You know dark days, you know hard times

"Nice for What", Drake

Sebastian:

She's an aspiring actress, like everybody else.

Actually, an aspiring actress slash model slash writer—like everybody else.

I run into my former step-sister by accident, at a large, dive-ish bar in Hollywood. We haven't had anything to do with each other in years. I'm there alone, scoping the place out, because supposedly this bar is popular with females of the goth/emo/headbanger variety. It's crowded tonight, lots of groups of people sitting or standing at the high tables, talking loudly over the loud rock music. I do see one girl with the requisite leather and fishnets, but my attention is distracted by—Damn, is that really her? I go over to her table and say hello.

"Excuse me," she says to her group, "this is one I'm going to need some alone time with." She has this big grin pasted on her face, just as if we'd parted on good terms.

She hustles me over to a table at the opposite corner. Once we're settled in, I give her the once-over. Impeccable burgundy-painted toenails, jeweled open-toe heels, short dress, diamond stud earrings, black on black on black. Boho vibes? Casual chic? Fuck that. A lot of the girls who come here from somewhere else try to fit in by copying the styles around them—Venice faux-hippie, say, or West Hollywood fitness sexpot—not realizing that the decision-makers in this town prize individuality over nearly everything else. Not Kathryn: her style is aggressively New York.

No more large ugly cross necklace, I notice. But that doesn't mean she isn't still using.

"What are you doing here?" she says.

"You mean in this bar?"

"I mean in LA." Like it's her own personal territory. Her glare takes me all the way back in time to when our respective parents first got married to each other and, poor us, we had to share the same spacious luxury townhouse. Although, to be fair, she has more reasons to hate me now than she did back then.

"I'm a photographer. Magazine glamour shots, some headshots, some boudoir work."

"Boudoir work. Wow, color me shocked."

"Hey, I'm a professional. Got a BA in Photography and everything. Although I'll admit the 'photography practice' I got in high school didn't hurt."

I wink at her, hoping to get her to crack a smile, and for a second I think she's about to. But the second passes.

"And you couldn't do all this in New York why?"

"Because I didn't want to spend my entire life in the same city. Besides, the industry I work in is shifting more and more to this location. Supermodels were a 90's phenomenon. Nowadays most magazines would rather do a photo spread of a woman who's actually done something."

"I see."

"So what brings you over here to Los Angeles?" I say.

"My career," she says, rather shortly. "I'm an actress."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I just never pegged you for the type. I thought you'd wind up in Wall Street, or as a corporate lawyer, some career swimming in power and cash. Or else in politics, you've definitely got the manipulative skills for it. That's a compliment, by the way. I thought I might see you on the cover of Time or something, trying to be the first female president."

She rolls her eyes.

"No, no, and no."

"Why not?" I counter. "You were student body president at Manchester, if I recall. Isn't it just a short step from there to first female president?"

"Uh, no, it isn't," she says, laughing. "And all those things you mentioned were my mother's dream careers for me, not mine. Besides, I don't fit the current political zeitgeist. Practically every popular politician these days is either a woman-hating gorilla, or some nutjob who goes around screaming 'Eat the rich!' Not my style."

"And what's wrong with eating the rich?" I say. I'm saying it mostly to tease her—I don't really follow the news that closely. But it's also true that when I'm making small talk with one of the models I work with, and the conversation turns to politics, every single one of them I've spoken to has turned out to be a hardcore Sanders fan.

"Maybe you get some deviant pleasure out of the idea of being a homeless person's next tasty snack. I think I'll decline, thanks."

"Well, I suppose a mob with torches and pitchforks could come any day now for my father or any of his ex-wives, including and especially the one who gave birth to you, and to be honest I don't think I'd even shed a tear. But as for myself, I think I'm pretty safe. Don't get me wrong, I'm doing fairly well, but I'm not making the crazy amounts of money we grew up with, either. Are you?"

"Not yet. But I will be." She says it as if daring me to call her wrong.

I don't say anything in response, just give her a short chuckle and a little sardonic smile—enough to communicate that I know the odds as well as she does.

There's a silence between us. I decide to change the subject.

"So now that we've cleared all that up, we can get down to the real question. Single, married, or otherwise taken? Open relationship? Domestic partnership? Kinky sex commune?"

"Single and not looking. Not even that into sex these days, if you really want to know the truth."

"Interesting. I'm single these days myself."

She smirks. "How long did it take you to get rid of the bible thumper?"

"She got rid of me, if you must know."

"Why?"

"Because I cheated on her. Some people just aren't cut out for monogamy, and it appears that I'm one of them. But all that's ancient history now. I'd much rather talk about you. Why exactly are you single and not looking? Are you saving yourself to screw the casting director, or…?"

She raises an eyebrow, then looks directly into my eyes. "Did you ever do that?"

"What?"

"Sleep with someone you weren't attracted to."

"Just once, and I can even tell you who it was. But you're not going to like the answer."

Her mouth curls up in a half-smile. "I've survived public humiliation at the hands of a fundamentalist freak, and, so far, the movie business. I think I can handle whatever it is you're so desperate to tell me."

All right.

"It was a girl I slept with for a bet," I tell her slowly, deliberately, wanting her to understand. "And at first, that was the only reason. But then I fell in love with her. And she changed me, in ways I can still feel today."

"Seriously? You're still all weak over that little blonde?"

"Look, I'm not saying we were right for each other or that things were perfect between us. If they were, she'd be here with me now. But I learned a lot from Annette. She taught me a lot about love, about…"

"Sebastian. Listen. To. Yourself." She gestures on each word for emphasis, her expression veering between amused incredulity and total disgust. But what did she expect? That I'd stay in my adolescent cynical pose forever?

"Listen to yourself," I say, "practically foaming at the mouth with jealousy over a woman you yourself consider pathetic." Although I know full well it isn't really about being jealous. She's testing me, just like I've been testing her, feeling out the edges of new Sebastian and seeing how he measures up to the old one. "We haven't even spoken in over a decade. I assume by now she's happily married out somewhere in the Midwest, with three kids and a mommy blog. The real question is, what about you?"

"What about me?" She leans in as she talks, so subtly that I can't really tell if it's by accident or if she's deliberately trying to show me her breasts. Knowing her, though, probably the latter—I remember this trick of hers from our teenage years.

"What have I seen you in?"

"I was in the music video for—" she names a pop/rap song with a baby-voiced female singer over a tinny beat, which was nauseatingly ubiquitous over the airwaves last summer. I haven't seen the video for the very good reason that I was trying desperately to avoid it. "I played the snobby bitch who the singer hits in the face with a pie. I've also done some Law & Order, cellphone commercials, a clothing commercial…oh, and I also do some modeling on the side. Print work, like fashion magazine spreads. Actually it's a bit strange that we haven't run into each other before now. Since you do so much magazine work."

LA has taught her all new lessons in how to hate.

"Impressive. Anything else?"

"I'm also working on a screenplay."

"I'm shocked. What about?"

"It's about a young girl's descent into hell." She draws out the last word with playful Vincent Price-style relish. That's something different about new Kathryn: her gestures are bigger, her facial expressions more vivid. I wonder if she trained originally for the stage. I see a vision of her in my head in period costume as Lady Macbeth, why not?

But no, it's the movies she wants. Fame.

"It's—"she pauses mid-sentence and checks the time on her phone. "I really should get back to my thing."

"Want to pick this up later?" I say, pulling my own phone out.

I fully expect her to say either yes ("looks like we're still two peas in a pod, let's pick up where we left off"), an insulting version of yes ("I missed having my little toy around to play with"), or no ("you're not worth my time, move on"). Instead, she hesitates. She looks down at her drink, pursing her lips, then looks up at the ceiling, then looks down at her drink again. She looks…vulnerable. Unconfident. Not how I'm used to seeing her. The effect is strangely erotic, like catching a glimpse of her naked. An intimacy she clearly doesn't want.

Then, just as suddenly, it's gone. The bored sardonic look has snapped firmly back onto her face, except now I know that it's a mask. She grabs my phone from my hand, pecks out her number, and coolly hands it back. "Game on."

"Game on it is." I give her a feral grin.

"Oh by the way, I almost forgot to ask. Do you still keep a little Dear Diary filled with notes on all your conquests?"

It's my turn to laugh out loud. "'Conquests'? That's so high school."

"Well, do you?"

"I still keep a journal, yes. But these days it's just as likely to have thoughts on lighting techniques, or a random dream I had last night, as anything salacious."

"Okay, we get it, you're a saint." She rolls her eyes again, gets up to go.

I grab her by the wrist and hold her there. As I do, I notice for the first time that night that she's wearing perfume. Her scent is nothing like the Annick Goutal florals she used to wear in middle school and high school, to prove to us all how she was too sophisticated and French for the big name brands. It's much darker, musky and intoxicating. My grip on her wrist tightens, hard enough to hurt. With my other hand, I deliberately trace my fingers in a slow circle across the back of hers.

"I'm no saint, Kathryn," I tell her.

She violently shrugs me off and returns to her group. I watch her ass move under the fabric of her black dress as she walks back. I finish my drink, meditating a bit on the possibilities, then decide to go home—I've lost all interest for the night in metalhead women. My mind keeps circling back to that moment of hesitation, that vulnerable expression on her face. I want to see it again, and soon.

Other people at Manchester Prep told me "the bitch" had cried at her downfall. But I never personally got to see it, being in a coma at the time. Cecile had said more: that the tears started specifically when she saw the picture of her own face on the journal's second page. Not after, not before. I didn't believe her…"I know what I saw, okay? I literally handed her that copy, I was like right there in front of her." I didn't believe it. I never saw.

Now I picture her crying as I ravage her from behind, face down ass up stroke after punishing stroke tears soaking the pillow "Sebastian it's you, it was always you..."

I want her.

No, it's far worse. I want to conquer her.

Kathryn:

Reminiscing was fun for a few minutes, but I have a life. And I don't like interruptions to that life.

When I get back to the networking event that is my actual reason for being here, all conversations are in full swing. None of the breakout groups parts to let me in. I tell myself circulating is overrated and go back to my own table, figuring I'll just wait for the right moment to say something intelligent, but I can't concentrate on anything anyone is saying. It's just meaningless fragments. The fear has nested on my head, a high-pitched whine blocking out sound.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Cast a quick habitual glance at my reflection in the mirror before entering the nearest stall. Sometimes when I do this I see the left side of my face and want to vomit, but right now it's okay. I rummage in my purse, take out the hand cream I rationally know I do not need, and spread it on my hands. Fear is spreading through every cell of my body.

That smug, arrogant fucker. He could have stayed in New York or literally anywhere else. But no he had to come on my turf, try once again to fuck up my life…

Yet you chose to give him your number. You didn't have to, no one was putting a gun to your head.

With the fear comes the need. No, no. I cannot afford another relapse. I cannot afford to lose any more of my life to this. My fingers run over the contacts list in my phone, hover over the name of my sponsor. It's precisely at moments like this that you're supposed to call them. But if I do it now I'll miss the rest of the networking, and if I wait until afterwards she'll be in bed, she has a husband and kids, she doesn't stay out late like I do. I hate imposing on her, hate relying on her, hate needing her too much. Just get your shit together for now and call her after it's done. But call her, that's what she's there for. Don't go to bed without calling her. Because if you don't, in the morning you're going to call Pyotr...

Pyotr whose number I deleted from my phone, whose fake fucking business card I burned long ago, but whose contact info is burned into my brain. He said he'd seen a thousand women like me. That women like me always come back.

I pull myself together, like I've done all my life. When I go back to my table, there's a temporary lull in the talking. Someone asks me, hey, who was that guy who dragged you off? I know exactly what to say.

"Oh, him? He's someone I know from New York, from way back when I was in high school. We had this scandalous affair..."