Paola says that my career exploded partly because of how well I’d handled the fallout. Vanessa Stone didn’t hold a grudge from that meeting where I walked out. I ended up doing exactly what she wanted, posting about my breakup with Logan on social media. I continued to be offered auditions until, finally, I landed a film’s number one lead role. Even better: I wasn’t typecast as the sweet love interest. It was in a grittier film—a thriller where I was a detective, framed for the murder of my best friend, only for me to discover in the end that it really had been me all along, unable to remember I’d killed him in a fit of rage.
A lot of the blogs and comments on socials wondered if I could pull off a role like that. Sweet, cute, innocent Mattie? I wasn’t sure myself, but I’d learned a lot from my time playing Riley Mason. I’d learned to let go of shame and access emotions I didn’t even know I had. I had a lot more freedom to find a deeper part of me and discovered another layer of authenticity. It was amazing to watch myself back on-screen. Where the hell did I find that confidence? That scene where I smashed a glass against the wall, screaming so hard I lost my voice for two weeks straight—I mean, shit. I was powerful. I am powerful.
That role earned me my first Oscar. The dream. I’ve been living the dream.
Why, then, am I still so unhappy?
*
After the flight back, I get to my apartment. It’s the sort that only has one neighbor living beneath me, an actress from France. I take the stairs instead of the elevator and unlock the front door, pushing it open. It smells like garlic. Phil looks up from where he’s sitting at the counter.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I toss my keys into a basket by the door and head over to kiss him. He puts a hand on my waist, pulling me closer. He’s been growing his hair out since the Good Dog premiere—said he hoped it would expand his appeal.
“How was your break from LA? I thought you were going to be home hours ago.”
I hesitate. I’ve never liked lying, even if it’s by omission, especially after everything that happened with Logan and our publicity stunt. “It was fine. I mostly stayed in the hotel, and I took a long drive. Over by Logan Gray’s family cabin, actually.”
He frowns at me. “What? Why?”
Phillip and I started dating ten months ago, so he wouldn’t know that I do this once a year on the anniversary of when Logan and I said we would return—flying out to San Francisco, staying in a hotel for a couple of days and enjoying a break from the city, driving up to the cabin. I lean against the counter. “It’s an old promise we made to each other.”
“It’s been three years,” he says.
“I know.”
I’ve moved on. I’d like to think so, at least. My career has taken off and I’ve found a community of friends. Julie’s been one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life, and we meet with a group of artists and writers and actors once a week in a salon-type dinner party at her place in Los Feliz.
I’m in touch with my family all the time—my mom and Em, anyway. My dad and I have been trying to have more conversations. He had a cancer scare last year, and about three months after he had his biopsy, he got in touch to say that he wanted to work on our relationship. He said that he’s willing to try to change his beliefs and learn to accept me. Being that close to death shook him to his core, and I’ve decided to give him another chance.
Life has been good, but Logan still pops up in my head every now and again. Maybe every year, the anniversary feels like a reminder. A chance to reflect on the promises I’ve made to myself.
Phillip is watching me carefully. It hits me that he’s jealous. That isn’t surprising. He’s insecure about a lot, so something like this would only make that anxiety worse. Not that I’m judging. I’ve had my insecurities, too.
We’ve been trying. Phil and I have really been trying to work on this relationship. We’ve had several conversations at this point. In-depth, hours-long talks about whether our relationship is worth saving. I told him the truth: I just don’t know if I love him. I feel comfortable and safe, but in the way that I might with a friend. I don’t enjoy sex with him. I never have. Phil convinced me that since sex isn’t the main part of a romantic relationship, we can grow closer first and let sex become something we both enjoy with more connection. But sex with Phillip still feels dry—slow, disconnected. My thoughts wander, and the few times I’ve managed to really get into it, it’s always because I began to imagine being with other men I’ve known. Not Logan. Never Logan. That’d feel like a betrayal to both Phil and myself.
Phil argued that relationships are about dedication more than anything else. “Of course our relationship won’t work if we give up at the first sign of trouble,” he’d said.
I’m still not sure. Phil likes things to be done in a particular way. He loves to show perfect, smiling photos of us on Instagram, and he gets angry whenever he makes a mistake. I’ve imagined, over the years, reaching a place where I feel complete freedom. I’m not there yet, but I think I’m getting closer to becoming the sort of person who can laugh and sing and say what’s really on my mind, without caring about what anyone else will think. I deserve to live fiercely with the kind of energy that feels like a celebration of life, without an ounce of shame for myself. Phillip, though—sometimes when he looks at me in the quiet moments, I feel judgment in his gaze, like he wants to box me in and turn me into someone he believes I should be. I don’t feel free with Phillip. I’m not sure that I ever will.
Phil doesn’t look at me. I can practically feel the jealousy rolling off him in waves. “Why are you still thinking about Logan?” he asks.
“I think,” I say, hesitantly—I want to say the truth, but I also don’t want to hurt him—“that I’m having a difficult time letting him go without knowing what happened. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
I’ve tried searching for him on social media—got a few hits that he was seen in different cities, photos of him taken. But the search results have slowed down in the past couple of years. It’s like everyone’s forgotten about Logan and moved on.
“Isn’t that better?” Phil asks. “He always treated you like crap, didn’t he?”
“It’s not like I’m trying to run back to him. I just want to know what happened. How he’s doing. I cared about him. It’s all right to care about him, isn’t it?”
Phil sighs. A pot begins to overboil. He gets up and walks to the stove, stirring. “Would you do the same for me?”
Maybe this is what frustrates me about Phillip more than anything else. His constant need for validation, for me to say that I care about him. I want him to feel secure and safe and comfortable, too—everyone deserves that—but I can’t reassure him when I know in my heart that this isn’t going to work. I haven’t been happy. He knows that, but he still asks these questions, waiting for the moment I’ll change my mind.