?" It was all he could think of to say. It was as if she had never left. He wanted to kiss her squarely on the mouth.
"I've been well. Of course this would be the day that I ran into you," she laughed nervously. "How ironic."
"Why is that?" he said, smiling at her smile.
She gestured at the movie theater behind her. "They're playing When They Fall. It's the first time I've watched it. Watched any of your movies, actually. It's very good. The critics were right."
"I have the others at my house. My other films. Come over and we can watch them." He wasn't thinking. He had suddenly become 21 again, saying anything to get her to come home with him.
"Um..." She looked up and down the street, as if she would find the answer there. "OK. Yeah. Do you live nearby?"
They walked to his condo and he talked. He told her about the Hollywood scene and what tired him about it. He told her he was thinking about going back to school. He told her about the newest script he had started. She walked silently beside him, looking at the ground, nodding occasionally. When they made it to his condo, he was frantically trying to figure out what to do next. Here was Charlotte, in his condo. Should he offer her a drink? Give her a tour? Actually watch his movies? He didn't have to think long, because as soon as the door closed behind them, she silently removed her shirt as though it were the most normal action in the world.
He stared at her. She stared back. She undid her bra and let it fall. She started to undo her pants when he was upon her. His mouth pressed into her warm familiar lips. Her arms wrapped around him, and he held her so tightly, as though letting her go would drop her on the floor. She pulled at his clothes and soon they were up against the wall, naked and pulling each other closer and closer. Desperate. Scrambling. Then they were on his kitchen cabinet. The couch. They made it to the floor of his bedroom. He touched her everywhere, he kissed her, he did everything he could to become a part of her. To permanently entwine in an unending circle. When she breathed out, he breathed in. There was no stopping. Ever. This was going to last forever. Every time he felt her getting close to the end, he would stop, kiss her, taste her sweat, breathe in her smell. She was so familiar...familiar was the word he liked. The word he craved.
He stopped, picked her up and placed her on his bed, looked at her, touched her face, and then he began again. Slow. Savoring every sensation. Savoring her. Loving her. His Charlotte. His flower. The love of his life. He cupped her face in one hand, and pressed his hand into hers with the other. Faster. It had never been like this. With her. With anyone. And then there it was. They disappeared into each other. They exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, swirling together and losing where one of them started and the other began. Solution and solute. They were hurtling through air, through time, through space. It was endless...until it ended where it had started. They were human again. They were solid. Back in his condo. Just two people in a bed. He held her close. He kissed her forehead. He was ready to stay in bed with her for weeks.
"I should go," she whispered.
He tensed. Hadn't she just been where he had been? Hadn't she just experienced what he had experienced?
"What?" it was all he could manage to say.
She pulled back to look at him, opened her mouth to speak, and his eyes laid to rest on her left ring finger. A diamond, small but set in a twisted beautiful band, rested there.
He stared. She closed her mouth. Silence screamed through the room. She opened her mouth again.
"I'm a mother now, Pete," she seemed to say from far away. Far away and underwater.
And then she was getting up. She was in his bathroom. She walked out, still naked, and stood looking at him. Crossed the room. Brushed the hair out of his eyes.
"For me, it was always you," she whispered. "Why did you do that to us?" It wasn't a real question. Rhetorical, laced with sadness and a pleading, as though asking him to go back in time and undo what he had done.
But then she was gone. She had drifted out of the room as though she were a ghost. Distantly, he heard her dressing. The opening and closing of his door. She was really gone. Charlotte was gone again. Pete was alone. Completely alone. Trembling. Scared. Sick.
He curled up into a ball and began to cry.
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