CHAPTER TWELVE - 2007

Rosaline wasn’t the first significant other to lose their shit over Romeo and I…

“Hi, so sorry to bother you, but do you live here?” I said, approaching a small, bespectacled Hispanic woman, standing in the late morning sun on Schrader Boulevard.

“Yes. I’m the manager.”

I almost jumped for joy.

Gutting Paris from our once-shared apartment had resulted in a lot of empty picture frames. Some quite large, as they contained oversized James Dean postered he’d been gifted over the years. I had purchased the frames and hung them for him, attempting to put his mark on a home he rarely bothered to clean, let alone decorate. Well, no more of that. But the vacant poster frames looked stark and sad, even to me. To Big they were devastating.

It took me about a week to figure out what I wanted to fill those frames with, and now I was on a mission: to photograph every place I’d lived in L.A.. To use the empty space to create a map of my own personal history. Remind myself of where I started and how far I’ve come. I had already trekked up to Van Nuys and snapped a few pics of the Sepulveda building, where Romeo and I lived together, and then it was time to head to the other side of the hill.

“I used to live here, forever ago. It was the first place I ever lived in L.A.. I drove cross country to get here, and on the first day, I was all sweaty from moving... I took a load of trash out, turned around, and right there was the Hollywood sign.”

The woman nodded politely as I rambled on about my dreams of making it big, and how much that moment meant to me. And it’s true. It was probably five seconds in reality, but I’ve never forgotten how good it felt. I had dreamed of coming here my whole life, and not only had I made it, here was that famous sign, shining in the sun like a beacon, telling me I was home.

“I brought my camera with me today. I was hoping I might be able to go back there and take a few pictures?”

The woman looked surprised. With a spiel like that, she was most likely expecting to be asked to open up my old apartment or something. I probably didn’t need to tell her my entire life story to take photos by the dumpster, but I was happy that day, and I love talking to strangers when I’m happy.

I walked into the lobby, and a flood of memories came back. Rushing in and out, to the internet cafe to look for jobs, to the post office to mail headshots, to crappy auditions, to shoots, to the football stadium to work with the Inflatable Crowd Company that magical night.

The studio on Schrader was the first place I had ever lived alone in my life. It was thrilling and terrifying and perfect all at once. I remembered coming home one night to find a giant roach in my sink. Lady Capulet had always screamed bloody murder whenever a roach was in sight, so I wasn’t just scared of roaches, I was traumatized by them, and this mother fucker was triggering my PTSD.

I flapped around the living room which was also the bedroom which was also the dining room, screaming, and because there wasn’t enough space, I then ran out into the hallway and did more of the same. After a beat, a tough-as-nails, curmudgeonly old woman threw open her apartment door.

“What’d he do?” She growled.

“No, no!” I had said, breathlessly, “There’s a roach in my sink!”

Her eyebrows raised as her hatred of men suddenly turned to interest.

“Want me to kill it for ya?”

I stopped. Was she serious? Was my fairy godmother an Anne Ramsey look-alike holed away in an old, Hollywood tenement? On this night, the answer was - with one hundred percent certainty - yes. Yes, she was.

As I passed by the door to my old studio apartment, I smiled. The first time I slept with Romeo had been right on the other side of that wall. It was also the first time I was truly wowed by sex, and the exact moment I knew what I first hoped would be a one-night-stand, needed an encore. I had no idea then that sixteen years later I’d be standing in this exact same hallway, thinking about the exact same guy, and in many ways, going through the exact same thing. I had only wanted to fuck Romeo again after leaving Paris. That was it. Okay, maybe a couple times. But just to remind myself that I was human. Alas. As you know by now, dearest Nurse, when it comes to Romeo, that is just not possible.

“Omigosh, it looks great back here!” I said to the building manager about the little back area behind the apartment building. Someone had built a deck, decorated it with buddha statues, hanging plants, and a table set. It looked much more charming than when I had lived here, but unfortunately, the neighborhood hadn’t kept up. Right on the other side of the fence I could see the tent city that had grown, nearly encircling the building, as well as the YMCA across the street. It’s easy to forget when you live in the valley, but the pandemic hit L.A. hard. Downtown and Hollywood in particular.

And there it was. The dumpster. And beyond, the Hollywood sign, small on the hill in the distance. Just the way I remembered it. That was the first time I ever saw those grand, white letters in real life, and the first time I thought, you know what? I’m gonna do some shit here. I still have a ways to go, dear Nurse, but I have. I already have, and I can’t wait to do more.

I snapped a few pictures, then took some really nice ones of the front entrance to the building that I wanted to frame as well. I thanked the building manager for making my day, and headed to the next location.

I snuck into the courtyard of the townhouse on Wilcox where I had lived for three years before I went away for graduate school. It was where I lived when I met Paris, and he moved in a short time after. But I had lived there for two years before Paris ever hit the scene, and while snapping photos of the front door and porch, a surprising memory came back to me. Romeo had been here, too.

Back in 2008, a college friend and I had started a little production company. We made a few things here and there, but we mostly rented out the equipment we had purchased. His two-thousand dollar lighting kit, and my five-thousand dollar video camera that was all the rage at the time. I had been insecure about my teeth that year, so mother had given me the money to get veneers. After a bit, however, I decided to rise above the Hollywood of it all, and stick to my own only slightly imperfect chompers. And so she agreed I could use the money on a camera instead.

Our first big gig was a reality-style project where we followed a group of incredible, theatrical performers through the rehearsal process and performance of a magnificent, avante guard, variety show. There were celebrities involved, and it was all very exciting. But for the final performance, they wanted a seven-camera shoot. Not only did we need more cameras, we needed more camera people.

And so, I hired Romeo for the night. He wasn’t working in porn anymore, thank goodness, but he was still in production, and happy to jump on a gig. I was kinda, sorta dating someone else at the time - Mr. Good-on-Paper, who I mentioned before - but I remember the moment I handed Romeo his check right there on that front porch. It seemed cold for us. Transactional. And at the same time, sad, because he was off again. Out of my life, and back into the L.A. haze.

I remember watching all the footage from that night and grinning. Romeo’s was by far the best. He has always been cinematically gifted, and way too good for porn. I like being right. I always have.

After Van Nuys, Schrader, and Wilcox, there was only one other place I had lived in my pre-married days. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to photograph it, but I reasoned, those years are a part of my life, too, no matter how difficult. Because, you see, that was where I had lived with C.

C was my active rebound from Romeo. I was sitting by the swimming pool one day up on Sepulveda, baking in the sun, and just feeling so damn sad. Romeo had broken up with me two months before, and I still wasn’t over it. I wanted to get over it. I wanted to get over it by getting under someone else, and I wanted that person to be the best looking man in my phone. And so I scrolled through, and called C.

C and I had met on set doing background work in my first few months in L.A.. He was gorgeous. Enormous, sky blue eyes, blonde hair, and a perfect face. If I was a 9, he was an 11. We hit it off, but I was dating Romeo at the time, and so enamored that even God-like beauty couldn’t distract me. Now, however, a distraction was all I wanted.

In usual form, however, what was supposed to be a one-night-stand ended up stretching on for a year and a half. A bumpy, sometimes scary year and a half. C was gorgeous, but he was rigid and unyielding. Not just physically - a motorcycle accident leaving him unable to turn his head without his entire torso - but in practice as well. He was controlling, had a certain set of expectations, and was from Missouri. He owned a gun, which I always hated, but worst of all, he could be an angry drunk. And back then, we drank a lot.

Regardless of the warning signs, we decided to move in together in the spring of 2007. The place we found was a perfectly charming one-bedroom in an adorable 4-unit building on Normandie Avenue.

I remember the day we moved in. A small tree had been planted outside the living room window, on the street by the front entranceway. The tree looked withered, like it was suffering, and even then, I knew that was a sign. The energy was off. Nothing could grow here, and this relationship was not meant to last. That, and when I plugged in the radio, the first song that came on was “Nothing Compares to You”. With C being the rebound that wouldn’t quit, I’ll give you one guess as to who that song made me think of.

It wasn’t bad from the start. In fact, C and I had a good time for a while. But our schedules were horrendous. We both worked in bars. I would finish my shift at a steakhouse lounge on Sunset boulevard around 2AM, then trek down to Santa Monica where C worked at a gay bar, cleaning up until 3. Then, we’d go home, throw back a few beers - on top of whatever we had to drink during work - and went to bed around 4:30AM. every. night. Sometimes when we were drunk we would bicker. The bickering would turn into fights, and the more intoxicated we were, the more intense those fights became.

One night we were fighting over a phone. I have no idea what the catalyst was, only that he had my phone, and I wanted it back. It was a flip phone - back when those were a thing - and I remember clamping it over his hand and squeezing.

“The fuck are you doing!?” He shouted, but I didn’t care about the phone anymore. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to break his fucking hand.

He shoved me, and my back hit the coffee table. I got up and right back in his face. And then he said the worst thing anyone has ever said to me:

“[Juliet], you think you’re a good person, but I have to tell you something. You’re not. You are not a good person.”

I slapped him across the face.

I whirled around to storm away, and that’s when he grabbed my hair, yanking me backwards, sending me tumbling to the floor.

I woke up with bruises and C acting like nothing had happened. That should have been the end. It wasn’t.

C broke up with me a few months later. I, who was quickly losing all sense of self-respect, was crushed. Absolutely crushed. And he moved out, into an apartment literally two blocks away, like the fuckhead he was.

But that kind of toxic romance is like crack for damaged people in their twenties. Two months later, we decided to hang out “as friends”, got rip roaring drunk, and made out everywhere. We got kicked out of two bars, and almost got into a fight with some patrons we bumped into who didn’t want us to start fucking on their table.

We stumbled out and had sex in the back of my new Rav 4 - now my old Rav 4, and the original. He wrote, “[C] was here” with his greasy finger on the back window. I remember later being so pissed about that, and the fact that I let him defile my first SUV that way. Not to mention that he had been the first person I had sex with in that car. I hadn’t wanted it to be him. I had wanted it to be someone else, and considering the timing, I’m almost sure that person was Romeo…

Because Romeo and I reconnected during the few months C and I were broken up. And by reconnected, I mean we had sex on a mattress on the floor in an apartment Romeo was renting on the west side. But again, much like the time we had sex before - just a few weeks after he had broken up with me - I felt ashamed. This guy had broken my heart. It was still broken. What was I doing sleeping with him?

But Romeo was so excited that night, and even into the morning. So glad I was back, and so sweet that a small part of me wanted it also. But Juliet is a prideful beast, and a scared one, too.

So, rather than risk rejection by Romeo, I got back together with C, and the two of us decided to celebrate our reunion by hosting a Christmas party at my Normandie apartment. And for some inexplicable reason, I thought it would be appropriate to invite Romeo.

Romeo wasn’t thrilled that I had gotten back together with C, I knew that, but he wanted to stay in my life. He arrived late, after one of the friends he brought threw up on the way there. Why young people drink before going to a party is beyond me. Fucking. beyond. me.

I don’t remember much about the Christmas party, other than I avoided being alone with Romeo. C was the jealous type. In fact, he would often throw out violent, redneck statements about what he would do if he ever caught me cheating. Though I didn’t necessarily believe he would A. put his elbow through my throat or B. get his stupid handgun, I was terrified of what he might actually do if I ever messed around behind his back. He had caught me doing cocaine once and punched a hole through the wall next to my head.

After everyone had left, I flipped open my phone to see a text from Romeo.

I don’t like you with [C]

I froze. C was right behind me.

“What? What is that?”

Once again, he grabbed my phone, and when he saw that text message, all hell broke loose.

He called Romeo in a rage, spouting some of the most disgusting, vitriolic shit I've ever heard come out of a human being’s mouth. As I mentioned, Romeo’s dad died a very tragic and unnecessarily controversial death from AIDS after a blood transfusion in the 80s. I didn't remember telling C about this, but clearly I had, as he was now using that very sensitive information to attack Romeo, his family, his character, and his integrity. I was horrified. And in no small part because C’s mother had died in a car accident when he was ten-years-old. The fuck was wrong with this guy?

C stormed out of the Normandie apartment and went to his place. But drunk, idiot girl that I was, I followed him. I went to his apartment, crying and banging on the door until a neighbor called the police. He never even opened the door, but because it was a domestic dispute call, the cops handcuffed C and sat him on the curb for half an hour, trying to sort out what was going on. I was mortified, and the whole time, Romeo was trying to call me.

Romeo didn’t give a shit about what C had said - much like I didn’t give a shit about Rosaline’s homewrecker messages on my Facebook and Instagram. What he did care about, however, was me. C had been in a rage on the phone, and Romeo had probably heard me in the background screaming at him. My phone had died during the drama, so he contacted me via e-mail.

Hey,

First of all, I want to say that I had a great time at your party. You were an excellent host to me and my friends, and absolutely nothing happened tonight that was awkward for me. As far as the text message I sent to you, I certainly didn't mean for it to cause you any pain as I meant it for your eyes only. Im sorry I didn't say it differently, maybe without his name. I’m sorry he looked at it. I just know that I care about you and I want you to be happy.

Since I spoke with you tonight all I have been able to think about is how angry he was, screaming, and if you were going to be ok. … Call me.

My heart sank. This was all beyond humiliating. I was the strong girl, the tough cookie. No one pushed me around, and no one behaved like C and got away with it. And yet, here I was, letting myself be trampled in front of someone who actually cared about me.

[Romeo],

I am so sorry for what happened last night. He never should have looked at my phone without my permission, and you didn't deserve any of that wrath. He is devastated today, and I know he texted you to apologize, but somehow it doesn't seem to be enough. I want to be happy too, badly. I suppose we'll see how that goes. I care about you very much too, and again, I am so sorry, so so so sorry about last night.

I will call when I can charge my phone

[Juliet]

When my phone finally turned back on, I discovered a message from Romeo left the night before. He was crying, begging me to call him just to know I was okay. He was so scared. Not licking his wounds from C’s inappropriate tongue lashing, but worried for my well-being.

A few weeks later, Romeo and I met up. I’m not sure what excuse we gave… I think I was picking something up from him… maybe something production related? Either way, we met at his friends’ house - friends I always really liked - and I remember them ribbing us.

“Aw! Are mommy and daddy getting back together?”

We both gave a nervous laugh, but said nothing. Because, the truth was, we wanted each other. We’ve always wanted each other, but now there seemed like so much in the way. I was dating an abusive asshole, and worse, Romeo had seen a part of me I hated. The part of me that stayed with shitty, immature people who didn’t treat me well, because I was insecure and afraid of being alone.

But when he said goodbye to me that night in the driveway, I didn’t see any of that in his eyes. All I saw was how much he cared. Maybe even how much he loved me, and my frayed, wounded soul needed that, badly. I grabbed him, he grabbed me back, and that’s when we had glorious, unforgettable, heart-pounding sex against his friend’s car, right out under the moon, like the couple of star-crossed lovers we were.

But I was with C, still, remember? And now I had officially cheated on him. If I was found out, I didn’t know what he might be capable of.

After leaving Romeo, the feel of his lips still warm on mine, I picked C up from work. On the ride home, that very night, I broke up with him. I may have done it out of fear, but I’m still grateful to Romeo for the push. If I had stayed with that man, who knows what could have happened.

A few nights later, Romeo and I met up at one of those railroad-style diners. I had a coffee, still shaky from leaving C, and feeling more lost than I had in my entire life. Romeo expressed his regret over breaking up with me two years before, and told me he still had feelings for me. That he was interested in getting back together. But, as I’ve mentioned before, I just couldn’t do it. I was so fragile from everything that had happened over the past few years, and I knew I couldn’t handle we-date-as-long-as-its-fun guy. I needed to heal, to recover, and told him as much.

Funny… had I taken him up on that, I never would have slept with N… But everything happens for a reason, right? Even N.

When I pulled up to the Normandie apartment this time, I noticed the tree outside my old living room window was big, beautiful, and full of healthy leaves. I smiled. Someone with a beautiful life, full of growth and love must live there now. I snapped a few pictures, made my peace with the place, and drove off.

But a few things occurred to me during my trip down memory lane, and one was this: every single moment had mattered. I had only lived in the Schrader studio for three months, and yet, when I returned, I remembered everything. The stress of starting a life from scratch. Getting ready for each day in the walk-in closet. The bottle of Grey Goose vodka I gifted myself, but sat in the kitchen for months because every time I returned home I was too exhausted to make myself a drink. The kitten I found out back who became my pet for years. And of course, that moment with the Hollywood sign.

The others I lived in longer, and every single one of those moments mattered too, even the shitty ones at Normandie. And as I went from place to place with my Nikon camera, the memories spilled from the windows and doors out onto the street. Six years of life in L.A. before leaving for graduate school, and, if pressed, I could probably remember all of it. But the past ten years? That’s another story.

It’s hard to look back and realize you were just getting by. Shutting your eyes and ears as you barrelled through life without feeling. Without taking a look at things and saying, fuck me, this isn’t working. But that’s what I did in my marriage to Paris, and because of that, I don’t have nearly as many memories. The light I so often lived my life in went dark then, and I let it. Sometimes I look at Little and realize there are whole chunks of her babyhood I have completely forgotten. And that was only a year ago.

But I realized something else, too. Something far less sad, but equally revelatory: Romeo had been to every single one of these places. Yes, we lived together in Van Nuys, so that one was obvious, but I hadn’t realized before my little excursion just how present he was for me after we broke up. He was always just a call away, and call I did. Even though we weren’t together, I didn’t want him out of my life any more than he wanted to go.

There’s a reason this is happening now. And I know some of you have concerns about me getting together with Romeo again - you’ve written to express as much - but I need you to know something: I am going into this with my eyes wide open. I cut off communication with Romeo so I wouldn’t make this journey about him. So I would be forced to take a good, hard look at myself and ask the tough questions. I hope you all know that I'm doing that.

But what keeps emerging for me - and what I have to be honest about - are the feelings I have for him. The feelings I’ve always had that never fully went away. And it’s insane to me that after all this time he feels the same way. Because of that, I owe it to myself to see what this is. But don’t think for one second that I am going to settle ever again.

Am I going to show up on the 24th? Yes. No matter what. I already bought the dress, and it’s fucking perfect. But, am I going to throw myself head-first into another serious relationship six weeks after ending my marriage? No. No fucking way.

I share your concerns. I’m sure Romeo does, too. There are red flags, here, remember? And this time, I’m not going to ignore them. What I am going to do, however, is open the door to the possibility of experiencing love with someone I’ve never been able to forget. Because second chances like this don’t happen all the time. They just don’t. And if Romeo shows up on the 24th too, I’m going to take that chance. Cuts, bruises, bean bag tits and all. Because, if I have let myself get so damaged and jaded that I can’t love freely anymore, then what’s the fucking point?

And if we crash and burn? Well, then we’ll know, won’t we?

We are here, on this planet, to live. I spent the past decade so buried in work - jamming my head in the sand so I didn’t have to look at what was happening - that I literally don’t remember years of my own life. That’s not living. I won't let that happen again, and I will not leave what-ifs on the table. This bitch is going to meet her fiery end with an empty poison bottle in one hand, and a dagger in the other, screaming, “I did it all, fuckers! There rust and let me die!” And no amount of skepticism - however healthy - is going to stop me.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet