L.A., sometime in 1959, just moments after Evelyn decided to fake a miscarriage.
I couldn't stop staring at her face, just above her cheekbone. It was so obvious, yet somehow I had missed it before. The bruise was a deep blue, starting to fade into purple, covered by a thick layer of makeup. But with the sunlight streaming through the window of Harry's office and hitting Evelyn's face just right, it was unmistakable.
There are a million reasons someone could have a bruise on their face, I knew that. I couldn’t just assume. She could have fallen, bumped into something, or maybe something hit her—or someone.
I sat there, staring at the door through which she and Don had just walked. I perched on Harry's desk, my hands resting on either side of me. Harry was behind me, buried in his paperwork, dealing with whatever needed his attention.
“Do you… do you think it’s odd the way he speaks to her?” We both jumped at my question. I turned to look at Harry, but he didn’t look up when he answered.
“Don?”
“Who else?”
“Evelyn and Don… it’s complicated, but who are we to judge?”
His response irritated me. It was too vague, like he was holding something back. "Harry, what was on her face?"
He paused, briefly glancing at me before resuming his shuffling of papers. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
“I know you saw it too,” I said, my voice rising with a mix of anger and fear. "Was it him? Did Don do that to her?"
Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Yes.”
“That bastard,” I whispered, disgust in my voice.
I looked back at the door, where they’d just left. “I bet they’re still out there. I should go give that man a piece of my mind,” I said, my voice rising again as I stood up, moving toward the door. Before I could take a step, Harry grabbed my arms, pulling me back.
“No!” he said, more forcefully than I expected. "No," he said again, quieter this time. He leaned down, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not doing that.”
“Why not?” I asked, my chest tightening, my heart racing, my cheeks flushed.
Harry held me in place, his voice steady but firm. “Look, I dislike Don just as much as you do, but confronting him could make things worse for Evelyn. We don’t want to make her situation harder.”
“No, we don’t,” I said quietly, trying to calm myself.
From where we stood, I had a clear view of the parking lot outside. Harry’s office was on the first floor, and I could see Don and Evelyn walking to his car. I hated the way he touched her. His hand gripped her upper arm, pulling her forward as if forcing her. They were arguing, their voices too far away to hear, but the tension between them was clear.
Harry let go of me, then walked over to close the door behind him softly. “I feel so helpless,” I admitted, still staring out the window. “I’m her friend. Shouldn’t I do something?”
Harry walked over, guiding me to stand in front of the window with him, both of us watching as they got into Don’s car. “I never said we couldn’t do something to help her,” Harry said. He pointed toward the parking lot. “You see his car?”
I nodded. Don’s car—a 1958 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, bright red. It was his pride and joy. Evelyn couldn’t stand it. She hated everything about it—the colour, the style, but most of all, she despised how loud it was. Don had custom-made it, removing the muffler so the engine roared with every drive. Everyone knew when they were coming. Harry turned to look at me.
“You play golf, right?”
“Yes,” I replied, confused by the sudden question.
“So you have golf clubs?”
“I do.”
Harry grinned mischievously. “Tonight, we wreck his car. You and me.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“He’s Captain Hollywood. He can afford a new one,” Harry added with a wink. “And Evelyn’s probably tired of that damn car.”
I stared at him for a beat. Then I nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Later that night, Harry picked me up at 10 p.m. We were both dressed in black, and I carried the golf bag out from my closet. It had gathered dust over time—golf had been put on hold since filming took priority. I wiped the bag off but could still see the thin layer of dust that wouldn’t come off.
I tossed it into the back seat of Harry’s car and slid into the passenger seat. Harry pulled the car onto the road, his hands steady on the wheel.
“What if we get caught?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the dark streets ahead.
Harry kept his gaze on the road. “That’s not going to happen. Who would suspect that soon to be Oscar-nominated Celia St. James and producer Harry Cameron of destroying Don Adler’s car?”
Oscar-nominated Celia St. James—if only. I blushed at the thought.
"Besides," Harry added, "knowing Don, he's probably half-drunk and passed out. And Evelyn, well, if she catches us, she might just join in."
We both laughed, but I could feel the tension in the air. Neither of us had ever done something like this before.
Harry parked a few houses down from Don’s place. We grabbed our tools—my golf clubs, and Harry’s knife from the glove compartment. He left the door of the car unlocked, just in case we needed a quick getaway.
“How do we even start?” I whispered as we crept toward the house. Harry smiled. “Just hit it.”
I nodded, tightening my grip on the club. I picked a thicker one for more impact and swung it at the hood of Don’s car.
Nothing happened.
“You’ve gotta hit it harder than that,” Harry said from behind me. “Think of something that makes you mad.”
I looked down at my hands, gripping the golf club tightly. I couldn’t stop thinking about Evelyn—the woman who was being beaten by the man who was supposed to love her. The anger surged through me every time I saw him with her. I could have been the one to make her happy, to keep her warm in bed, to be the one she turned to. But no, I couldn't have that. I thought about how fucked-up this world was, how life isn’t fair. I can’t love a woman openly without it ruining my career, and I can’t be with Evelyn—the one woman I’d do anything for. I can’t—
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Harry’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “Slow down, tiger.”
I hadn’t realized I had started to hit his car. The front of Don’s car had small dents where my golf club had struck it, a visible trail of my frustration.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, barely audible, as I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
I stepped back and gestured for Harry to go. He pulled out the knife he’d brought with him and started walking around the car, slashing the tires one by one.
For the next twenty minutes, we tore into Don’s car—slashing the tires, denting every surface, shattering the windows. When we finished, Harry stepped back, lit a cigarette, and admired our work. He took a long drag before passing it to me.
“We can’t tell anyone about this,” he said.
“Of course not,” I replied, smoke curling from my lips.
I passed the cigarette back to Harry, expecting him to take another drag, but instead, he walked over to the car, popped the fuel cap, and tossed the cigarette in without bothering to put it out. He stepped back quickly as the flames erupted. The fire spread rapidly, and the two of us stood there, grinning, watching the car burn.
Just then, the front door of the house creaked open, and a stumbling, drunken Don appeared. His eyes went wide when he saw the flames, and he started yelling something, but before he could do much else, Harry had grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the car. We sped away, tearing out of the tree-lined street.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Don. I watched him sprint to the car, fall to his knees, and start shouting, his words lost in the chaos. Seeing him like that was almost more satisfying than destroying the car itself.
We were both silent for a moment, caught in the adrenaline, before we couldn’t hold it in anymore. We burst into laughter.
“Did you see his face?” I gasped through my laughter.
Harry smiled wide. “That made my year!”
We were too high off our little victory to go home, so Harry pulled into the nearest McDonald's. We grabbed two Cokes and large fries, then he drove us to a nearby cliffside, where we parked and ate, the cool night air mixing with the last echoes of our laughter.
“You know, I misjudged you, Harry Cameron,” I said. “You seem so put-together and uptight. I never thought I’d see you burn someone’s car to the ground.”
Harry glanced at me, a slow smile spreading across his face before he turned his gaze back to the water. The full moon hung in the sky, its light shimmering on the surface below. “I think you and I are more alike than you might think,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the water, not meeting mine.
His words caught me off guard for a moment. I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“You know what I am?” I asked. “You heard rumours?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he replied simply.
Fuck, I thought I’d been more subtle about that.
“I hate seeing her with him, knowing I could give her a better life,” I confessed quietly. “Besides, she’s the straightest woman I’ve ever met. I’m getting way ahead of myself.”
Harry’s expression softened, and he gave a small shake of his head. “You can’t always assume something like that,” he said. “You never really know.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re feeding my fantasies.”
“I know,” he chuckled, but his tone shifted, becoming more serious. “Look, I get it. I know exactly what you’re going through.”
I gave him a sad smile.
“I’m just saying… if you ever need someone to talk to about it, I’m here.”
I leaned over and took Harry’s hand in mine. “Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate that.”
The next day, Evelyn arrived on set alone, having taken a ride from a hired car. She had a bright smile as she walked toward the craft services station, buttering a piece of toast. She glanced up at me, still smiling, and said, “The craziest thing happened last night.”