My friends and I dressed as The Heathers, from the 1989 cult-classic movie of the same name, starring Winona Ryder and Christian Slater. (Nine years prior, my boyfriend of the time cheated on me with Winona Ryder. I found out by opening a tabloid magazine at a nail salon and seeing them holding hands. The fact that I dressed as her on this Halloween is testament to how we as humans are capable of moving on.) We wore pleated schoolgirl skirts, button up shirts, blazers and carried croquet mallets. I had a wig on, a brown bob covering my boyish crop, an unintended result of over-bleaching my hair. The night began at Soho House, in West Hollywood. It was their annual Halloween party. We sat in the garden, smoking, drinking champagne, and rubbernecking the crowd, a group of single girls on the prowl. I made eye contact with a movie star. A real pretty boy, from the same place as me, Minnesota. I knew this about him, because he was famous. He did not know this about me, but he came over to say hi, anyway. Obviously, I didn’t share the fact that we were from the same place, as that would mean having to out myself as having paid attention to his starry existence (since I was like, twelve). I was too cool for that, and let him introduce himself to me. Before I knew it, we were making out on the dance floor, pawing at one another. I felt like I’d won some kind of prize. The party didn’t matter anymore and the world around us barely even existed, blurring into the edges of reality. At one point he’d put an ecstasy pill in my mouth, and I swallowed it. He’d given pills to my friends too. Everyone was happy. He had a suite at The Chateau, and somehow we all arranged to caravan there, together. His friends and my friends. His friend drove a vintage Rolls Royce convertible. He was British and looked like a naughty pixie. I became suddenly very aware of this person, watching him drive out of the corner of my eye as the movie star kissed me in the back of the car. At the suite in The Chateau, we all ended up in a bathroom together. My friends and his friends. There was a party already happening and it was fully blown out at this point, everyone in costume, face paint, hyper-active energy filling the corners and spilling out onto the balcony that overlooked West Hollywood. The movie star gave us each another ecstasy tablet. I took in the pixie man’s face as he swallowed it, finding him interesting. Boyish, yet somewhat haggard. He had crooked teeth. Interesting teeth are a weakness of mine. He caught my eye in the mirror and I held his gaze. Then, it was just me and the movie star. I was pushed up against, and then propped on the bathroom counter, my skirt lifted, while he pulled at my tights, trying to remove them. “No,” I said, jumping up, squirming away. “I can’t be that girl.” He looked confused, his perfect brow arched in question. “I just feel like, if I fuck you in this bathroom, I’ll probably never see you again, and I’ll just be, like… that girl. The girl that fucked a celebrity in the bathroom at the Chateau. I’m not her,” I finished. Instead, I gave him my number, and told him if he wanted to continue, he could call me, and take me out. He seemed disappointed, maybe even slightly annoyed, but didn’t try any further. Back in the buzz of the party I was relieved to find my friend sitting on the balcony with that man. That interesting pixie man. I know that’s a weird thing to call a man. A pixie. An elf doesn’t seem quite right. But he was that too. They asked me what had happened and I explained about not wanting to be “that girl”. High as I was, I still had some sense. We all had a good laugh, when through the sliding glass door, we saw the movie star making out with a tall blonde. Maybe five minutes had passed. My friend and the pixie man seemed concerned for me but I was relieved. Glad to be right. And anyway, I’d already moved on. So much so that I didn’t notice my friend had formed a connection with this man, before my arrival from the bathroom. I didn’t notice anything, except the intense feeling of desire that I was becoming hyper aware of having, for him. He offered to drive us home in his Rolls Royce convertible. We dropped her off first, even though she lived further away. When we pulled into my driveway, I invited him in. I offered him a drink. He told me he was sober. I thought that was funny, considering I’d watched him take drugs, just a few hours back. Still, I poured a water for him and a vodka for myself. We made out on the couch. Then I took him to bed. By morning, I knew that this was more than a one night stand. I knew I wasn’t just “that girl” to him. In retrospect, this is all ridiculous, we were rolling on E, and complete strangers. But there was a strange magnetic force between us. A compulsion that would ruin my life for a time, terrorizing us, a total loss of control. We became addicted to one another. Like most beginnings it was bliss. After navigating awkward conversations with our respective friends, we were given what felt like blessings and he became my boyfriend. We talked about everything, made out everywhere, had sex constantly. I believed whole heartedly that he was interested in me. I had no reason to believe he was interested in anything or anyone other than me. I turned twenty-eight and he took my friends and I out for dinner at The Chateau. I sipped a glass of champagne politely. Just one. I wanted to be good for him. He didn’t drink, and had mentioned casually that he was an alcoholic. I didn’t really know what that meant at this point. I’d always been around alcoholics. It was like breathing oxygen. Life seemed just right. I was in a band, major labels were swimming around us like sharks. I was in love. Anything was possible. In bed, one afternoon, as winter sun poured through the giant windows of his beautiful chateau-like apartment, I said, “I feel like I’m on the verge of having everything I’ve ever wanted.” He said, “Don’t jinx yourself.” In December, we went to lunch at The Chateau, for his birthday. Always The Chateau. His best friend joined. He was different that day. I felt like I knew him, that month of sweetness we’d spent together, giving me a firm understanding of who and what he was. But on that day, his whole aura had darkened. When the waiter came by, he ordered a six hundred dollar bottle of wine. His friend shot him a look I’d come to know as “here we go again.” On that day I was naive. I followed him. We all got wasted. The last thing I remember is him throwing up in the parking lot of a strip club. I was surprised to watch him pour vodka into his coffee the next morning. I’d never seen anything like that. I thought it might be fun, so again, I followed him, pouring vodka into my coffee cup, sipping it, and laughing at how naughty we were. Naughty little pixies. Everything changed after his birthday. I no longer felt certain that it was only me he was interested in. I wished my hair would grow. I felt insecure, and unable to keep up with his posh lifestyle. He exploited my insecurity by disappearing for days at a time, making light of it when I’d sob and question his whereabouts. He always came back to me though. I thought back to the sweet beginning, wondering how we’d veered so far off course. I stayed with him, chasing the dragon of our happy start, somehow believing that we’d return to that impossible place. One morning, I woke in his bed, my alarm going off at five am for a photo shoot. I padded my naked body into the bathroom, sat down to pee, and noticed a long, red hair stuck to my thigh. Suddenly, I was wide awake. Shaking, I stepped back out into the dark room, to see him sleeping peacefully, looking almost angelic. I turned the light on for a moment, and caught a glimpse of another long, red hair, screaming bright on the stark white pillowcase. I spent the day lying on a rock in Malibu, having my photo taken, feeling sick to my stomach. Trying to talk myself out of what I’d seen. Searching for a logical explanation, like seeing a ghost. The photographer kept asking if I was okay. She mentioned how thin I was, several times. It was not a compliment. Later, when I asked him about it, he was quick to tell me that it must be his upstairs neighbor’s hair. She often came down, platonically flopping onto his bed, or so he said. I knew her. And I trusted her. I didn’t believe it was her hair, but I certainly wanted to. His response was so quick. I couldn’t imagine someone being able to lie so hastily. He used other women to make me jealous. He’d run off with a cool, girlfriend of his. A New York girl. She was around my age, but so far ahead of me in life. “A good girl,” he called her. “A friend, just a friend,” he’d say. I asked if I could meet her. He always had an excuse, a reason as to why I wasn’t invited. He’d go on about his exes. A married woman that he’d had an affair with. She was a supermodel. Also a “good girl”. His ex wife. Another “good girl”. His cool “good-girl” New York friend, who seemed to be in LA a whole lot. Another friend-girl who was an agent at CAA. He’d flirt mercilessly with everyone, in front of me. Men, women. Everyone. We started taking cocaine nearly every day. I flirted with people too. Revenge. He would say he wished I was a good girl. I was not. I was bad, like him. And like him, I was an addict. As I spun further into addiction (with him, but totally alone) my life began to reflect my behavior. The labels disappeared. I missed auditions. I got dropped by my agents. I stopped making money altogether. I thought he should take care of me, financially. I blamed him for making me this way. I was invited to a wedding. Just outside of London. He wanted to come with me, desperately. It was going to be quite the event, a real who’s who. He liked that kind of thing. He told me he couldn’t afford to buy my plane ticket, so I’d have to find my own way there. But once we arrived, he would take care of everything. I RSVP’d with him as my plus one. The wedding was beautiful, and I know that only because I saw the pictures in Vogue magazine. We were there, but not really there, and I still feel embarrassed by our behavior, especially since I’m still friends with the bride and her family to this day. Somehow they forgave me, for being blackout-wrecked the entire weekend, and wreaking havoc, of what particular nature exactly, I’m not totally sure. I only know we were messy, unsavory, and unacceptable. Like everything he and I did together. After the wedding, we ended up in London, with plans to stay for a few days. He got us a room at Claridge’s. It seemed rather fancy considering he’d recently cried poor, claiming he couldn’t afford my plane ticket. We sat in the bar, grabbing a drink before we were meant to meet some friends of his. The server came around, and I ordered my usual, vodka and soda. He asked her, “What’s the most expensive drink on the menu?” She pointed out a sixty-two year old Macallan Scotch whisky, costing three-thousand British pounds. For one shot. He ordered it, while staring at me, and smiling. I felt like I’d been shot. With a cannonball. He’d always found creative ways to hurt me. He wanted me to know what his priority was, when it came to his spending, his life, and me. I’ve never felt more worthless. We spent that evening getting high with his friends. Really, really high. Back in the hotel room, he paced, while I braced myself, trying to disappear into a plush velvet chair. The walls were painted black, and they were caving in on me, as he spilled his guts, telling me that he actually, really did love me, and he was sorry for everything. He wanted to be with me, he wanted this to work, but first he’d have to come clean. A clean slate. The red hair had grown from the head of the agent at CAA. The cool, New York “good girl” was way more than a friend. He had been sleeping with the married, supermodel ex the whole time. All of them, he’d been fucking all of them. And more. The horror-show truth gushed forth, a river of blood. I ran to the bathroom and threw up everything I’d ever consumed. The next day, I got an email from an important music publisher in London. Someone had played them my music, letting them know I was in town. They wanted to meet the following day. I was supposed to fly out that day, and in trying to change the ticket, discovered that I couldn’t afford the fee. I asked if he would help me, and he refused. He stayed in London and I sobbed the entire flight home. Back in LA, wrecked on every level, I felt there was no choice but to change. I was the ugliest version of who I could be. I’d never hated myself more. I got sober. For awhile. I moved on. For a little bit. I wish I could say that was the end of our relationship, but we went on to torture each other for a few years after. Fucking each other and fucking each other over. Getting into relationships with other people, and somehow finding our way back together in between. It always ended with him disappearing with another woman, and lying to me about it. The sex became less earth shattering, but the hangover was always life shattering. Years later, well into my profound change, real sobriety and finally back in LA after a Tennessee stint, I became friends with someone who was good friends with the cool, New York girl. The “good girl”. She was in LA too. Suddenly, we were at dinners together. Pictures of her popped up on my feed from my friend’s account. She was in my life. Very peripherally, but present nonetheless. I didn’t think much of it, other than to take note of the fact that someone who’s mere name being mentioned would give me instant diarrhea, was now just a neutral presence. Enough time had passed, and more than enough change had occurred. Still, I mostly tried to sit at the opposite end of the table from her at group dinners. More out of not wanting to be reminded of those days, who I was, what it was like. It never occurred to me, until we sat at Thanksgiving dinner, just opposite each other, laughing at one another’s jokes, and feeling an obviously reciprocal warmth, that she might have a completely different side to the story. In mine, at that time, she was a villain. My nemesis. As I grew, I realized she was more like a weapon, being used by the real villain, to hurt me. She was a dagger. I kind of thought she didn’t know who I was. I’d seen no flash of recognition when we first were introduced. But he had loved to taunt me with mentions of her. Why wouldn’t he do the same to her? I wondered if I was ever a villain in her story. I wonder if I still am. Does she know who I am? Does she hate me? Does Winona Ryder hate me? It never ceases to amaze me, how the truth comes to light. The ways in which it inevitably rushes forth and breaks the dam. It’s an entity, simmering below the surface, desperate for recognition. And fate, creating the perfect circumstances for more to be revealed. All these lifetimes later, here I am, laughing with my nemesis, both of us in wildly different places than when we first became aware of one another (assuming she was aware of me then). United by unseen forces. Strangers, but not quite. I don’t hate anyone. Enough time has passed, enough change has occurred. And really, I was the villain. To myself. You're currently a free subscriber to Neon Cowgirl . For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
© 2022 Holly Solem
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