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chronic-ghost · 1 year

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Chapter 7 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 13903

chapter summary: Promotion for the film begins and Chloe comes back to him … again, this time with a request that comes maybe a little too late. Two questions are asked that alter the course of his life forever.

chapter warnings/tags: darker themes, drug-coerced physical aggression (nothing graphic, but a little more intense that in prior chapters), rough sex, casual drug use

a/n: It has to get worse before it gets better . . .

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ScreenGrab

August, 3rd

13:16:29 PICTURE UP, BEGIN B-ROLL:

CUT TO:

Focuses and unfocuses on DIETER BRAVO as he thumbs through his phone. Someone next to him out of frame says something to him and he laughs. The camera pans out to include NATALIE LORRAINE in the shot. They both sit in black director chairs.

She mutters something else and strokes a strand of hair off his forehead. The movement is gentle, intimate. His look to her verges on adoration.

He mouths, thank you.

CUT TO BLACK

13:18:01

CUT TO: INTERVIEW WITH DIETER BRAVO AND NATALIE LORRAINE

INTERVIEWER: So tell me, why did you sign onto this project?

DIETER BRAVO: I’d worked with Heidi Morgan in the past and when she approached me with this, I was really taken by the story and Heidi’s direction. There was a lot to work with and I really felt a solid connection to Ben’s character arc.

INTERVIEWER: Because of your past with drug abuse?

DB: Sure. You could say that.

NATALIE LORRAINE: You told me you liked the role because you got to play the guitar again.

DB: When they’d let me. But yeah, that was also a big factor. I got to walk around my trailer, strumming my guitar. Too bad for everyone else it wasn’t soundproof.

INTERVIEWER: What about you, Natalie?

NATALIE LORRAINE: My past history of drug abuse or my guitar? Oh, you mean the role. Yeah, I wanted a challenge and felt like Taylor’s struggle to balance stardom and her own past was something I could do a lot with.

DB: You just liked the flowy, sheer dresses.

NL: You are welcome to borrow mine. They’ll change your life.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like working with someone you’d never met before in such an intense role? Natalie, you first this time.

NL: Oh, um . . . it was great. Dieter is a great scene partner, one of the best. He made me feel very, um, comfortable. I’ve never had a role like this before and he made the experience truly memorable. I can’t ever thank him enough.

INTERVIEWER: That’s a lot of high praise.

NL: He deserves it.

INTERVIEWER: And you, Dieter, what was it like working with someone so much younger than you?

DB: Ah, wow, way to cut deep there. But, uh, Natalie is one of a kind. She made me feel . . . really good, about the role. I think my life has been made better by knowing her.

NL: Aw. You sap.

INTERVIEWER: The rumors say that early on in shooting you two didn’t like each other. Is that true?

DB: Rumors are always exaggerated, but, uh, yeah, early on, we had some, um, creative differences.

INTERVIEWER: How did you overcome them?

NL: Same way anyone else does, I guess. Just . . . talked it out.

INTERVIEWER: My time is almost up, so I gotta ask, is this real?

DB: What do you mean?

INTERVIEWER: The chemistry between you two is palpable. Are you two secretly hooking up?

NL: No. Why would you ask that?

DB: I’m married.

NL: He’s married.

INTERVIEWER: Ah, well, had to try. Thanks for your time.

Movie Burn

August, 3rd

15:20:45

INTERVIEWER: Did you have any concerns about backsliding, Dieter, after coming out of rehab so quickly?

DB: No.

INTERVIEWER: Are you guys secretly dating?

DB/NL: NO.

Chatter Media

August, 3rd

17:17:21

INTERVIEWER: Natalie, what was your workout regimen for this film?

NL: Adderall and American Spirits.

INTERVIEWER: Really? You look so hot.

NL: Thanks. I crushed up the pills into my green enema smoothie every morning.

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with Dieter?

NL: No.

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with anyone? Got any secret boyfriends?

NL: Yes.

INTERVIEWER: Oh, really? Can you tell me who?

NL: No.

JemJem News

August, 4th

08:38:01

INTERVIEWER: Have you ever kissed outside of filming?

DB: No.

INTERVIEWER: Ever thought about it?

NL: Could have kissed him when he brought me a water bottle today.

INTERVIEWER: Did you?

NL: No.

Bra$h Talk

August, 4th

10:21:23

CUT TO:

*Off-screen* INTERVIEWER: So, you don’t know where they are?

CAMERA focuses on Mark Bronson. His hands fidget with a water bottle. He’s looking over the sight-line of the camera.

MARK BRONSON: No. I don’t know. They were here earlier.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have his number? Or –

*unintelligible*

CUT TO:

MARK BRONSON: I’m calling, but she’s not picking up.

INTERVIEWER: Shit.

PRODUCER: Alright. Take five. Sorry, Mr. Bronson. Give us a second.

MB: No problem. I–

CUT OFF.

He breathes in, the powder tickling the inside of his nose, the back of his brain. Burning, like a fire ant bite. The porcelain of the toilet lid is cold against the tip of his nose, his palm. It always makes him a bit dizzy, that first one. He leans back, against the wall, careful to avoid the silver railing, rubbing his nose, and catches your eyes over the rim of the seat.

Cold tile, stale air. Fluorescent lighting. This public hotel bathroom is not anything like the cottage in New Orleans. But it’ll have to do. You’re the only warm thing in the room. He stretches out his leg to knock his boot against your thigh. You glance at it briefly before inhaling the coke on the lid.

“Why do they give you all the good questions, huh?” You glower, voice rough.

“Oh, you mean the ones about my stint in rehab or my arrest?”

“Okay, that’s, like, a third of the time. Most of my questions are about my ass or tits.”

Dieter smirks. “Can you blame them, baby?.”

“And if one more of those shits ask me if I’m fucking you,” you narrow your eyes at him, “I’m taking my Starbucks cup and shoving it up their asses.”

“But you are. A lot and often.” He bends around the toilet and takes your ankle in his hand. He smooths his palm up to the back of your knee, then back down. He never wants to stop touching you. You are so warm.

“Maybe not enough,” you smirk at him, familiar enough with his every little tell to know that he’s half-hard already.

The bite in his brain has turned to a simmer, greasy bits crackling in the fire. He tugs on your ankle, pulling you around until you’re in his lap. He settles back against the hotel bathroom wall, smiling, and cups your cheek, rings knocking against your jaw bone. Your arms fold across the back of his shoulders as your nose turns into his.

“You’ll get some good questions, eventually.”

“Yeah, when? How?”

“Just stop being a woman with fantastic tits.”

“Dieter!”

He chuckles and softly bites your jaw. You giggle and squirm, and he lets go, dropping his head back against the tile. He’s quiet. Thinking.

“How did I ever get through these things without you?” He hums, eyes closing and opening slowly. You smell like lilac and cigarettes.

“You didn’t have to split your coke, for one.” You mutter, playfully, and he pinches your chin.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The hand at his shoulder crawls up into his hair.

“I know, Dieter. I know.”

He tilts your head down as you press his up and that brush of connection, his mouth folding over yours– it sparks something in his chest. You were wrong. He didn’t need the coke if he had you. You make his skin buzz. You spin his brain around and around until he’s dizzy. He feels awake when you’re underneath him.

Everything seemed like it had been shifted slightly to the left, since coming back. Everything was the same but nothing at all. He worries it is too plainly written across his face. He worries that the media vultures will see it, that Mark or Heidi would see it too. He worries that you will catch him staring and hate what you see in his eyes.

The longer he is with you, the more real the shared “pocket universe” feels, the one you shared with him. That this is where he was meant to be and everything before New Orleans was someone else’s life. With you, he isn’t exactly Dieter Bravo but he isn’t himself either. Maybe that was partially because being high off and on for two weeks straight tends to cause feelings of disassociation, but it’s more than that.

The longer he is around you, he knows he’s building his own funeral pyre higher and higher. But the farther he feels from the ashes of his life, the more he wants you. So, Dieter did what Dieter always does: he follows what feels right.

He pulls back, that ache, that need, to bury himself in you already stretching in his gut, but he has to say this. You have to know.

“Move in with me.”

You still. You become immobile, trapped in amber, with your hands still in his hair. You’ve never been meek, never will be, but somehow you’ve shrunk.

“What did you say?”

His chest surges with affection. This feels right, so it has to be. But he knows you’ll run if you think he’s fucking with you. He wants to cradle you to his chest but he has to wait for the air raid sirens to stop ringing in your ears.

“You heard me,” he says softly. He ducks his head to lift your gaze and you follow. There’s fear in your eyes. He thumbs the hinge of your jaw. “I want you to move in with me.”

There’s much more malice in your voice than betrayed by your eyes. You sit back, away from him, on his knees, not his lap. “Move into your house with you? The same one you share with your wife?”

“No.”

Your mouth twists and panic gets the better of you. You stand up from him and haul yourself across the small bathroom, arms crossed and eyes sharp. “So you want me to be just your dirty secret? In some sleazy apartment up town? A kept fucking woman–,”

“No.” He isn’t going to be patient with you when you’re like this. He overwhelms you in two steps– takes your jaw in his hand and again you stiffen, lips pulled into a snarl like a cornered street cat. He wraps his other hand around your wrist as if to preemptively keep you from scratching him. “Stop talking like that. Just tell me– do you want me?”

Not, do you want to live with me?

Not, do you want a relationship with me?

Not, do you want me to leave my wife for you?

Do you want me?

He doesn’t realize it but the coke is ratcheting up those dark, fringe feelings– his obsession for you, his possessiveness, his near-delirium that he cannot simply have all of you. His hand around your wrist tightens. You try and yank your jaw from his grasp, but he holds on tighter, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Do you want me?” He hisses.

You want to snap at him, to yell – does he understand what he’s asking of you – but you’re sleep deprived, coked out, and increasingly raw around him. The unexpected wave of emotion, of unchecked vulnerability, is surprising as it is powerful. Your knees shake.

Did you want him?

Did you want to breathe?

Did you want to sleep at night?

Did you want to eat food, to feel nourished and full?

Did you want to be happy?

Your bottom lip trembles.

“Dieter–,”

“Just say yes.” His grip leaves your wrist and tenses around your waist. His eyelids hover half-closed as he presses you harshly up against the door. It’s the only bare wall that doesn’t have a metal safety bar around the edges. You feel as though you’re being dragged beneath the waves by a hurricane. “Just say you want me. Tell me you don’t want to fuck anyone else—,”

His teeth bite into your neck, as if to suck the words directly from your blood. Your touch is like electricity everywhere on his skin and any semblance of thought is slowly squeezed from his brain as his grip turns rougher and rougher. When his lips find yours, they’re still pulled back into a snarl.

His deft fingers are tugging your shirt out of your waistband, as your hands slip to his belt, his zipper. One more time, he thinks, one more fuck and then there’ll be some clarity.

“Say it, Natalie,” he growls and bites your earlobe not at all gently. You gasp and the noise has his cock straining against his pants. His hand rises and slides around your throat. “Say it before I take it from you.”

“Dieter, I want–,” your voice is high-pitch, yearning, and a bit of him breaks off like an ice pick tearing up glass shards. Snik. Snik. Splinters.

His fingers around your throat tighten. Your flesh gives beneath his touch and you sputter and squirm beneath him.

“Yeah? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He’s not asking nicely, he’s begging. How do I keep you? How do I stop you from leaving me? He’s frantic about it.

Fuck, he took too much coke and now he’s emotional. Bleeding. Vacillating between rational and irrational. Wavering. He wants so much. Too much. It’s the coke and it’s making him want to eat you.

He yanks you up into his arms, your skirt up around your waist and you gasp, the enormity of what he feels for you pressing down into you. The door shudders as he holds you against it. His warm cock wedges itself against your stomach and your thigh.

“Baby, please, tell me– I need to know–,”

He’s worried. God, he’s so worried. He buries his face in your chest.

You groan, strained and overwhelmed. There might be tears in your eyes.

“Yes, Dieter, I want you. I want you so fucking badly I can’t breathe right.”

The groan he makes is one of relief and he’s not even inside of you.

“But, please, please, fuck me, Dieter. I need to— you have to–,”

Fighting with the fabric of your skirt, you pull your underwear to the side. He drags his hips forward, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. It’s wet and warm and he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

“You’re gonna stay, right? You’re gonna be with me, after this?” He’s already out of breath, out of his mind. You nod and he thinks he might cry.

“I’ll stay.” You swallow, your eyes closed, head against the wooden door. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

One arm wrapped around your low back, and the other holding the both of you against the door, he slides up, breaching you – “fuck, fuck, fuck–,” “I know, baby, I know–,” all the way to the very end of you in a single, hot stroke. The moan you share is harsh, ragged, pained with the force of it. He feels the sound in his chest, your own pressed up against his. You knock your head back against the door, mouth open, as if awestruck that it could feel this good.

Your knees hitched around his waist pull him closer. “I gotta– I want– more–,”

“Baby–,” his nose turns your mouth to him and he open-mouth kisses you, tongue licking the inside of your mouth. His hands hitch you higher, cupping your hips to take even more of him, and he starts fucking you.

That’s what this is. A good, hard, mean fuck.

The door rattles behind you and thankfully is already locked. His thrusts are deep, fast, hips punching into yours.

“I wanna look. I wanna watch me fuck you.” He murmurs in your neck. Your eyes are closed, mouth twisted in pleasure, as you scratch his back to hold on. “But I don’t wanna drop you.”

He wants to brand your chest with his own.

He shouldn’t be fucking you in a public hotel bathroom, he knows, but New Orleans is gone. The light, and the white bed, and the paint, all gone. You are caught in between universes, in between realms, between what is and what should be. He doesn’t want to be here, in this one, if it means he can’t have you. If he has to go back to whatever his life was before you. This can’t be the end.

Your moans climb higher and higher, your cunt fluttering around him. He knows he should clap a hand over your mouth, but the sounds you make dig under his skin, claw at his blood. They make him feel so good. So wanted.

“Dieter, you’re so deep. You’re going to bruise me.”

“Your little pussy likes it when I’m mean to her–,” he shifts his pelvis, adjusting you against the door, and grinds so hard, the tip of his cock brushes against something that has you mewling.

He wants the leverage of the floor, to hold himself over you, to watch as he splits you apart. But the airlessness, the proximity to you, to that fucked-out look in your eyes, he can’t part with it.

He doesn’t know how to make love. It’s been too long since he’s tried, unable to conjure the memories or the feeling to do it. He only knows frantic clawing, hot skin. But he wants to learn, for you. He doesn't know how to verbalize it, but he needs you to know.

He turns his face from the cup between your neck and shoulder, into your cheek and catches your gaze. You lock eyes and he nearly comes right then and there.

Maybe you already do, know.

“It’s good, Dieter,” you murmur, eyes glassy and cheeks red, “it’s so good.”

It’s too much. Your cunt is sucking him in, shuddering around him as he pounds up into you. Your whimpers are rubbing his nerve endings raw. He has to come before he burns up. He bites into your shoulder and you wail.

He lets go, whining– hot spurts filling your insides and his cock throbs, you moan at the sensation, the warmth, and he’s still coming as your cunt contracts, wavering, and then his hips and thighs are soaked in you.

He wants to fold you into his ribs but instead, presses warm, wet kisses to your cheek, your flushed neck, and then your nose and forehead. Instead of pulling away, setting you down, he pulls you closer, flush against him. He can feel your thighs trembling around him, every breath ragged and heavy.

He’s shaking too.

“Natalie, I–,”

“We should get back.” You won’t look him in the eyes all of a sudden and that hurts, stings something very soft inside of him. He nods, but gives you one more kiss against the plush of your lips, his hand cradling your head, before he slowly, carefully, extracts himself and pulls his softening cock out of you.

“That’s always the worst part,” you groan, face twisted.

He wants you to say, that’s always the worst part– when you leave me.

“Hurts me too,” he mutters quietly as he slowly lowers you to the ground. You wobble, but your grip on his shoulders holds you up right. He lets go of you long enough to take some paper towels from the dispenser and he offers them to you.

Your eyes are soft as you wipe yourself clean from his sticky cum. “Thanks.”

You toss away the used paper as he turns back to the last bits of coke on the toilet. He gathers as much of it as he can and rubs it on his gums. You’re watching him through the mirror as he wipes off the rest and rubs his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, sorry, did you want any?”

You shake your head, a smile in your eyes not on your lips.

“What?”

You reach out to him and as though magnetized, he comes to you, hand sliding around your waist and the other cupping the back of your neck.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” You say, your fingertips rimming his collar. “What you asked before . . . it’s a lot. But I’ll think about it.”

He nods, heart pounding in his chest. How is he going to make it through three more days of this with you? How can he keep away from you now?

“Take your time. But, uh, don’t take too long.”

You nod up at him, bright eyes twinkling, and he bends and kisses you again. It’s brief, subtle, but it makes his ribs expand all the same.

Your hand goes and unlocks the door. “Gimme one second. Gotta check if the coast is clear.”

He lets you go, and you stick your head through the small crack between the door and the wall. Satisfied that you weren’t about to be tackled by reporters from The Rolling Stone, you wink at him and disappear around the corner.

You can’t touch her out there. Only here. In the dark.

He follows you and is hit in the face with a painful, bright light from the sun’s reflection on the marble floor. His eyes watering, he walks forward, towards the shadow, the silhouette he presumes is you.

The lobby is full of people and sounds. No one seems to have heard a single thing, haven’t got a single clue about what just went on in the very public bathroom. His eyes adjust and there you are, in the center of the hustle. You aren’t moving.

“C’mon, we’ve got to get back to the–,”

“Dieter?”

It’s not you asking.

It’s her.

He’d know that voice anywhere, even if he felt like it belonged to a version of himself he had long since abandoned.

Guests and hotel employees and camera crews weave around the three of you.

She wasn’t supposed to come back.

Her hair is as straight as her posture, eyes hidden behind round, thick sunglasses. Her cream, wide-brimmed hat matches her pantsuit, with gold accents. In a word, she is stunning. The ideal movie star wife.

His heart lurches. He half-expects for it to tear out of his chest and slump along the floor like a dying rat, blood splattering on the nice white marble.

“Dieter, how are you?” Chloe doesn’t take off her glasses to address him. She hasn’t seen you yet, he supposes.

“I-I’m,” he tries to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “I’m fine. Good. What are you doing here?”

It’s more accusatory than he means for it to be, but his heart is still pounding in his chest, an after-effect of fucking you.

Behind his wife, the revolving door to the hotel glitters in the slanted gold evening light as children play with it, around adults trying to get through. It makes him think of the time his mother took him to the Coney Island pier and put him on the merry-go-round. He was six and nervous because she’d be out of his sight for a minute each time the carousel turned.

“I’ll be right here waiting,” she said with a smile. “I’ll always come back for you. It’s a promise.”

Why he is thinking of that memory right now is beyond comprehension so he blinks, trying to claw his way through the mounting agitation.

His tone makes Chloe stand up straighter.

“We need to talk, Dieter. About our marriage.”

There’s a gurgling sound, something smothered and choked, behind him and her immaculate face turns over his shoulder.

You’re pale. You’re pale and afraid and he’s ruined you.

“Hello,” Chloe says smoothly. “Do you know Dieter or are you a fan?”

You blink as though she had slapped you. “A fan–?”

“Chloe, this is m-my co-star, Natalie Lorraine. We’re, uh, meant to be at a press junket right now. We got a break . . . and went to get something to eat.”

“Was it good?”

He nearly snaps his neck in half looking back at her. She still hasn’t moved an inch, only her head, her hands clasped neatly across her lap.

“What?”

“Was the food good?” She asks. “You both look a bit ill.”

“No. Food was terrible. I recommend you avoid it.” As though you had been possessed by the ghost of formality itself, face lit with a brilliant smile, you step forward, hand outstretched.

Chloe takes it after a moment and you shake. Dieter has to fight the urge to break your hands apart.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Chloe. I think we just missed each other at the party at Scott’s house.”

She tenses, but not at you. “Yes, well, that was a very busy night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

It’s scary, your face. How serene and calm you are.

“I love this blouse,” you say, gently tugging on the cream silk. “It’s gorgeous on you.”

Chloe smiles genuinely and Dieter’s heart withers to his stomach. “Thanks. It was a gift from my father.”

“The artist, right? Dieter’s told me so much about you. Told all of us. Can’t get him to shut up about it, really.”

Your eyes graze him with the sharpness of a glinting scalpel before smiling back at Chloe.

Her own is stiff. “That’s what I keep hearing.”

Why are you still talking to her? Why are you still here?

“Are you going to be in town lo–,”

“Natalie, we need to get back to the press.” He wants to haul you over his shoulder. “We’ve delayed them enough as it is.”

“Oh, c’mon, Dieter, they can wait a few more minutes. Your wife–,”

“Let’s go—,”

Chloe’s shoulders are taught. Stretched thin.

“I came here to talk, Dieter. When can we do that?”

“Yeah, you should make your wife a priority, Dieter.”

He’s losing his grip on everything. You stand by Chloe as if you were sisters. His gaze leaps to her.

“An hour. Alright? Can you wait an hour? I have to tell them something.”

“Or you can just go now. I’ll tell them an emergency’s come up.” You walk past him and pat him on the chest. He thinks your nails sting him for a second. “Nothing should come between you and the woman you love.”

He wants to take you by the wrists. “Natalie–,”

But you slide around him, waving to Chloe as you go. “Wonderful to meet you.”

You are swallowed up into the crowd of the lobby. No, no, no, no–

“Dieter.” She calls him back. “I have to check in, so you can have an hour.”

“Thank you.”

And he’s weaving into the crowd after you.

He’s shaking when he bursts through the adjacent private hotel room, meant for refreshments and make-up touch ups.

It’s not a panic attack, not yet, but something is mounting in him. It’s clawing up his throat, its talons razor sharp and an inch deep. His throat burns as if he had thrown up – did he? Maybe he did? – but he’s not thinking clearly. None of this feels right.

He’ll come up with some excuse to tell her why he suddenly vanished, but if he doesn’t wrangle back some control, he feels like he’s moments away from walking straight into traffic.

He doesn’t want to be here right now. He wants to get out.

But half of the cast of his very successful movie is just on the other side of this room, along with cameras and recording phones that would just love to get a glimpse of the Old Dieter. The barely-holding-on Dieter. The fucked up one.

Your compact mirror clatters as it falls from his hand onto the bathroom counter. He flips open the secret compartment in the back and is suddenly overwhelmed by the decisions. It feels like there’s a tornado siren going off in his head.

Are yellows uppers or downers? What did you say about the red ones? No, it’s the one with the T on the back that are uppers. No, wait, it’s –

He hears the door open behind him, the sharp light from the window catching on the door handle and sparking in the mirror in front of him.

Fuck it. He grabs three of the ones he thinks are right and throws them into the back of his throat and swallows so hard, his teeth grind together.

“Dieter?” It’s Mark and his gut turns over. “What are you doing–,”

There’s no point in hiding it. He knows Mark saw the open compact of unidentifiable pills.

So much for that fucking drink among friends.

Dieter unhurriedly shuts the compact and slides it into his pocket. He can’t turn around but instead stills himself for an argument, an accusation, a reaming he really deserves, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Mark is just . . . shocked.

“I really didn’t think that. . .” His mouth closes, as if words have failed him. “But she was right. Chloe was right. You are using again.”

It’s not a question or an accusation. It’s just . . . reality.

He has them all ready. The lies he tells himself –

I’ve got it under control

I can stop when I want

This isn’t a relapse

– but for some reason, he can’t say them outloud. Each time he tries, the words stick themselves against his throat. He can see Mark’s expression devolving into anger over his shoulder in the mirror the longer his words remain, unanswered, unchallenged. He would love it for Mark to hit him.

“I don’t get you, man. I don’t.” Mark shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. “Everything was going so fuckin’ well. Why are you throwing it all away now? Why didn’t you come to me? Or Heidi? We could have helped you.”

Dieter shrugs. Something goes dark in Mark’s eyes.

The sun shifts and the light is now permanently blinding his eyes. He closes them and steps out of the bathroom. He swears he can hear the tune of the carousel, the jingle – something starting to give him a headache. Grunting softly, he presses a thumb to the inner corner of his eye.

I’ll always come back for you

“Have you told Chloe?”

Dieter shakes his head, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He thinks there’s a black spot in his vision forming in his right eye. Mark is blurry as he stands over him.

“Are you going to?”

He can feel something slide off of him, or into him. Either way, it’s clogging up his airways. “She’ll find out eventually. She always does.”

Mark’s mouth drops open in disgust. “That’s fucked up, man.”

The jingle is clear now. The door handle sparks like it’s on fire.

“And it’s not your fucking problem. I don’t care what you think.”

“Well, shit, Dieter, I used to think a lot of you. I really did. I’d heard all the shit you’ve gone through in the past few years and to see you on that set being the best version of yourself, I was so fucking proud of you, man. But now that I know that you’re this . . . You really fucking had me there for a second.”

Dieter lowers his thumb from the arch of his eyebrow and meets Mark’s glare. “Now, you know.”

Mark narrows his eyes. “Yeah, now I know.”

Dieter goes back to the bathroom to wash his hands in the sink. They feel sticky for some reason. He has nothing to hold onto.

“When’s the next session? I know we running late, but–,”

“Nevermind about that. Canceled for the day,” Mark growls, “I’ve got a question for you. Are you fucking Natalie?”

His knees nearly give out. “What?”

Over his shoulder in the mirror, Mark crosses his arms. “I said, are you fucking Natalie?”

“Why do you–,”

“I don’t know if you’ve fucked her yet, but there is something going on,” Mark says slowly as if he hadn’t said anything, his gaze focus on the floor. “I wanted to act like I didn’t see it, but if you’re using again . . .”

“Just because I’m high, doesn’t mean I’d cheat on my wife.”

“If you are, just tell her. Leave her. Don’t let it go public.”

Why doesn’t he just tell Mark? Just confess. Just confess that he can’t stand being married to Chloe anymore. That you are unlike anything he’s ever known, ever felt. Sure, Mark’d be mad but maybe, with time, he’d be happy for the both of you– he knows what it feels like to be in love—

Whoa.

Where did that come from? He can’t actually–

His knees buckle as his head spins faster and faster and he clutches the counter to stay upright. He grinds his teeth. “There’s nothing to go public about.”

“Just go home to her, Dieter. You can still fix things–,”

“Stop lecturing me.”

“Don’t go out tonight. We’ll all understand. I’ll tell Roxie you had other things–,”

“Why does Roxie care?” He leaps at the distraction. “Is there something going on?”

Mark clenches his jaw, but Dieter pounces the chance to see you again so soon, even if Chloe comes along. Of course she is, some part of his brain rages, she’s your wife.

“Great. Chloe wants to meet everyone anyway.”

“C’mon, man, don’t do this. Don’t do this to Chloe. Don’t do this to yourself. What happened, Dieter?” He’s pleading. He’s sincere. His brown eyes are deep with concern and it makes Dieter want to vomit.

He goes to leave – his hands only shake once – when Mark grabs him by the shoulder.

He is physically blinded by the color red, just for a minute.

destroy destroy destroy

He can’t even blame the coke. He wants the violence. The pain. The rips in his skin.

His knuckles collide with Mark’s jaw and every nerve in his body roars in victory. The force of Dieter’s punch sends Mark reeling, stumbling back, and he staggers into the wall.

more more more more!

Dieter blinks, the spike in adrenaline making him dizzy. Mark clutches his jaw, already swelling, again more shocked than angry. Dieter squeezes his fists, joints cracking, his right hand throbbing.

“This doesn’t concern you.” he says, quietly, empty of anger. “Leave me alone. Leave Natalie alone.”

He had all but admitted to the affair. He has to tear his feet from the floor, Mark’s jaw now purple, and he storms out the door, to go see his wife.

Chloe was always beautiful. Always stunning. She walked into a room and people stared.

When he met her at that cast party, she was modeling for DKNY. Her boyfriend, at the time, was a photographer and given who her father is, he (like many other past relationships) had hopes that international connections would further his career. But it didn’t and the ex-boyfriend was more mad about the loss of potential fame than the end of the relationship.

Dieter hadn’t been like that. He had been successful and good-looking enough that when she told him who she was, her last name didn’t even register. Of course, it helped that he was tripping on shrooms that one of the PAs had given him, but at the time it didn’t matter to her. He looked at her like she – and she alone – hung the moon.

At least, that’s how she remembered it and, more importantly, that’s what she told him that morning in her apartment before he officially checked into court-mandated rehab. They were only six months into dating then, but when she told him, the way she told him, he felt something change. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be sober because someone else wanted him to be sober. And not just anyone, but this someone. This beautiful, smart, patient, sweet woman valued him, for some unfathomable reason. So, impulsively as always, he got down on one knee and proposed to her in that shitty studio apartment. Maybe it said something about her that she said yes– he didn’t even have a ring– but he gave her his earring and a promise. He’d do it right, when he got out, and she believed him.

And, of course, when he proposed, she didn’t know about all the cheating that had gone on while they were dating. It wasn’t like he actually loved, or even liked, any of the people he slept with, but he had done it because he was high and sex felt really, really good on ecstasy. If she had been there, he would have fucked her instead, but she wasn’t and he didn’t and it was someone else and it was one of them who eventually leaked it to the press.

It was two days after a three week period of withdrawals that she confronted him. She was nice about it, of course. Always nice. And maybe it was because he was ten pounds lighter, his skin waxy and pale, and he could barely walk, but when he confirmed it all, she had just said, “I know you didn’t mean it.” She did cry, though. She cried and he felt like an even bigger asshole than when he threw up twice on the same nurse. She cried and he begged for forgiveness and all that self-hate and loathing metastasized in him. But, most importantly, he wasn’t alone through all of it this time.

He took the backhanded compliments, the passive aggressive comments, and let himself be molded into what she wanted because quite frankly, he was sick of trying to figure out what he was supposed to be anyways.

But the more distance he tried to put between his past and his future, she was there to bring it back. She was both a reminder of what he was and what he could be all at once.

She sits, perched on the end of his bed, back straight and hands in her lap. Her wide brimmed summer hat is by her hip on his untarnished bed— how the hell is going to explain where his luggage is— and she faces the window, looking out into the late Los Angeles evening.

She is beautiful. Painfully so. And sometimes he thinks that she likes him a little broken.

He never did get her a real engagement ring.

After seeing Mark, he left the hotel and walked until he could feel himself getting a blister, and then turned around again. It felt like it had been days since he went through that golden, twirling revolving door, but it had only been an hour. One hour exactly. The coke doesn’t have its claws so deep into him anymore. He can breathe easier. The scales have somewhat evened out and he feels somewhat like a normal person again. Thankfully, because this isn’t a conversation he really wants to have.

He doesn’t know where to sit or where to put his hands. He picks the chair by the squat desk in the dark corner and lets her bask in the fading light. He’s not sure if he’s overwhelmed by her beauty, or that she’s here and real and not just this name at the top of his phone to whom he’d fire off unanswered texts.

He picks at his nails and realizes at some point he put his wedding ring back on. When the fuck did he do that?

“I’m sorry I surprised you like this,” Chloe says, again sparing him the scariest part of simply starting the conversation. She turns away from the window and takes off her glasses. She looks pale. “There is just a lot I want to say and I don’t think . . . I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

“Me too. I mean. Yeah, we have a lot to talk about. I just don’t know why we couldn’t have done it at the house.”

“You left me at that party, Dieter.”

“I took an Uber. You had the car. Where did you go? Why didn’t you come home for two–,”

“Are you not happy to see me?” Her eyes are blazing, daring, serious, and wet. What happened that night, he thought it had ended his marriage. He truly believed that if they stayed married, it would only be in name because she wouldn’t want him after a scene like that. He was so willing to give it all up. So easily.

Too easily.

Maybe she was right to leave. The first tendril of guilt unfurls in his chest. Of course, she was right. And he was so, so wrong. He always was.

“Of course I’m glad to see you.” Hesitantly, he gets up and goes to sit next to her on the bed. She pulls her hand off the cover and crosses her arms. Up close, he can see she’s more than pale. Her skin is waxy and there are bags under her eyes. She’s got a green tinge to her cheeks like she’s nauseous. “But we’re in the middle of these press junkets and the movie is in post-production and . . . I just wanted more time to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

There’s a tremble of fear in her voice. He makes sure to keep his even.

“To . . . to say . . .” he watches her eyes for some sort of guidance, “to just . . . get back to us.”

He slides his hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away. But there are tears, pouring down her face. She sniffs.

“That’s what you want, right? You want us to be together.”

She nods, furiously, quickly, sighing in relief. “Yes, Dieter, yes. I need us to be together. I can’t do this alone.”

She pulls him to her and lets out a cry that churns his stomach like black, arctic waves.

“Oh, Dieter, they’ve released some trailers and you’re so good. So good. I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs wetly into his neck. He feels her tears on the skin above his pulse-point.

There’s a part of him that wants to curl up into her lap, put his head on her thighs, and let her imagine all the ways he’s succeeded. All the good work he’s done. But he’s fidgeting.

The bump from earlier is still feeding his anxiety to an unbearable level. He bites his tongue and rubs his hand over her shoulder, determined to keep her from looking too closely at him.

“There’s a lot we have to talk about, Dieter, but do you want to do this with me? What do you want?”

All his life he felt like he had never been whole. As if he was just made up of tatters, just loose bits of thread that popped and unraveled over time. He’s been unraveling his whole life, but this time, with this decision, he might actually tear apart. He still loves his wife, he’s sure of it. He needs the reminder that she offers, that she embodies. Look at what you could have–

If only he was a fundamentally different person. If only he could be something other than himself.

It’s a coin flip, right? Only a matter of time . . . before we both fucking lose it

He’s in danger of being overwhelmed by memories.

He told himself he left because that was what she wanted. He hadn’t come to terms with the impossible idea that he wanted to leave in the first place. That he, ridiculously, would ever want to leave her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into his lap.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” he whispers to her shoulder. “I’m not a good person without you.”

She swallows, leans away, and wipes her eyes, runs her hands over his wrists, then the back of his hand. She freezes as she finally notices his bloody knuckles.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says quickly as her dainty thumb hovers over the blood, the split skin. And he wasn’t lying. He can barely feel it. He feels disconnected from his own body, like someone else is driving and he’s been locked in the trunk.

“What happened, baby?” She asks, her mouth full of tears. She sounds tired.

“Nothing. Just hit it.” It is so obvious he had been fighting, he feels bad he couldn’t find a better lie.

But Chloe sighs sympathetically and swallows. She was always so good at picking and choosing what she decided to believe.

“We’ll bandage it.”

“You always know how to take care of me,” he murmurs as she massages his palm.

“You’ve come so far, Dieter. You’re an entirely different person,” she says, smiling at the blood on his hand if it isn’t there. “I’ve always known you have a big heart. One I hope you can share.”

Her big eyes damp and, horrifyingly, filled with love, she puts a hand against the back of his neck. He feels feverish, too warm, but she seems to find comfort in it.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What if we had a baby, Dieter?” She smiles gently, coyly, easily. She’s thought about this. “You and me. I think it’s time. You’re ready to be a father.”

It’s quiet.

He is made up of nothing but tears. He’s spent years trying to stitch himself back together with everything and anything he could get his hands on. But he is still ripped. Still torn. Still unmade.

He gave away pieces of himself to anyone who asked because he didn’t want them anymore. But giving this tattered, broken thing to a child? To someone who didn’t ask for it?

Can’t I just be fucked up on my own?

Cheers to being fucked up on our own.

“Chloe . . . Chloe, I . . . I have to ask you something.”

She sits up more in his arms and brushes the hair out of his eyes with a stroke of her fingers, her nose pink and cheeks wet. “What is it, baby?”

Why?

Why did you agree to marry me?

Why do you still love me?

What would it take to make you stop?

“Are you happy? Happy with me?” His entire existence no longer hinges on her answer, and he cannot fathom a world where she says yes. He shakes his head, on the verge of something, as he thumbs her cheek, begging for honesty. “Why are you still here?”

For a second, a single moment in time, for the only time, with his hands on her waist, he thinks he sees the real Chloe for the first time. Not the model, or the daughter of an artist. Not the wife of a movie star, or the helpless girlfriend of an addict. He sees her, a woman with her own reality, her own version of the world and history. He sees her in stark vulnerability, an uncomplicated answer, because he’s asking questions she never considered herself.

Fresh tears spill out of her eyes as she squeezes his wrist. “Because I love you. And you love me. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

“That’s all?”

She laughs gently, the sound wet and thick.

“What else is there?”

She kisses his cheek and her lips are wet with tears. “You don’t have to answer now, about having a baby. Just think about it, please?”

He nods.

He knows his answer. Well, not cognitively. It’s not there, in his head. But it is there in the pain in his lungs, in the dryness of his mouth, in the erratic heartbeat in his neck. It will be a long time before he can take apart those sensations to understand and identify panic for what it is. But it’s there. It’s there in the sensations that the world is coming apart.

If this is what she wants, he can’t give it. He just can’t.

They've been together for almost three years and they still don’t know each other at all.

The hotel room is hazy, cloudy, weed smoke curling up in the corners. There’s music coming from somewhere, but he can’t really figure out where. Half of these people are strangers, shadows against the walls, and they move in and out of rooms like ghosts. Every moment in time seems longer than the next. He can feel himself crawling out of his own skin.

It’s near midnight and Mark still hasn’t shown up.

But the downers from the compact mirror worked. Everything exists in limp obscurity.

Chloe clings to him like she’s stuck a knife in him and if she pulls it out, he’ll bleed to death. A second doesn’t go by where she’s not touching him. This body is unfamiliar, he thinks as he handles her hips, her low back, as she introduces herself to everyone.

First, there’s Nick and Cooper. They are stoned out of their minds, eyes glassy and red-faced, and react the way all men react when meeting Chloe. Their mouths drop as they take her hand in greeting. Cooper’s gaze slides over her shoulder to Dieter – this is your fucking wife, dude?

It makes him angry, rubs him the wrong way, but not out of jealousy. His mouth twitches as he shrugs.

“I’ve been listening to your albums for days now! After Dieter told me you play live music.” Chloe says with her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “The Sixers are officially my new favorite band.”

“Oh, uh, wow– that’s–,”

“Do you want anything?” Dieter snaps, stepping back. Chloe’s hand slides off the kid’s shoulder. “I’m going to . . . get some water— what do you want?”

Chloe smiles and he knows he needs to unclench. He feels like the entire stretch of his shoulders is filling up the whole room.

“Actually,” she says, turning back to the boys, “I’d kind of like something a little . . . green . . .”

Nick is instantly fumbling with his pocket as Chloe laughs. “Totally. Got a few extras right here.”

He nearly spills his beer, before Cooper takes it from him. Nick finally manages to pull out a blunt and green lighter. Her eyes flicker up to Dieter as Nick lights the end.

“You don’t mind, right, baby?”

“Not at all.”

She inhales and goes to ask Cooper something inane, so Dieter flops into the couch behind her. This is going to be a long fucking night.

The blunt between her long fingers is about halfway gone, the room smelling like burnt cheese, and has become so cloudy someone has to turn on a fan, when the door opens to Samuel, Roxie, and Marie, all carrying boxes of alcohol. The crowd, the shadows on the walls, swarms. Cooper does the polite thing and asks if he can get Chloe or Dieter a drink, which Dieter declines and Chloe happily accepts. She curls up onto the couch next to him, sighing happily.

“God, didn’t you miss this? These parties? The things we used to get up to.” She murmurs into his ear, her tiny hand clutching at his bicep and the other at his forearm. She smells like weed and an incomprehensibly expensive perfume that he can’t begin to describe.

“Yeah. But, when did you want to lea–,”

The crowd, congregated around the new arrivals and their new drinks, has to shift when the door opens a second time.

His nails dig into the arm of the couch, stiffening from his head to his toes.

It’s you. You’ve changed out of your outfit for the interviews– he could venture a guess as to why– but replaced it with a long, black cotton dress, thin straps. You can’t possibly be wearing a bra. You’re barefoot, a beer bottle in your hand, someone at your heels–

“Natalie! You made it!”

You’re surrounded by the Sixers, by the shadows of people, of faces he doesn’t know, or ever remember.

Except for one.

“Everyone, meet my friend Oliver! He’s visiting, from England. Very posh.”

That pale face emerges above the crowd and someone wolf-whistles. He smirks. “Settle down, settle down. I’m actually very annoying, but you’ll love me anyway because I have enough ecstasy for you all to see the face of God.”

The crowd cheers.

He can’t move. Can’t turn his head away.

Beside him, Chloe’s face scrunches up and lifts her head. “Oliver? Don’t you know an Oliver?”

“Honey, hush.”

He can’t take his eyes off you as Oliver spins you into the center of the room, Marie and Roxie chattering about something as they slide onto the floor.

This. It’s this moment where he actually might lose his sanity. Either that or tackle Oliver to the ground and pummel his face in until he’s more blood smears than human.

“Thank you, darling girl. You always know how to make a man feel so welcome.”

You giggle and collapse into an armchair across the room from the couch. You’re high. Again. Still. Always.

“Now, you precious thing,” Oliver crouches down and taps your knee. Dieter’s hand twitches. “Where did you say your friend has gotten off to? Because I don’t think he’d like it very much if . . .”

He trails off, catching the intense look in your eye. You’ve made eye contact with Dieter across the room, eyes wide, nipping at a hangnail on your thumb with your teeth and the neck of the beer bottle dangling in your fingers over the edge of the armchair.

You look genuinely scared. Dieter’s nostrils flare.

Good.

Oliver stands up, oblivious and smiling through blindly white teeth. “Dieter, old boy, she said you’d be here. How’ve you–,”

His gaze falls to Chloe at his shoulder, instant recognition in his eyes. He glances back to you. Chloe, far too stoned for her own good, jerks and sits up. She gives a hazy, bleary-eyed smile to Oliver.

“Oh my God, Oliver, it is you. I know you. You’re Dieter’s friend. Who knows the Queen of England. How is she?”

Perhaps for the first and only time in his life, Oliver is speechless. His thin-lipped mouth opens and closes, clearly not sure where to land his eyes. But then something comes over him and that mask of charming smugness returns. He bows slightly to her.

“You are correct, ma’am. Lovely to see you. And, remind me, your name is . . .”

“Chloe,” she says, sitting up and stretching, her eyelids only half open. She offers her hand and he hesitantly takes it. “I’m Dieter’s wife.”

“Oh, are you now?”

Oliver glances over at you and Dieter wants to throttle him. His eyes flash with malice as he turns back to Chloe and kisses her knuckles. “Well, isn’t that just a laugh? Can I get you anything? Any of you anything?”

He’s going to combust right here if he doesn’t get a moment to talk to you.

“Actually, let me get it. Natalie, help me carry drinks.”

You scowl. “No, I’m fine, right here–,”

“Now.” This time he will haul you over his shoulder if you don’t listen.

Oliver, for whatever unclear reason, steps in. “I’ll stay here with Ms. Chloe, if that’s easier.”

He oozes– slides– into the cushion on Chloe’s other side as Dieter extracts himself from her arms. He balances her back and she opens one eye at Oliver.

“You smell like peppermint,” she giggles.

“Aren’t you frightfully perceptive? Now, tell me, has someone had too much to smoke or to drink?”

Dieter doesn’t hear her answer. He’s snatched you up by the arm– you actually, physically snarl at him– and yanks you through the crowd into the bathroom.

Two no-names are making out in the dark. He flips on the light without preamble.

“Out.”

They break apart, mouths sloppy and wet, and scatter like rats in a sewer. He tosses you inside and slams the door shut behind him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap at each other at the same time, glaring, scowling, breathing sharply. Everything that should be said is buried and egos flare, replacing sanity. It’s the kind of argument, an argument so loud and violent, it reeks of bitterness and shame and desperation and that fine, fine line between seething hatred and that thing that scares him more than he can possibly conceptualize. All of this is easier to say than admit it. All of this is mean and nasty and meant to cut deep.

He couldn’t bear to hear it now, even if you did admit to anything.

Did you wait a full hour before calling him or was it the second I was out of earshot?

Had a good time with your wife you abandoned? Everything all good now?

This is a private party for the cast and crew. He shouldn’t even be here!

If you get a plus one, so do I!

Why did you pick him? Why?

Oh, sorry, I thought you liked surprises– given how you fucking handled today.

What did you promise him, huh?

They had to reschedule everything because you can’t keep your shit together. Bet your wife loved being sloppy seconds to a TMZ reporter.

Was he even in the area or did you get on your hands and knees to beg him to come here?

He crowds you up against the sink. His throat feels raw, head still spinning. Your hands are clenched at your sides as if preparing to throw a punch or claw or scratch or bite. Why can’t you just ever be nice?

You’re falling back into old patterns. Your instinct around him is to bite, maim, draw blood. The frustrations of a muzzled, brain-infected dog.

The back of your hips bump up against the counter and you scowl up at him. He wants to put his hands on you but he can’t tell if it's to kiss you or strangle you. Fuck you or split you apart. How did this happen? How did you end up in the exact same place you were before?

But it’s not the same. Everything is different. He’s different, and so are you. You both know all this rage, this animosity, all this vitriol was misplaced. Undefined. A language not yet translated. You were screaming and screaming, in different tongues, begging to be heard.

He doesn’t know what he feels when he presses himself up against you, but it is a lot.

“Are you doing this to punish me? Is that it?” Dieter whispers. Your eyes roam his face, unmoored by the sudden quiet, your hand at his chest pressing and pulling. “It’s not my fault.”

Your mouth twists, your breathing stunted. His eyes are pleading, searching your face for answers, to remind him of places where he had put his lips. Your nose, your jaw, your throat–

His heart squeezes in his chest.

“What’s that?”

There’s a shadow on your neck, colored over by make-up, but this close, he can see the purple rings. Bruises. Your eyes widen as you realize what he’s seen, your hand sliding up your throat to cover them.

“Did Oliver do this to you? Natalie, I swear to god, if he hurt you at all, tell me and I’ll–,”

You shake your head. “Dieter, he didn’t do this to me.” Your eyes are sad, but the jut of your chin balances your head high. “He didn’t bruise me.”

“Then, who–,”

His stomach plummets. The two of you relive his hand on your throat in the bathroom earlier today. The panting. The pressure. The force he used to fuck you.

“Holy shit, Natalie, I am so sorry. I–I had no idea, why did you say anything?”

“I didn’t want you to stop.” You spin one of your rings on your finger. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Was this not the exact position you found yourselves in hours ago? Clutching each other, nails digging in, mouths open in want– revolving, revolving, revolving. Light swallowing light. Like a carousel.

Your pupils are almost entirely black. He’s jealous. He wants that freedom. He wants you.

“But you do now. You’re going to leave.” He steps away from you.

You scoff, a wet shine in your eyes. “You’re here with your wife, Dieter. You’re always with your wife. You beg and plead with me and I, like a fucking idiot, believe you. I think we know exactly who’s doing the leaving.”

“It’s not that goddamn simple.”

You sigh and rub the heel of your palm against your forehead. “It is, Dieter. It really is. This is it. This is the end. I can’t take not having you anymore.”

You drop your hands to your side. His heart flutters, as if slowing down.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we can fight and yell and scratch each other into bloody ribbons, but nothing’s going to change. You’re never going to leave her. Nothing’s going to happen.” You close your eyes, briefly, steeling yourself against something, hands tightening into fists.

He can’t remember the last time he was this afraid.

“Natalie–,” He’ll take it all back. Take everything back. He wants you in his arms.

“It means I don’t want to be around you anymore.” You open your eyes and there’s nothing there. A different person sits in your head. Someone who doesn’t care about him, at all.

There’s no anger in your voice, no resentment, or disgust. Only defeat. Only strung out, exhaustion, an ache that cannot be soothed.

“I need you to leave me alone.”

This is not at all where he thought this conversation would go. Never thought you’d say those words. Never imagined this is what you would do.

“Is that what you want?” He husks. Something is dragging its claws down his chest, his ribs. It gets caught on his heart and tears. “What you really want. Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes harden for a moment, reflective and stern. “Dieter, this is killing me . . . So this is the way it has to be. I’m sorry.”

You avoid his outstretched hands, his inevitable pull towards you, and stagger out into the crowd. He hears the music, the laughter, the sounds of chaos and rapture, and then the door closes and he’s alone in the cold, stale air.

“So I’m still skeptical at this point. Yeah, she’s gotten some things right, but hey, that it could just be a really good guess. I think she can tell I’m not really thinking this has been worth my time, so she offers to read my palm.”

He’s pretty sure he’s heard this story from Samuel before, or heard it somewhere else, or remembers it differently. But it’s all just noise to him.

Chloe sits on the floor between his legs, her head on his knee. He absently strokes her silky hair from time to time, but it’s just something to do with his hands. Eons and ages have passed in this fucking room and Dieter just wants to go to sleep. He’s watched four people run into the bathroom to blow chunks and he thinks he can smell it from here.

I need you to leave me alone.

I don’t want to be around you.

He tries to listen, to pay attention, tear his thoughts away from this spiral that’s haunting him.

Leave you alone? For how long? Don’t you get that’s impossible now?

“So she takes my hand and looks at it, really looks at it. And something about this just feels different, you know, like the air has changed. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I’m being seen for the first time.”

His audience is quiet, captive. Dieter can feel Chloe sit up straighter as if fighting off sleep.

Roxie snorts. “She’s just going to tell you an incredibly vague, possible future so now any time something even remotely resembles that path, you’ll think she’s right. Nevermind all the times she’ll be glaringly wrong.”

Dieter knows they’ll never be friends but he’s always admired Roxie’s honesty. Her bravery. She’s shrewd and he likes that.

“Whatever. It was special, alright? Important. I can’t explain it but it felt right.”

“I believe you,” Marie pipes up, dreamily. “What else did she say?”

Samuel doesn’t quite look at her, picking at his palm as if it is currently under inspection.

“Well, she did say this other thing. She looks down at my palm, and do you know what she says? She says my life line is jagged. Split.”

“What does that mean?” Someone asks in a hushed voice. Dieter struggles not to roll his eyes. It’s not even a good story. The kid lost thirty bucks to a palm reader. Big whoop.

Samuel roves his electric blue eyes across his captive audience. “Means something colossal is gonna happen to me. Means something’s going to happen to me where I’m not the same person I was. And I just know she’s right. Don’t ask me how, but I can already feel those life lines splitting, you know? You should all go get your palms’ read. It’s spooky.”

“What did it say about your love line, Samuel?” Marie asks again, who has her head in Roxie’s lap, her feet in Nick’s. All three are so stoned it’s a wonder she can form words at all. Cooper’s been missing for hours.

Dieter isn’t sure anyone else registers the flash of desire he sees across Samuel’s face when he looks at her, but maybe that’s not the point. God, he desperately wants to leave. He doesn’t even care if he looks ashamed, or guilty, or lets everyone down. The coke has been gone from his system for hours and now the scratchy, heavy haze has set in. It makes him irritated when people breathe too loud. He tugs on Chloe’s hair but she doesn’t move.

Samuel watches Roxie stroke Marie’s face. “She said my love line is strong.”

“So you’re finally admitting to all the bastards you’ve fathered over the years?” Roxie sniggers and a few others laugh. In his lap, Chloe giggles too.

But Samuel only scowls. “No, asshole, it means I’m going to have a whirlwind romance. The kind of things they write books and poems and love stories about. Means my twin flame and soulmate are the same person.”

“What’s a twin flame?”

Dieter’s mouth goes dry as his gaze slides across the small circle to the armchair. Oliver is there. And so are you. Curled up in his lap. The strap on your right shoulder has fallen off, away from your head on his chest. Your eyes are open, but you look very small. Oliver’s got his hand on your low back.

He tries to pull his thoughts away from the memory of his teeth in the crook of your neck, but he can’t.

“Excellent question, lovely Natalie.” Samuel nods his head in a bow to you. Oliver’s finger dips across your bare shoulder and Dieter grinds his teeth so hard, his jaw aches. He rocks his head back against the wall behind him as if to physically keep himself from lunging forward.

“Everyone knows what a soulmate is, but a twin flame is not something so well known. Because, maybe, it’s a little more difficult to talk about. A twin flame isn’t the person you’re meant to be with because you’re too alike. Too combustible. But you burn. You burn with love for this other person because it’s like looking into a mirror.”

“So it’s like fucking your clone?” Someone asks stupidly.

“No, you moron. It is not like fucking your clone.” Samuel’s face softens as his gaze brushes up against Marie’s forehead. “A twin flame is like finding your other half. The missing link in the universe. The thing that makes everything else make sense. The thing that quiets you, brings you a sense of comfort. Of wholeness. Intimacy without words, or questions, or concerns. There’s no hiding from this person. It’s a promise, a contract, with the universe. When you find your twin flame, it’s knowing peace for the first time.”

He can’t look up. He can’t.

He stares, relentlessly, at the back of Chloe’s head. His grip is almost firm in her hair. He cannot look up.

He really, really, really shouldn’t.

And yet he does.

His gaze flickers to the armchair again.

To you.

And you’re not looking at him. Relentlessly not looking. You don’t look up.

Until you do.

He doesn’t have a name for it.

It’s not peace. It’s not quiet.

But it does rage. It rages inside of him. It burns him.

For the first time since meeting you, he sees tears in your eyes. Unrestrained. Open. They race down your pink cheeks and he can’t be there to wipe them away. You’re crying while looking at him and everyone could see, but they don’t. Oliver could turn around and everyone would catch you right here, right now, with his hands on his wife, and there would be no denying anything. Who wouldn’t take a single look in his eyes and not know exactly what he feels for you?

This is the real punishment. The real pain. Why did you think he could ever leave you alone? This thing inside of him almost has a shape, a texture, a taste. It’s alive in him now. Born from denial and fed on bouts of temporary relief and half-measures, he feels it, this almost inhuman want. And he sees it all reflected back at him through your eyes. You, who came out of nowhere but who was always meant to be here, now matters more to him than he ever thought possible, now who has the power to destroy him. It’s beyond ruination, it’s nuclear war. It’s scorched earth and salting the rivers. Perhaps this is why he’s never been whole, why he tears himself on the corners and edges of his own making, because he’s been searching. Unknowingly, aimlessly wandering, hopelessly stumbling into chaos again and again– because the other half of his soul lives in another body. In a body, so much like his own, set on a path of destruction.

A path of celestial creatures in collision, of universes collapsing into each other. Of neglected bodies seeking out in the dark that which is familiar.

The spacial gap between the couch and your armchair is infinite, black and yawning, when he could take three steps across the room and kiss you on the mouth. But he doesn’t.

He holds this thing tighter, lets it burn. He knows you feel it too. You turn from him, the connection overwhelming and wipe your eyes. The hole in his body he calls a chest aches.

God, he’s such a hypocrite. And a fucking fool.

“That’s so romantic,” Marie sighs from the floor. Her eyes flutter shut. Samuel watches her eyelashes against her cheek. “You get that and a soulmate? You’re so lucky.”

“Not really,” he says quietly.

The hotel the studio rented for the press junkets doesn’t have a pool. But it does have a pretty nice rooftop bar overlooking the city. Disappointingly, it’s not open at four AM, but that’s probably a good thing. Meant to keep idiots from getting black out drunk and falling over the edge. Idiots like him.

Chloe lays asleep, four floors down, curled up in his bed, the sheets still warm from where he laid beside her for hours, white-knuckling the blankets, and staring at the ceiling. An hour after they left the party and two hours after he put her to bed, he got up and left, flinching at the sense the bedroom walls were closing in on him.

He thought about going to find you, but he couldn’t.

Finally, when he had managed to drag Chloe out the hotel room door, when everyone else had been so fucked up, their disappearance had gone unannounced, he pulls the door shut behind him and breathes.

He can still hear the music through the walls, still smell it all, his mouth has been dry and cracked for hours, and the woman in his arms is nearly unconscious. But at least there’s some separation between you and him. It was too much.

He bends down and pulls Chloe into his arms, carrying her like he did after they got married. But he can’t move. Not just yet. He tips his head back against the wall, trying to get the image of the rush of tears down your face out of his head.

The movement stirs her and she lifts her groggy head.

“Wher‘re we?” she slurs.

“We’re going to bed, honey. It’s late and you should be asleep.”

She smiles weakly, laughing to herself. Her feet kick as she taps his cheek with her finger. “You take sush good care o’ me. Always will. Always will love me.”

Before he can reply, the hotel room door opens again and his black shadow steps out.

You’ve been crying. He can smell the salt, hear the sniffles, and your red face all but confirms it. He whispers your name, a hush, a prayer and you tense as though transfixed by the shape of a ghost– you weren’t expecting him out here. You turn, eyes brightening when they meet his, but then you see her in his arms and you whimper– out loud– strands of saliva shining as you open your mouth in distress. He thinks he can physically feel his heart break.

You’re not looking at him, but her, cradled and asleep in his arms. Your expression isn’t one of jealousy, or rage, but total and utter confusion. Why? Why her? Why not me?

“Baby, let me fix this.” He’d do anything to help you stop crying, to change your mind that you in any way have ever been second to any other woman in his life. He turns to you and Chloe’s arm brushes your shoulder. She hovers, oblivious and nearly-unconscious, between the two of you.

“Fix what, honey?” She mutters up to him and you jerk back, as if burned.

For the third time, the hotel door opens and Oliver nearly runs you over. You swipe at your face rapidly as Dieter takes several steps back down the hall.

“Sorry, darling, sorry,” he murmurs, nearly tumbling over, would have fallen to the ground if you had not grabbed him at the last second to hold him upright. His eyes are bloodshot and the edge of his right nostril is bright red. “How are you? Are you leaving?”

You glance at Dieter over his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s late and I’m tired.”

“Oh, sweet thing, I promised you a good time, didn’t I? And I don’t think I’ve quite done that.” Oliver manages to right himself and presses a thin hand against your cheek. You close your eyes, as if soothed by the warmth, by a presence if not the right one, so terrified of being alone. “Let me make it up to you.”

Dieter stands, transfixed and silent, as another man leads you down the hallway, away from him. He can’t even make a noise, something to jostle Oliver out of his single-mindedness, something to tell you that this isn’t what he wants – not by a long shot – something to make this feel less like an all-encompassing nightmare.

But he doesn’t and Oliver pulls you farther and farther away. You look over your shoulder once, tears rimming the soft hairs at the cup of your eyes, and it’s that face, your face of grief and desperation, that kept him awake and eventually dragged him out of bed, long after Chloe had fallen asleep.

And so, he sits in one of the black and white booths on the rooftop bar and smokes.

The late summer wind is warm and it plays with his hair– the curls around his forehead, along the backs of his ears, across his neck. His hair is longer than it has been in years and the wind is gentle as it goes. It reminds him of the few fond memories of his mother. When he was young. When his father still loomed so large.

He wants to lean into it, into the gentle touch of something bigger than himself, of something that promises to protect him, to keep him safe. But when he does, there’s nothing there.

So he goes on. He smokes and he sits and he waits. He waits for the sun and for clarity and for Chloe to wake up. For the day to start all over again.

For you to come to your senses and run far, far away from him.

Eight AM.

Another hotel room, all furniture cleared out. The window curtains pulled shut, no light.

There’s a rumble, a clutter of sound, as lights and cameras are posted and aimed. The drowsy drabble of crew going through the motions, half-asleep and not yet caffeinated. It’s slow, sleepy, eyes downcast and unfocused. Light will come eventually, with the rising sun, but it’s still dark. Still blue.

The woman powdering your face does one final touch up before closing her kit and leaving. She goes out the hotel room door, another spindle sliding back into its place in the machine. The rumble around you continues.

He calls your name, gently, softly, quietly. You don’t turn.

He picks up the coffee he got you and approaches you.

Up close, he can see you got about as much sleep as he did.

“Thank you.” You say loudly as a PA crosses behind him.

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you have a good time at the party?”

“Yeah. We did.” It feels like they’re talking in code, in a foreign language that doesn’t sit right in his mouth. He steps closer to you, his heart digging into his ribcage. “Can I talk to you privately, for a minute?”

He runs a fine line; he needs to sound as if he is asking a good friend, a coworker, for a favor, but he wants you to know that your face is shredding him down to his very last atom. You have to come with him.

And maybe, because you feel it too, because you can hear the finality in his voice, because at some point the pain and insanity have to end, you nod. You motion to the interviewer– gimme five – and distracted, he nods.

You’re out the door and into the hallway when he realizes you’ve both left your coffee cups behind. Strange how something so innocuous can feel so transparent.

He shuts the door to the room used as the make-up room, the same one as his argument with Mark less than twenty-four hours ago. The lock clicks with a snik.

It’s been days since you both slept well, or at all. Either kept up by each other or by thoughts of each other, plagued by images and daytime dreams of waking up next to the person you actually wanted, you look wrung out. The make-up artist had done well, but he knows you. He can see your exhaustion in a way that only someone who intimately knows you can see. It’s a tiredness that goes beyond sleep, one that cannot be soothed by physical rest. It’s a bruise that refuses to heal.

Still, there has to be some sort of build up, just so he has a chance to try and put everything he wants to say in some sort of coherent order.

“How was your night with Oliver?” He asks without malice, without judgment. He’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to know, but he doesn’t want to upset you. Ease you into the thing that’s sitting in the back of his mouth.

But he can’t anticipate just what you’ve been holding back too. Your eyes flood with tears and you shakily sit down on the bed. He immediately sits down next to you, not caring if putting his hand on your back pissed you off, not caring if holding your hand in his lap is the wrong thing. He wanted to hold you in his arms last night in the hallway, this is the concession he makes with himself.

“Dieter, how can you ask me that?”

His heart knots up in his throat as his hand at your back goes up to your shoulders, gently massaging your neck. He can show emotional maturity, or at least try to.

“Baby, it’s okay if something happened with him.” He swears he tastes bile. No, it’s not okay. You aren’t to be touched by another man that isn’t him– he closes his eyes for a second, holding back grief and rage.

With a watery sigh, you admit: “nothing happened with him. He passed out the second we got to my hotel room. But even if he didn’t . . .”

You lift your eyes to him, catching and holding his gaze, before looking back down at your entwined hands on the coverlet. Your makeup is only slightly smeared as though you forced your own desperation back down the well of sadness.

“I didn’t fuck him, Dieter,” you say slowly, quietly, words warbled from your still-wet mouth. “But I should have . . . I really, really should have because I don’t know why I’m saving myself for you. You’ll never do the same for me.”

He’s shaking his head. No, no, you’re all wrong. You’ve got this all wrong.

“I didn’t touch her.” He focused on the curve of your knuckles. How your fingers manage to slot so perfectly in between his. “After . . . after the party, she was already asleep by the time I got us back to the room.”

“What about this morning? She must have been awake then.”

“She was,” he admits. He takes a deep breath. “But don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? Baby, I couldn’t. Can’t. Won’t ever do it again.”

Your breathing hitches, caught on every single one of your ribs as it lurches up your chest, fresh tears in your eyes.

“No, Dieter, I don’t understand. What are you saying right now? What do you want from me?”

He slides onto his knees in front of you, palms shaking as they fold over your thighs.

“She wants to have a baby. With me.” His voice is quiet, and he can only confess to your waist. Those curves he loves to run his fingers over, his nose across. You jerk as if to pull away, a snarl in your mouth, but he holds on.

“Dieter, you bastard, I–,”

“But I’m going to say no.”

He looks up at you. To your face so constricted in pain and heartbreak and a delirium that only comes when the days and nights have blurred together. You’re so tired.

And he’s done. At the end of his rope.

He holds onto you as you struggle, try to fight him, try to fight the inevitable, but he holds on and he’s never letting go.

“I’m divorcing her.”

You still. Go slack. Soft in your disbelief. He’s failed you if this comes as a surprise.

Something sharp and jagged splits apart in his throat, burning him, and he drops his gaze from your face before you have a chance to see the tears well up.

“When all of this is done . . . when everything is safe, I’m asking her for a divorce.” He tips his head into your lap. His voice is sodden, damp. “Natalie, I can’t be without you anymore. Can’t you see that?”

The back of his shirt, between his shoulders, goes wet when you press your face against him. You breathe through half-sobs.

“Dieter, what are we going to do?”

He shudders and smooths anxious circles into your hips. He can feel you shake above him.

“Just wait, baby, just wait. It’ll all be over soon.”

Maybe, the kid was right.

Maybe, just maybe, despite what may come, despite the countless lives that are going to be ruined and the immeasurable pain coming . . .

Maybe, this is peace.

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