She lifts a brow. “Well, that was way less enthusiastic than I was expecting. I was joking about the lack of O-ness, but if there’s a problem in that department…”
“No,” I say, pressing my hands to my cheeks in an effort to stop a rising blush. “That department was just fine.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just—” I cut myself off, because I really don’t know. But somehow I feel like I’ve stepped through the looking glass and am living a life that isn’t really mine. Or that’s wrong somehow.
But how the hell do I say that? For that matter, why would I even feel that way? “Nothing’s wrong,” I begin. “I think it’s just all new, you know? I mean, we’ve known each other our whole lives, and now everything has shifted. Growing pains, I guess. That’s got to be normal, right?”
“Sure,” she says. “But at the same time, Ollie’s been in love with you forever. So it’s a little weird, but not unexpected, you know?”
I nod, because I do know. “I think I just drank too much last night. My head’s been feeling fuzzy for hours, and I had a seriously bizarre tequila-induced dream.”
“Yeah? Tell?”
I take a sip of my coffee as I try to remember. But I can’t seem to grasp anything. It’s faded completely, and all I am left with is a hollow sense of loss.
“I can’t. It’s gone. But I can remember it was weird. And, I don’t know—now it feels like my world is off-kilter.” I shake my head. “Sorry. I know that sounds nuts.”
“I think it sounds like you’re right about the margaritas.”
“Nothing more coffee can’t cure,” I decide. “And you? What did you do after the movie?”
I hold my breath, afraid she’s going to say Douglas or Kevin, two of the guys in the complex that she fucks regularly. Jamie is my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I approve of the way she goes through men like some people go through Diet Coke. But, honestly, I don’t know if she’s ever going to find a guy who can tie her down.
She purses her lips. “Sat in bed and read, can you believe it? But that’s okay. I’m totally finding someone new tonight.”
It takes me a minute to remember that we’re going to a holiday party at Jamie’s agent’s house in Malibu. Evelyn Dodge is a Hollywood institution, so much so that even I—who know next to nothing about television and movies—have heard of her. Jamie introduced us once, and I could immediately see why she’s such a fixture in this town. She’s brassy and smart and doesn’t take anyone’s shit. She’s held pretty much every job in the industry, and has recently returned to agenting.
She saw Jamie in a commercial about a year ago and signed her, which surprised the hell out of Jamie, but not me. Jamie’s movie star gorgeous, and the camera absolutely loves her. Since signing with Evelyn, she’s landed a few more national commercials, and I’m certain that she’s going to get a series or a movie soon. At least, I desperately hope so. If for no other reason than maybe a daily routine will keep Jamie from screwing her way through Los Angeles County.
“We’re supposed to meet Lisa for breakfast in less than two hours,” she says. “I’m gonna hop in the shower first, then you can, okay?”
“Sure,” I say. I freshen my coffee and then take my mug to my room. And as soon as I hear the shower turn on, I yank open my middle dresser drawer.
I know I shouldn’t—I know I should just look in my closet for an outfit or fire up my computer and work—but I can’t help myself. This is what I need. Something to center me. To push me back upright so that I no longer feel like I’m toppling out of my own life, overwhelmed by how fast things are shifting, even if those changes are for the good.
The antique leather case is small and battered, and I take it out reverentially. I open it up to reveal a plain interior with little pockets and elastic loops, all filled with gleaming metal tools.
I take out an X-acto knife, my hand closing reverentially around the handle, which fits comfortably in my palm. The negligible weight is almost misleading, because this blade will do the job so perfectly, so brilliantly.
I have alcohol in a little bottle along with cotton balls. And I pull them closer so that they are at the edge of the dresser. Then I peel off my yoga pants and sit on the foot of the bed in my underwear, my legs spread wide.
I haven’t cut since I moved to Los Angeles. Getting away from my mother was the best thing I ever did. And in celebration, I threw away all my blades even before I got here.
But that’s not to say I haven’t wanted to, which is why I bought this case a few months ago at a flea market when I was feeling lonely and a little lost.
I tell myself this is a one-time thing. I touch the blade to my inner thigh, then slowly and lightly drag it over my flesh, running parallel to the scars that already mar my legs. I bite my lip as I watch the beads of blood rise from this first, thin cut. The blade is so sharp there’s not even any pain initially, and it’s almost as if the blood rises from magic alone. As if the pressure that is building up inside me has been searching for release and has found it here, along a mystical line of blood.
It’s not enough though. I don’t just need to cut; I need to feel. And so I take the blade back, craving another stroke, deeper this time. Harder. I need the pain. I need the release.
I need to know that I am real—that this is real—and that I’m not trapped in some dream world where everything is—