Chapter 4
FOUR
NORA
“Sorry, something came up. Can’t make it tonight.”
I almost laugh at the way the bot reads Jeremy’s text through CarPlay (that thing totally does not understand human voice inflection). Except, as I’m cutting the steering wheel to the right, turning down a narrow street, all I can do is think about how bummed I am, even if we did all just play together last night.
I’m on my way to grab a quick, small bite to eat from this café I really like in the center of Seaside—which was supposed to be before I met up with Jeremy, my pickleball partner, and played some games against Lydia and Charlie.
We need four players, so guess that isn’t happening tonight.
Jeremy doesn’t usually cancel, so I’m not mad at him—shit happens—but it still means that my group won’t be able to play unless we find a fourth person. Even if I can’t practice with Jeremy, I’d still like to get out there—the tournament will be here before we know it.
Blowing out a breath of air, I consider my options. I could text a few other people I know to see if someone is free—there’s still a couple of hours before I’m meeting Lydia and Charlie at our reserved court. Or there might be someone willing to play who’s hanging around the facility, but it’s not likely since we pay to book these courts for a couple of hours, and people typically don’t randomly show up with hopes of someone needing an extra person. (It’s not like a public park where you show up, place your paddle in a hole, and wait to be called for a game).
I decide it’s best to try to get another player in.
When I get close to the café, I find street parking off a busy road, and I park my car by the curb, right in front of a royal blue Porsche with its top down. I think of Ryan Lane for a second, imagining that could be his car, like they said on the radio, but then quickly brush it off. Porsches are a dime a dozen among the rich, and we see plenty of them around here. Those jerks on the radio don’t know what they’re talking about.
Whipping out my phone, I start scrolling through my group of pickleball friends, carefully considering who I want to try. Some people I already know will say no—they have kids and weeknights are no bueno for them—so, I cross them off the list to even try. I stop when I reach Jackie’s name—she’s around my age and is just as crazy about this sport as I am.
I select her name, and the phone rings, and rings, and rings. Eventually, it cuts to her voicemail, but I don’t even bother leaving a message.
I try a few more people with the same luck.
Sigh. Welp, can’t make this one happen tonight, then. I text Lydia and Charlie to let them know, in case Jeremy already hasn’t and in case they also want to try reaching out to find someone. Exiting the car, I head to the café to get a quick bite.
The bell on the door jingles as I step inside. It’s a beachy sort of place, with picnic benches instead of indoor dining furniture. Pictures of faraway beaches, like Malibu and Honolulu, line the walls.
The smell of fresh fruit and coffee hits my nostrils. Tapping on the app on my phone, I order my usual granola parfait yogurt—what I would’ve been doing ahead of time if I hadn’t been trying to get a fourth pickleball player. Since, you know, I’m not a huge people person.
They make each parfait fresh, so I take a seat at the picnic table with the least amount of people, waiting for one of the employees to bring over the order once it’s ready. I check in by scanning a QR code on the bench, that way they’ll know which table to bring the item to.
There’s a guy in a mask at the other end of the bench I’m sitting at who’s wearing a bucket hat. He’s glancing at nothing, tapping his leg, almost nervously, gripping his phone.
I scoot a little more to the edge of the bench.
Trying to distract myself, I glance up at one of the TVs. They’ve got TMZ on, and there are those pictures of Ryan Lane that the gossip station mentioned yesterday. None with the blue Porsche that they talked about on the radio, but there are pictures of him at the car rental counter at PDX. He’s in one of his typical suits, and his head’s down. He looks pretty pissed off.
I’d be pretty pissed off, too, if I were him.
He didn’t cheat on anyone, or start that fist fight, and so what if he had?
That’s his life. Which has nothing to do with me or anyone else in America.
“Why don’t they just leave that poor guy alone.” The words slip out before I have a chance to stop them. It isn’t often that I talk to myself, but it’s been known to happen. I’m much better at talking to myself than I am at talking to other people.
A woman at the bench next to me must overhear. She turns her head and gazes at me with a funny look. Fuck.
Between her blue locks and the tattoos up and down both of her arms, she seems like someone you don’t mess with.
“Poor guy?” she says. “That man’s loaded. I wish I could be that poor guy.”
“I, er… well…” I clasp my hands together, gazing down at my lap. It dawns on me only now that I’m wearing a T-shirt from my pickleball center, with large lettering with the name of the place across my back. If this lady has half a brain, she can come and find me whenever she wants. “I just mean… well… he’s, uh, er, umm, still a human, y’know?”
My words are little, voice timid. My face feels beet red.
All the while my mind starts racing, wondering if any of the words have come out right or if I sound ridiculous. Because that’s what happens in my head any time I say anything to most people.
“Yeah, I’m personally sick of all these celebrities and their sob stories,” a second woman at that table says. “Tell him to go back to rehab again.”
“Rehab?” I ask, finding my voice a little. “For what ?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” the second woman says. “I just guessed for something.”
“That’s, uh… a little judgmental, don’t you think?” I ask, a hidden drive beneath the meek exterior. “And you’re making some wild assumptions about a guy who has never publicly gone through any drug or alcohol related issues.”
“Honey,” the first woman says, “they’re all like that, those celebs. They earn a ton of money, then they go and waste it on stupid things. Like islands. Or drugs. Or women. And then they cry about their sad lives.”
“Uh… huh,” I barely manage to say. All I want to say, really, given all my communication issues.
“When you’re that rich and famous,” the second woman says, “other people are entitled to judge you. Hell, we the consumer paid for their fame. They owe us.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings,” I push out quickly, hurt unrelated to any famous person swirling around in my heart. Before I can wonder why I’m defensive of someone I don’t even know, memories jerk to the surface.
My childhood flashes through my mind—specifically, the time Mom reprimanded me for not fitting into a dress two sizes too small. Hurt swells in my gut as the images continue to assault me, and I see us walking through a department store, me at age eleven, with her trying to help me find my perfect shade of foundation all the while schooling me on proper diet and exercise.
One time, she cut my food intake so much and dolled me up so extremely, I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. Some anorexic-looking girl with a fake tan and unnaturally straight hair stared back at me.
I hated it.
I’m so defensive right now because, to me, my mom is the general public, expecting so much of all these famous people—when they’re just human beings who want to live their lives.
Thing is, Mom needed me to be something I couldn’t ever be. A pretend version of myself that doesn’t exist. To support a narrative of my life that never existed.
So, I feel for people who are expected to be superhuman.
When beneath the makeup and the exterior and all the smoke and mirrors, we each have another version of ourselves—the real version—and no one really has any clue.
Deep down, we all just want permission to be who we really are.
“Can’t we just stop picking on people we don’t know?” I add under my breath, spinning around in my seat, heart racing. Hopefully, by avoiding eye contact, this will all be over, and they’ll both stop talking to me. I can get my parfait and leave, since dining in no longer seems to be an option.
The man with the mask and bucket hat is now staring at me curiously, blue eyes meeting my own eyes. I’m waiting for him to jump in and start attacking me, too, which really sets my anxiety through the roof.
“Hey, just leave me alone, okay?” I say defensively, somehow able to speak. Even though this man has technically done nothing wrong. I’m on edge—a thing quite common with me from years of having to emotionally protect myself.
Quickly, I gaze away, pulling up my phone. Pretending to look at something. Anything. When in actuality, all I’m doing is staring at my message history with Jeremy.
There’s a thump to my left. When I glance over, it’s the guy with the mask and bucket hat. He’s just taken a seat on the same side as me, and he’s gazing at me with interest. He’s got no food with him, so he must be waiting for whatever it is he ordered, too.
Or he’s done eating and just hanging around to fuck with me because of the things I said to those women.
Once again, I scoot away, ass now half off the bench seat and half on.
“You must be the only person in America who feels the way you do,” he says, gruff voice sounding a little too gruff—like he’s purposefully disguising it. I imagine Ryan Lane’s blue Porsche rental. Then see the Porsche parked behind me.
Quickly, I brush off that impossible connection. No way in hell.
“Thanks for the insight, Batman,” I say, still on edge, yet I’m instantly surprised by my random zinger. It does happen. On rare occasion. It’s easier to come up with things to say to a man in a mask.
Maybe I need to count my win and simply forget the parfait.
It’s time to go.
Right as I’m about to lift off my seat, a female server walks by with a parfait in each hand.
“Order 51?” the server asks, gazing at the masked guy.
Masked Guy nods.
“Order 52?” the server asks, and I slowly nod.
She places one parfait in front of me, and one in front of the guy. His order is exactly like mine—except his parfait is loaded with extra blueberries.
Huh.
The masked guy cocks a brow, and his eyes seem to be smiling. Some of the tension inside of me relaxes at this, although I’m far from calm. Between the women behind me, and this stranger who might have more to say to me that I don’t want to hear, my mind is a swirling mess.
“Where are your blueberries?” Batman asks gruffly, yet in a joking tone.
I smirk, unable to think of a retort or anything witty to say back.
Jerking my gaze away from the guy, I grip the spoon they included with the parfait and start shoveling yogurt into my mouth. Attractive, I know. But the goal is escaping, not looking pretty. At some point, I lift a protective eye to gaze over at Batman. Not especially surprisingly, he’s moving incredibly slowly, pulling his mask out only a bit and still concealing his face while moving the spoon beneath the cloth to eat.
Either this guy is still incredibly cautious about COVID (or germs in general).
Or he’s trying to keep his identity hidden.
Because he’s Ryan fucking Lane.
No. Way.
I refuse to believe that.
“So, those pickleball courts any good?” the guy asks me, pointing to my shirt. “If you play.”
For a second, even though the guy is literally pointing and staring at me, I still wonder if he’s talking to someone else. If there’s another person beside me or above me or, uh, even on the fucking ceiling. Because it can’t be me . People don’t talk to me so casually. The blueberry comment was one thing, but now he’s continuing to talk to me?
Then again, still can’t rule out he’s here to fuck with me. He is gazing at my shirt, after all, like he’s memorizing the name of the court. I internally groan.
Great.
“Uh… y-yeah, I do play there.” The words are hard to force out through the deep tension inside of me. I’m wringing my hands together, focusing on my fingers, how I’m sitting, the way my hair is falling over my face. Anything to avoid the discomfort of someone talking to me.
His eyes flick down to my hands for a moment, then back to meet mine. When he gazes at me again, there’s a softness in the way he’s looking at me.
“Don’t let those two women bother you,” he says, voice low. “They have no clue.”
Oh, if only he knew my actions now have more to do with me on the regular, and my fucked-up brain, than being caused by some stupid interaction with a couple of strangers.
“They, uh, er, really don’t though,” I whisper through the anxiety, going along with him—that’s easier than the truth. I inhale deeply, hoping that if I speak the next words quickly enough, I’ll get through them without stuttering. “I bet if those women had to present themselves a certain way all the time, and act a certain way, they’d never be able to handle it.”
I make it through the sentence and take another deep breath. Whew.
This makes Masked Guy laugh a deep, throaty, gravelly laugh. “Bet’cha you’re right.” He lifts a brow. “You seem to be awfully protective over someone you’ve never met.”
I gaze down at my hands, which are still wrung together. Although I still feel the stranger’s eyes on me, it’ll be easier to speak candidly without making eye contact.
“Try being judged your entire life,” I say, voice still small, although the words are right from my heart. “I feel Ryan Lane’s pain in my bones.”
Of course, if this is Ryan Lane, then this would, uh, be extremely awkward.
But it’s not though. Because there would be no chances of that.
I’m also not sure why I’m talking this much to a stranger; I’m usually much more reserved than this. I blame it on the parfaits.
I glance over at the guy again. He’s still looking my way, almost like he’s trying to figure me out. Good luck to him.
“So, gruff faked voice, bucket hat, mask. Who’d you kill, anyway?” I ask the masked dude, joking to take the focus off of me. And not thinking before I speak.
This makes him laugh again.
Second zinger of the day. Go me. This will never happen again for the rest of my life.
But, also, if there’s a chance this guy might show up at my pickleball center, I’d like to find out if he’s, er, you know, a serial killer or something.
“Some old, rich guy,” Batman says without missing a beat, voice still rough like he’s legitimately the Bat himself. “I needed his money, which I found in his mattress inside of his mansion after I shot him. In his driveway.”
“Heh. Classic. So, rich billionaire con on the run. No . In hiding .” My nerves are still rattled, now also because we’re talking about a fictitious— fictitious, I hope — murder in front of two very judgmental and seemingly catty women nearby.
“It’ll be a long time before I can go home,” he adds, lowering his voice enough that only I’ll hear. Hmm. It’s like he’s heard my thoughts. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see my ten children ever again. Or my dog.”
“Or your wife?” I ask quietly, grinning.
“No, no. She died in the fire. That I started. Man, Los Angeles can really burn.”
I laugh a little too loudly. Blame it on the nerves. Or, erm, talking to people. My eyes flash over the two women again. They must have no clue what this conversation is about, but the lady with the tattoos looks irked. Like my laugh was a little too loud for her.
“So, you’re, uh, er, from Los Angeles,” I deadpan, my mind still unable to shake this Ryan Lane thing. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m getting a better look at this guy, wondering if his build fits—which I shouldn’t be doing, because that literally goes against everything I just told those women. But I can’t stop myself. I’m curious since—in a way—I’ve been drawn to Ryan Lane ever since the game back in New York.
This guy’s on the taller side, with fitted dark jeans around his legs. He’s got broad shoulders, and he’s wearing a navy, solid T-shirt, with an opened flannel on top. Nothing that some ordinary person off the street wouldn’t wear.
“Originally?” Batman says with a more serious tone—which tells me he’s about to give me a truthful answer. “No. I’m from a suburb in the Philly area. You from here?”
My brain races, thinking back to the Rangers game in New York, and the Flyers jersey that Ryan Lane was wearing. That’s a Philly team. I’ve never looked up anything about Ryan Lane or where he’s from, but something tells me it just might be the Philadelphia area.
“I’ve lived here for about ten years, but I’m from New York originally,” I say, words slightly smoother than before. I’ve somehow gotten rid of my usual hey-I-don’t-know-you-stranger-strutter (that’s gonna be a TM I register, by the way). I’m starting to feel a little more comfortable around this guy. Like I’m talking to someone I know well.
I can’t believe it. This never happens to me.
I mean, my heart is still racing, partially because of those two women who might want to murder me in my sleep. Or find me at my pickleball court and accost me.
But this guy? I feel ever so slightly less on edge than normal with him.
Slightly .
“New York City ? Or do you mean that more broadly?” he asks. “Hard sometimes the way you New Yorkers describe where you live.”
He adds a wink, and my insides flush.
“New York,” I stress, cheekily. Because suddenly I’m someone who can be fucking cheeky with a person. A stranger, no less.
“You’re cute.” He grins, kind eyes meeting mine.
My cheeks flush. I almost look behind again, to see if he means someone else.
But he’s staring at me. No one else.
He called me cute.
“The city, and the state,” I add, giving him a serious answer. “Queens, to be precise.”
“Ah, Queens. I’ve been there. New York City’s a cool area. Just as cold as Philly though. You get that cold weather here?”
“It does get cold and rainy in Seaside,” I say, on a roll with my ability to speak to someone else. Having a real conversation with a real human for once in my life. “I personally think winter is a lot milder than back home. You’re an East Coaster. You get what a real storm is like. People from this area don’t seem to get it.”
“You’re telling me . When we get a little rain in LA, everyone stocks up on bread and eggs. And no one knows how to drive there… when it drizzles . One year, there was a winter advisory when daily temps dropped to the fifties. In January .”
“Ha. That’s T-shirt weather in the winter. Like, who turned on the heat?”
“Right? Hell, I’d be half tempted to go jump in the Atlantic.”
“I don’t know if I’d dare go that far,” I tease, marveling yet again at my ability to do that with a person—someone who may or may not happen to be one of the hottest celebrities of our time.
Who even am I right now?
He laughs, voice still that faux gravelly. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. The Polar Bear Plunge doesn’t seem so appealing.”
“Not really, no. I hate the cold. With a bloody passion. It’s my enemy, to be clear.”
“I’m not a huge fan of it, either. That’s why I picked Los Angeles as opposed to staying on the East Coast.”
“Did you also pick Los Angeles for work?” I dare, kind of hoping to get to the bottom of this. But he’s still using that voice that sounds fake; this isn’t a guy who’s likely going to give me answers, whether he’s Ryan Lane or not.
“Not originally,” he shrugs. “My parents split when I was sixteen. Dad moved to LA; Mom stayed in Philly.”
“After the split, you had to pick who you lived with?” I guess.
“Something like that.” His voice is soft, closer to a whisper.
“I’m sorry for asking,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring up a tough subject.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who mentioned it first. Not you.” He’s still speaking low. I can see in the way his brows have crinkled that this subject isn’t easy for him, yet he’s talking to me, a complete stranger. His one hand is gripped around the container of his parfait, fingers tense.
What do I do right now? Offer to go somewhere else and talk?
But I don’t know this guy, and I’m not usually this social.
“I don’t have the greatest relationship with my family,” I blurt out, voice equally as low as his own. “So, I get it.”
What I don’t get is why this is so easy for me right now.
I don’t do this—this thing where I’m sharing about my life.
Especially with people I don’t know.
Does this stranger have some kind of weird superpower or something?
His blue eyes gaze at me with understanding, and there’s recognition there, coming from me, coming from him. Like we’re two people separate from the rest of humanity. Like I would get his story if he were to tell me, and he would get mine. We would just understand one another. It’s scary and nerve wracking and magnificent all at once. Something I know I’ve never experienced before.
It’s so strange, I instantly question the entire thing.
This can’t be actually happening, right?
But it is.
I know it in my gut.
For the briefest of moments, my nerves settle, and my entire body feels even more at ease, and everything is calm in a way I’ve never known.
For the briefest of moments, my mind is clear.
For the briefest of moments, I no longer hear my heart pounding in my chest.
I exist without panic, and without fear.
And for the briefest of moments, my brain feels normal.
But then, I inhale. And on the exhale, for no rhyme and no reason, all the nerves inside my body begin to jumble, to speed up, to loop and twist and bind, and everything familiar returns. The ease turns into an overwhelming panic, that all of this is too powerful, too intense. I’m starting to constrict; I’m starting to gasp for air; my mind begins to do internal somersaults, flipping and flopping, as I start anxiously moving my hands over my legs, wondering where to place them and how to position my feet on the floor.
I break our gaze.
“Itwasnicemeetingyou,Batman,” I say so rushed out that the sentence might as well have been one word. Without thinking, I grab my half-eaten parfait, and bolt for the door.
I sling the yogurt into the waste basket as I make my haste exit. Fully preparing for a night of anxiety as I obsess over this entire exchange, wondering how I could have handled it differently.
Because my brain’s broken.
I’m not normal.
Never will be.
There is no fixing this.
These are my thoughts as I slide out the door and back into the cool air.