The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

Chapter 5

5

Sunday

There seem to be several schools of thought regarding how best to deal with death. You have your standard five-step process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Then there’s the more popular boho hippie method: meditation, preparation, forgiveness, and gratitude. I myself have chosen a combination of the two.

Hanging out in the shower with my bottle of champagne until the water went cold covered denial, anger, and depression. I was, however, too tired to meditate last night and too hungover to manage it this morning. Talk about a headache. Though spending over an hour on the phone dealing with the details of the car accident and my insurers could be seen as preparation. Same goes for downloading a do-it-yourself will. I don’t want to die intestate and leave a disaster for someone else to deal with. That would be rude. I seem to have skipped forgiveness and bargaining so far and am still working my way toward gratitude. Because fuck this shit.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I refuse to spend the next seven days in a downward spiral. Not a chance.

Good Witch Willow made five predictions. My boyfriend was indeed cheating on me, and I did get passed over for promotion. That’s two points. But while I did meet Alistair George Arthur Lennox, we did not instantly fall in love, and I saw no definitive sign that he is my soulmate (not that I would necessarily know what I was looking for). I award this prophecy half a point. As for the lotto, since I could only remember some of the numbers, she misses out on a full point there too. I’ll give her three-quarters of a point. Her total is therefore three and a quarter out of a possible five points. Let’s call it 70 percent. A high enough number to demand action. But low enough to still hold out some hope. (This also counts as acceptance .)

Now to decide how to spend my time.

My inner child immediately takes charge. I need to see the house I grew up in and be with my parents. To smell the faint scent of lemon cleanser and home cooking. It’s a small Spanish-style home in Santa Monica. Three bedrooms and a lovely garden located a good way back from the beach. Dad used to teach at UCLA while Mom managed a local café. But now they’re both retired and doing their own thing.

I have so many memories of this place. It’s always been a safe space for me, and I know I am lucky. As often as my mother and I disagree—which is often—I never doubted that I was loved. My brother moved to Boston years ago for work. We’re not close. But I know if I called, he would answer.

“Hello there.” Mom is packing the dishwasher when I wander into their kitchen in the afternoon. Just being here calms me down some. Coming here was a good choice. I inherited the buxom and blond from Mom. She was born in Denmark; her family moved to America when she was five. Just old enough to remember the harsh winter weather. The worry line instantly appears between her brows at the sight of me. We have that in common. “I didn’t hear your car in the driveway, Lilah.”

I lower the cold brew from my lips. “My car was in a slight accident yesterday.”

“How slight? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “You didn’t hear the car because I’m Ubering around at present. The Prius won’t get assessed until Wednesday. But I doubt the news will be good.”

“Honey,” says my dad, coming in from the front room. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Hey, Dad.”

There didn’t used to be a whole lot of hugging and kissing in my family. Neither of my parents are touchy-feely people. Once my brother and I moved out and got on with our own lives, however, that started to change. It’s funny how family cultures evolve. How certain practices get passed down often without any real thought. None of my grandparents were especially affectionate either. I don’t know if they felt it was awkward or unnecessary or what. But I like that we’ve started being more demonstrative.

“What’s this I hear about a car accident?” he asks.

“It’s a long story, but basically, I was distracted and drove into a concrete bollard. I’m fine, but my car is not.”

While Mom has her worry line, Dad has his sigh. Both are effective in their own ways.

“But wait,” I say. “I have two more announcements to make.”

Dad leans his hip against the kitchen island. “We’re all ears.”

“Josh and I broke up.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. One of those loaded parental glances. Like there’s a lot they could say on the subject, but they’re debating the wisdom of sharing their true thoughts and feelings.

“He was never good enough for you,” says Dad, making his mind up fast. “You know those people that talk fast but say nothing?”

“Babe,” says Mom in a wary tone.

Dad throws up his hands. “It’s the truth.”

“How are you feeling about it, Lilah?” asks Mom, wiping her hands on a cloth.

I down more of my cold brew and think it over. “I was upset at the time. But now I think I’m actually okay.”

“That means it was the right choice,” says Dad.

Mom nods wisely. “He was too normal for you, to be honest. A bit boring. You know what I mean?”

“No, I do not know what you mean.” I laugh. “How was he too normal? Does that make me abnormal? Please explain it to me, Mother.”

“What’s the other news?” asks Dad, coming in with a diversion. He obviously has no interest in watching a girl fight. As much as he enjoys a good debate, he hates to see us disagree.

“Oh. Um. I won the lotto,” I say. “Not the top prize, but not a shabby amount either. I got five numbers.”

“Five? Wow. How about that!”

Mom cocks her head. “That’s amazing. But you don’t gamble. You always said you couldn’t afford another bad habit, with what you spend on books and shoes.”

“That’s true.” I take another sip of coffee to buy myself time. “It was just... The thing is...”

“Yes?”

I hesitate and prevaricate and all the rest. Telling them just doesn’t seem like a good idea.

“Who cares? Call it a random stroke of luck,” proclaims my father with a grin. “Congratulations, honey. What are you going to do with the money?”

“It’s about a quarter of a million after tax. I’m not sure yet. I think I’m still in shock.”

“Lilah! That’s incredible!” gushes Mom with wide eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Possibly life-changing. It might not feel real until you see it in your account. I could make you an appointment with our financial planner,” Dad says. “You let me know if you’re interested.”

“As long as you’re not going to spend all your time hanging out at casinos from now on,” says Mom. “I had an uncle like that. He would set his alarm to wake him at two in the morning. He had this theory that less people in the casino meant more luck to go around. It was sad to see him throw his life away. You’re not going to start doing that sort of thing, are you?”

It’s possible that I also get the penchant for randomness and drama from my mother. “No, Mom. I can honestly say the thought has never crossed my mind. Though I am taking the week off. I was due a break from work anyway.”

Cue another round of hugging. Then Dad is off to hang out in his office and work on his book about ethical theory, and I am left alone with the family matriarch.

There was always a solid chance I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to tell them about the predictions. For so many reasons. The key one being, my time might be limited, and I’d rather focus on making good memories. But I also want to relive the best bits of my life. The everyday things I took for granted. “Mom, if I make a sad face, will you bake me your chocolate chip cookies?”

“I don’t know.” She gives me a long look. “I just cleaned up. It would need to be truly wretched.”

“I’m talking profoundly pathetic. Like lost Dickensian orphan pressing her nose against your kitchen window on Christmas Eve.”

“Hmm. You’d need to squeeze out a tear or two. Do you think you’re up to it?”

I laugh. And then I stop laughing because this is serious. This might well be the last time I see my parents. I have no idea what the next week will bring. A lump is lodged in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the ass growing up. You know I appreciate you, right?”

Mom cocks her head. “You weren’t a pain in the ass.”

“What about when I was a teenager? All the sneaking off to parties and skipping class?”

“To my knowledge, you snuck off to exactly two parties and skipped class once in a blue moon.” Her gaze is full of confusion. “Lilah, where is all of this coming from?”

“Nowhere. It’s nothing.” I pull up my metaphorical brave big-girl panties and paste on a smile. “You were going to make me cookies.”

For a moment she says nothing. Then she nods. “All right. I’ll make you a batch. But don’t smudge the glass pressing your nose against it. I don’t need a demonstration.”

“I won’t smudge the glass. Thank you, Mom.”

“You’re welcome,” she says in a soft voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’m making a plan for what to do with my free week.”

She turns on the oven and starts assembling the ingredients and utensils. “What have you got in mind?”

“I want to make the most of my time. Do all the experiences and events and whatever that I should have done by now.” I pull out my cell and bring up the note app. “The things I hoped to achieve before thirty but delayed due to time or money or laziness.”

“It’s not like you don’t still have plenty of time. But that could be fun. What have you got so far?”

“Not much. Care to brainstorm with me?”

Mom smiles. We have the same smile too. “I would love that.”

“Well, well, well,” says Rebecca, dramatically sweeping into my apartment. “If it isn’t the mystery woman herself.”

“What are you talking about, and do you want a glass of wine?”

“Of course I want a glass of wine. What kind of question is that?”

The makings of my bucket list are spread across the small dining table. Mom and I came up with a long list, and there are lots of ideas on the internet. Now I need to eliminate and prioritize. Visiting my parents helped calm me down. But this situation, the whole “Will I or won’t I die?” thing, makes me anxious as heck. I am taking deep breaths and thinking calm thoughts on the regular. It’s almost working. The list could well come in handy for distracting me from my possible imminent death in the days ahead.

“Do you really not know what I’m talking about?” asks Rebecca, dumping her purse on the kitchen island. “Ooh. Cookies.”

“Mom made them. Help yourself. Do I really not know what you’re talking about with regard to what?” I retake my seat at the table. “How did things go with Priya?”

“Really good!” says Rebecca. “We have plans for tonight. I’m cautiously optimistic. She really seems open to the idea of seeing where this thing between us could go this time.”

“That’s great news. What changed?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just glad it did.”

My best friend works in accounting at one of the big film studios. She makes up for spending her days crunching numbers by wearing the brightest clothes she can find. This evening, she’s sporting a fuchsia pantsuit with gold jewelry. Her dark hair is styled in its usual chin-length bob. The woman is fire.

With a glass of wine in hand and a whole cookie in her mouth, Rebecca thrusts her cell at me and points at the screen.

And there on-screen is a shot of Alistair ushering me into his Aston Martin. Shit. I completely forgot about the paparazzo. My face is in profile but still definitely me. “I was in a bar and, um, he was just being kind and gave me a lift home.”

She just blinks. “Wait a minute. You actually met Alistair Lennox, and he drove you home in his ridiculously sexy sports car?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was a doppelg?nger and we’d laugh about it. But you’re telling me that’s really you in the picture?”

“It is indeed me.”

“Whoa,” she says, the whites of her eyes shining bright. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Yeah. Some things occurred after I left your party...”

I’ve thought about it at great length and the same reasons I have for not telling my family about the predictions and my possible dire fate also apply to friends. Even my best friend. I mean, they may not agree with my assessment of the situation. Which would be fine. But whatever they believe, I don’t want to be watched or worried over for the next week. My goal is to enjoy whatever time I have left.

Prevarication ahoy!

“It’s kind of a long story. First, Josh and I broke up. There was a naked woman hiding in the bathroom when I got home Friday night.”

Her eyes grow wide as can be. “No! Holy shit. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your birthday.”

“You should have called me,” she insists sympathetically. “Did you throw him out?”

“I did indeed.”

“That duplicitous fuck. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“I’m actually dealing with it better than I thought I would. Which is telling.” I frown. “Then on Saturday I had a disagreement with my boss.”

“Boo. That woman is the worst.”

“She really is. But it gets better, because then I had a car accident in the parking lot at work and probably killed the Prius. It was Alistair’s car that I swerved to avoid. Totally my fault since I was distracted and in the wrong damn lane.”

“Are you okay?”

“My neck is a bit sore today but otherwise all good.”

“You’ve been busy.” Rebecca’s lips skew to the side, and she gives me a look of commiseration. “That would be a lot for anyone to deal with. I can see why you were in a bar in need of the kindness of hot royal strangers.”

“I went to that restaurant on the corner from work and had a few drinks and felt sorry for myself, and we got to talking.”

“Did you get his number?”

“No.”

She winces and sips her wine. “That’s a shame. Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m sorry your weekend turned out to be so awful. But what was he like, just out of curiosity?”

“He was nice. Though he could also be cranky. I don’t know. We just chatted for a while. It’s not like we bared our souls to each other or anything.”

She ponders this for a moment. Then she picks up her cell and swipes several times. “Did I mention that you also broke the heart of America’s sweetheart?”

“I did what?”

She turns her screen toward me, showing a tear-stricken woman in designer apparel. Her beautiful face is familiar. As it should be, seeing as she was in the blockbuster movie from last summer. Josh took me to see it on our first date. I flick through a series of photos and articles in amazement. And more than a little horror. The headlines read “Betrayed by Prince Charming” and “Daria Gets Dumped.” Ouch.

“‘Charming Cheats’ is my personal favorite,” says Rebecca, lowering her phone. “Clear. Concise. It says it all.”

“‘Insiders say the king is furious with the illegitimate playboy prince over this latest scandal,’” I read. “Do you think these so-called insiders ever actually exist?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Me too. I didn’t even realize he was dating Daria Moore. Wasn’t he with that singer?”

“They broke up a while back. She’s engaged to some nepo baby now.”

“Huh.” Guess he’s the one before the one after all. “This is... Yeah. I honestly don’t know what to say. But I definitely didn’t steal anyone’s man. I didn’t even make a pass at him.”

“I believe you.” She sets her empty glass of wine on the kitchen counter and picks up her cell. “I have to go. But we need to schedule time to talk smack about your ex and rehash all of this. Just in case you forgot any important details. And don’t forget, you promised me sashimi. Though, given your run of bad luck, maybe I should be buying.”

“Oh. I also won some money on the lottery last night.”

She just blinks.

“It’s a lot. I know. I’m taking the week off work, so let me know what day suits.”

“Will do.”

I follow her to the front door to relock it after she’s gone. Outside, the night is as quiet and still as it ever gets in LA. March is jeans-and-cardigan weather, and I am dressed accordingly. A cool breeze is making the palm fronds wave in the wind. My elderly neighbor two doors over, Mr. Pérez, is standing on his doorstep talking to someone. Someone who is tall and broad with dark hair. Someone vaguely familiar. No way. It can’t be.

“Yes, sir,” says the man with a familiar Scottish accent. The warmth that rushes through me at the sound is wild. He is here. How amazing. “You’re absolutely right. I should have asked her for her apartment number when I was with her. But I am not harassing her, I promise.”

Mr. Pérez answers in Spanish, and he is not happy. I don’t understand enough to know what he’s saying. Not at the speed at which he’s talking. Though Alistair has no such problems, switching languages with ease.

“Excuse me,” I say. The conversation pauses and I raise my hand. “Gracias, Mr. Pérez. I do know him. It’s okay. Sorry to disturb you.”

Mr. Pérez nods and wanders back into his apartment without another word. He probably has soccer waiting. It’s his favorite. For Christmas, his daughter installed a huge flat-screen TV so Mr. Pérez could watch his games in high definition. I helped to lift it into place and was rewarded with a couple of pieces of tres leches cake for my efforts.

“Lilah,” says Alistair, heading my way. I couldn’t take my eyes off him if I tried. He really is like a modern-day Prince Charming. The man has such presence.

“How many doors did you knock on trying to find me?”

“That was my third. No answer at the first, and the second was slammed shut in my face.”

This is wild. I honestly never thought I would see him again. But here he is, standing right in front of me. He is neither smiling nor frowning. The sharp lines of his face are set in this careful blank, though I detect a hint of apprehension in his beautiful eyes. My heart is now beating much harder for some reason. My anxiety changing focus from worrying over my dire fate to freaking out about him and his sudden presence in my everyday life. If only I could turn off my feelings and take a break. It would be so helpful right now.

“What are you doing here, just out of interest?” I ask.

“I wanted to make sure the press wasn’t bothering you.”

“No. No sign of them so far. But doesn’t you being here increase the odds? Not that it isn’t nice to see you and all.”

He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. “I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Right.” I nod. “Well, it was just my profile in the pictures. I don’t think anyone really expects me to be in a photo with someone like you, so...yeah.”

We stand there in silence that is not comfortable in the least. Amazing how his stiff posture lends his jeans and Henley the air of formal wear. His gaze takes in my face before returning to the garden. This couldn’t be more awkward. I don’t have a clue what to say. He does not, however, make any move to leave.

I take a deep breath. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes,” he answers with zero hesitation.

Huh. “Okay, then.”