Chapter 38: Vee

The next day, I felt ashamed of myself. He was the first man I had slept with besides Yaron, and it had been nothing more than a choreographed physical act—void of real intimacy.

I felt guilty. I felt dirty. I felt used.

Little Girl Lost was released and became another smashing success. The press praised my performance as Phoebe and filled pages speculating about how much of her had been inspired by my own life. Some journalists even claimed that Little Girl Lost was a semi-autobiographical film. Whenever I was asked about it, I would just raise my eyebrows and smile—a Cheshire Cat’s smile.

Most of my past remained a mystery to the general public and the press. They didn’t dig too hard, because I was already giving them enough scandals to fill their magazines week after week.

In the following months, I buried myself in a chaotic frenzy of activity. That particular day, I had worked on set all day before stopping by my apartment for a shower and a change of clothes.

I was getting better as an actress. I felt like I was learning a lot, and with each passing day, I grew more confident in my performance—more convinced that maybe I did have a certain talent that just needed to be polished and refined, as Scott kept telling me ad nauseam— “Talent is not something static, Vee. It has to be molded every time you face it.”

Scott had given me Sunday off, and I was going to a concert with some of his friends, followed by a party at someone’s house.

He was there again.

And we shared a bed again.

I had drunk a lot and didn’t remember much the next morning. But I remembered enough to feel ashamed of myself.

I decided that would be the last time. The tabloids were already starting to write about us.

I gathered my clothes and got dressed. I looked at myself in the mirror. A red dress and black heels. A leather jacket and a crossbody bag. A perfect image of Raven Black, a far cry from the Vee I had left behind.

I went into the elevator and took out my phone. I don’t know why I called him. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until he picked up.

“Yaron?”

He didn’t say anything—just sighed.

That sigh reached deep inside me. It stirred everything I had tried to keep buried, everything I drowned most of the time with alcohol and the other substances I had begun to flirt with more than I should have.

“Yaron ... I’m sorry,” I choked.

Still, he said nothing. I knew he was probably mad at me. Disappointed. Hurt.

And it was all my fault. Again.

I leaned against the elevator doors and allowed myself a moment of solace in knowing he was on the other end of the line. Even without saying a word, Yaron was a lighthouse in the storm of my life, keeping me from getting lost in the raging sea.