Chapter Fifteen
WHEN I FINALLYmade it back to bed, my earthquake had settled, and I slept hard—until I woke up again, at five, with a start.
And a feeling of dread that my dad might not be okay.
I know that’s a pretty nonspecific worry: a vague sense that someone might not be okay. But I’d done a lot of worrying about my dad over the past ten years. It was like my heart had been cramped into a tight, worried ball all this time, and now—even with nothing particular to worry about—it couldn’t unclamp itself.
I had officially handed my worrying duties over to Sylvie. I knew she was competent and mature. I believed she could handle things. Mostly. Sort of. I just didn’t know how to not be the person who always worried about my dad.
Maybe that’s what my heart was up to these days with the thudding. Trying to untie its own knots.
Or maybe I was just dying.
Maybe I should let myself google it, just this once.
That’s what I was wondering—in bed, in the dark, at five A.M.—when my phone rang. And it was Sylvie—FaceTiming me.
“I knew it!” I said, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Sylvie said. There she was, inside the rectangle of my phone, her calm vibe validating her statement. She was in our room, sitting on my bottom bunk, with her hair pulled neatly back like she’d just washed her face.
My hair, in contrast—I couldn’t help but notice from my own smaller FaceTime rectangle—had wiggled its way out of the ponytail I’d gone to bed in, and the alarm on my face plus the wildness of my curls gave me the look of someone who’d just stuck her finger in an electric socket.
“Nothing’s wrong?” I asked. “Then why are you calling?”
“To tell you that.”
“People don’t call to say nothing’s wrong,” I said.
“Normal people don’t call to say that,” Sylvie said, “but this is me and you.”
She had a point. “But it’s five in the morning.”
“It’s seven in the morning here.”
Another good point. Sylvie was sounding more reasonable by the second.
“Can we not FaceTime at this hour?” I asked next. “I am not camera ready.”
“But I want to see you!”
Before I could respond, another face squeezed into Sylvie’s frame. The face of her boyfriend, Salvador, with his ponytail mussed like he’d just woken up, too.
“I think you look great,” Salvador said.
I’d FaceTimed with Salvador several times. They’d been dating since their sophomore year. “Hi, Salvador,” I said.
“Hey, sis,” Salvador said.
Then, to Sylvie: “Salvador is there? At our place?”
Sylvie took a minute to wave as Salvador left to go take a shower. Then she said, “He’s staying with us.”
I didn’t want to feel alarmed. I liked Salvador. He was a great boyfriend for Sylvie—mature and thoughtful and supportive. He’d carved her a pumpkin last Halloween with teeth that spelled out I LOVE YOU.
But boyfriends sleeping over at our apartment was not part of the plan.
“I thought he was spending the summer in Brazil with his grandma,” I said.
“Change of plans.”
“Since when?”
“Since he got into grad school here.”
“He’s starting grad school?”
“Not till August. But he’s taking prerequisites this summer.”
And then, with dread, I asked a question I could already sense the answer to. “He’s just staying there a day or two, right? Until he finds a place of his own?”
“Umm,” Sylvie said.
“He can’t stay with you there long term,” I said.
“The point is, we have an empty bed,” Sylvie said.
“That’s my bed,” I said.
“Yes. And as soon as you come back—whenever that is—we’ll kick him right out.”
But she was missing the point. I wasn’t worried about my bed. “Sylvie, he can’t be there,” I said.
“Why not? Dad is cool with it. He loves Salvador.”
“We all love Salvador,” I said. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“He’s a distraction,” I said.
“He’s not a distraction,” Sylvie said. “He’s helping.”
“He’s too handsome to help.”
“Can I just remind you that the master’s he’s getting is to become a physician’s assistant? He’s a medical professional.”
“Not yet he isn’t.”
“The point is, he’s a good guy to have around.”
“Sylvie,” I said, aware that I had no real power beyond a stern voice, “Salvador can’t stay there. Dad is a full-time, round-the-clock, twenty-four seven job. You can’t be in love and do it right at the same time. Don’t you think if there were a way to do that I would’ve figured it out by now?”
“Fine,” Sylvie said.
I hadn’t expected her to give in that fast. “Fine?”
“Sure—fine. We’ll find Salvador another place. I mean, he’s been doing morning yoga with Dad, and folding all the laundry, and taking Dad down to help Mrs. Otsuka with the community garden, but it’s fine. Also he’s been babysitting Mrs. Otsuka’s grandson Kenji, who’s visiting for the summer and kind of shy—and adorable. But it’s no biggie. I’ll just kick Salvador out.”
“Good,” I said. Guilt trip not accepted.
“Fine,” Sylvie said.
“Great,” I said.
“Perfect,” Sylvie said.
Then, after a pause, to change the subject, she said, “I liked meeting your writer in real life yesterday.”
“FaceTime is not real life,” I said.
“It’s close enough.”
“And he’s not my writer, either,” I said.
But Sylvie ignored that. “He’s cute!” she said. “You should marry him and have little writer babies.”
“Sylvie!”
“They could smoke little pipes and wear tweed jackets and talk about metaphors.”
“Sylvie—”
“I just liked his vibe, you know? And there’s something about his face. A warmth. The way his eyes crinkle up at the corners.”
“Sylvie, we are coworkers. Please do not mentally matchmake us.”
“Too late,” Sylvie said.
Now Sylvie lay back on her pillow. “Tell me about Hollywood,” she said then.
“It’s been…” I said, finally settling on, “a journey.”
Then I filled her in on everything: Charlie not knowing I was coming, then not hiring me, then taking notes while I ripped his screenplay to shreds, then reading my stuff and accidentally liking it, then hiring me—but not exactly for real. I took her through every twist and turn, ending with the grand climax of shaking Jack Stapleton’s hand and then holding my own hand up to the phone for proof. Sylvie frowned and gasped and cheered about all of it—and when we got to the hand part, she said, “You need to get a palm tattoo that says ‘Jack Stapleton was here.’”
“Great idea,” I said.
Next question: “What’s it like living in Charlie Yates’s mansion?”
I thought about it. “Quiet,” I said. “Kind of lonely, maybe? I’m not used to all this space. And luxury. It’s like a hotel. I had to put on a background podcast just to fall asleep.”
“Tell me you’re not homesick.”
“I think I am a little,” I said. “No one sings show tunes here. Or plays the zither. Or reads out loud like a human audiobook to entertain me while I make dinner. The kitchen in this house looks like it’s never even been touched. It’s like a model kitchen in a showroom. It’s not…” I searched for a good word, and ultimately selected “fun.”
“Maybe you’ll just have to make your own fun,” Sylvie said.
“Writing the screenplay will be fun,” I said—but then I stopped. “Or a nightmare. I’m not actually sure which.”
“How could writing a script with your favorite writer be a nightmare?” Sylvie asked.
“Well,” I said, “it’s looking like he’s one of those guys who doesn’t believe in love.”
“Ugh,” Sylvie said.
“And based on everything I can gather, before we even have a shot at writing something decent, I have to force him to take line-dancing lessons, cure him of his water phobia, and convince him that human connection actually matters.”
“Piece of cake,” Sylvie said.
“All,” I added, “without his consent.”
“You were born to do this,” Sylvie said.
“Was I?”
“Just Sylvie him,” Sylvie said.
“Sylvie him?”
“Just act like you’re in charge. Like you always did with me.”
“That’s different,” I said. “With you, I was in charge.”
“But how did you get me to do all the things I didn’t want to do?”
“I just proceeded like there was no other option.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s not a kid, Sylvie. He’s a full-grown adult. I can’t just Jedi-mind-trick him into doing whatever I want.”
“Everybody’s a kid deep down,” Sylvie said. “Use your teacher voice. I bet you’ll be surprised.”
AND SO Idecided to give it a try.
Why not? I didn’t have any better ideas.
By the time I’d hung up with Sylvie, it was six A.M. I put on my swimsuit and tied up my hair—and then I switched into teacher mode, strode confidently toward Charlie’s bedroom, and knocked loudly on his door.
Charlie opened it a few minutes later with one elastic cuff of his sweatpants up above his calf, his T-shirt on backward, his hair pointing up and out every direction, and one eye closed like a sea captain.
“What the hell are you wearing?” were the first words out of his mouth as he looked me up and down. “You’re practically naked.”
Teacher voice. Teacher voice.“I am not naked. I’m wearing a swimsuit. To go swimming.”
“Under it, I mean. You’re naked.”
“That’s not news. Everyone is naked under everything.”
“I’m not complaining,” Charlie said. “That’s just—a lot of arms and legs.”
“What am I supposed to wear? An eighteenth-century bathing costume?”
“Maybe just go back to bed? Problem solved.”
“You can’t be this skittish about a one-piece Speedo.”
“I haven’t been around a live woman in a long time.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“But it is your fault that you’re standing here right now.”
“It’s time to get up.”
“Why?”
Confidence! Teacher voice! Sylvie him!“Because that’s the schedule. I swim first thing in the morning.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what that has to do with me.”
“You’re coming with me.”
At that, Charlie made a break for the bed. But I caught him by the arm and dragged him out—through the living room, out the French doors, to the edge of the pool.
“What are we doing, again?” Charlie asked, like I might’ve already explained it.
“Exposure therapy.”
Charlie eyed the pool. “I’m not getting in there,” he said.
“Of course not,” I said. “I am. You’re just going to keep me company and make a note of the fact that I am not drowning.”
“What if you are drowning?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” I said. Then I patted the lip of the pool at the top of the steps. “Sit right here and put your feet on the top step.”
Charlie looked at me, then the pool, then me, then the pool. “Just the feet?”
“Just the feet.”
“And I’m doing this why?”
“Because you can’t spend your whole life afraid of swimming pools.”
“Afraid of water,” Charlie corrected. “Not swimming pools.”
“And also because you agreed to. When we negotiated our terms.”
“I did?”
Teacher voice.“You did.”
Charlie sighed. And then, to my utter surprise, he just… did it. Pulled up his sweatpants, then stepped in. Maybe he was too sleepy to fight me.
“Sheesh, that’s cold,” he said, sitting down anyway.
“You’ll get used to it,” I said.
“I haven’t even had coffee yet,” Charlie said. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”
“After,” I said, not wanting to give him a chance to escape.
“I haven’t even peed!”
“Permission to pee in the bushes,” I said—and then I dove in before he could muster more objections.
Here’s the thing: it worked. He stayed. He sat there the whole time, feet in the water, while I did sixty laps freestyle.
By the time I was done, he had two eyes open—but not much else had changed.
When I got out, I said, “How was it?”
There was that nonchalant face again. “How was what?”
Must’ve been stressful. “Spending time in the pool.”
“I wouldn’t call that ‘in the pool.’”
“I bet your feet would disagree.”
Charlie looked at me like I was totally insane.
“Anyway,” I said, clapping the shoulder of his T-shirt with my wet hand. “Good job.”