Chapter 17
Outside the shelter, there are illustrated signs and posters everywhere advertising for their annual “October Pawlooza” event,
which is happening tomorrow in Ciuccoli Park. There’ll be hayrides, free donuts and apple cider, crafts for the kids, and
a bunch of adoptable dogs and cats in cute pumpkin bandannas. I’d forgotten it was happening, which is funny, because it’s
one of my favorite events of the year.
“That looks cute,” Luke says, nodding at one of the posters.
“It is.” Under different circumstances, it would be fun to take him. But it would also be way too public an outing, so I don’t
say anything more about it, and neither does he.
Martina, the woman who runs the shelter and is literally there every waking moment (I swear she doesn’t sleep), does a double
take when I show up with Luke.
She smiles at him in a wide-eyed, head-bobby way, and then pulls me aside. “Is that—”
“It is.”
“Then care to explain what you’re doing here with a celebrity?”
Martina’s entire world is animals. Her seeing us together is about as low stakes as it comes. “He’s filming a movie in town. I knew him when we were kids in LA. We went to school together. He wants to help the animals.”
That’s all it takes to get her into planning mode. She goes over to Luke. “This is good. A celebrity will be very good for
the animals. For the shelter. We’ll start with Angel.”
“Angel?” I ask. “Are you sure? Shouldn’t we . . . ease him in before we get to Angel?”
“What’s wrong with Angel?” Luke asks.
“Oh, nothing,” Martina says. “He’s a peach.”
Fifteen minutes later, I have Luke arranged in front of the patch of grass and fake fire hydrant, where I film all the intros.
He looks increasingly uncertain as Martina and I game-plan the best way to get a usable clip with Angel.
“I’ll go get him. When he comes in, don’t move a muscle,” Martina warns Luke. “And whatever you do, don’t look him in the
eyes.” She turns to me. “Be ready to take the shot. We might only get one chance.”
“Claire?” Luke asks.
“It’ll be fine!” I chirp.
A few minutes later, Martina comes out with Angel. She has him in a festive pumpkin sweater. His tongue is sticking out the
side of his mouth and his foggy eyes are bulging out of his tiny skull.
Luke bursts out laughing. “That’s Angel? A Chihuahua? Here I was thinking a two-hundred-pound Rottweiler-wolf mix was about to come through the door.”
I catch Martina’s knowing gaze.
“Looks can be deceiving,” she says.
Angel starts a low-volume growl as Martina places him in Luke’s lap. At least Luke has the wherewithal to look concerned.
Angel goes perfectly still, but his lips curl back.
“Quick, say, ‘This angel needs a home,’” I tell Luke. “And smile. Now, before it’s too late.”
Luke smiles, says his line, and right as I get the clip, Angel becomes demonic. Full-body-spasm barking, snarling, the whole
deal. Martina swoops in and grabs Angel before he can bite Luke.
Luke dips away from the little dog, his eyes wide. “Jesus Christ.”
“Angel needs more than Jesus,” Martina says as she whisks him away. “Only eight more to go!”
Luke looks at me pleadingly.
I hold up my hands. “You offered.”
Over the next hour and a half, we manage to get through all nine animals—four of which are the shelter’s most notorious cases.
By the end, Luke has dribbles of pee on his pants from JoJo, and somehow, strangely, a long feather is stuck to his jacket,
even though we only profiled cats and dogs. He looks like he’s been put through a wood chipper.
Martina stops me when we’re in the lobby on our way out. She’s got a fresh coat of lipstick on, even though she never wears
makeup. “Do you mind if I . . . can I get a picture? With Lucas?”
“Definitely,” Luke answers for me, holding an arm out toward Martina. “Let’s get a few.”
I snap a couple with her phone. Luke’s arm is slung around her shoulders, even though she’s at least a foot and a half shorter than him.
She’s beaming like a schoolgirl with a crush.
After, Luke gives her a hug and she holds on for far too long.
I know one of the pictures I took will be framed and hung behind the front desk.
I’ll have to see it every time I come in for a shift, long after Luke has gone back to California.
Knowing that gives me a happy-sad feeling.
A few other people are in the lobby, here to walk through the dog kennels or cat rooms, and I notice them hesitating in the
periphery as I take photos. When Martina finally lets go of Luke and I give back her phone, one of them rushes over and asks,
“Would it be okay if I got a photo, too?”
I wait by the front doors while Luke takes selfies with three more people. Not one person has registered my presence, which
makes me feel equally invisible and relieved.
Once the last person clears out, happily clutching their phone to their chest, Luke and I make our escape.
“Man. I need a beer after that,” Luke says, once we’re in the parking lot. “Or a cigarette.”
I wince. “Please don’t mention beer in my presence.”
“That was more stressful than any filming I’ve done. Like, ever. Even this one motorcycle stunt scene I stupidly said I wanted
to do myself.”
We get into his car. I know the scene he’s talking about—it was from the second movie in the apocalypse franchise. It was
not his best work. He is not a natural motorcycle rider, but I don’t mention this to him. “Thank you for your help. You did a good job today. Those animals are going to fly off the shelves. Of the shelter,” I add. “Figure of speech. Because adopt, don’t shop. Obviously.”
Luke chuckles, shaking his head at me.
“Hey,” I add suddenly, “while we’re on the topic of mean, decrepit animals . . . is Bruno still alive?”
Luke looks like he has whiplash. “Bruno? As in my mom’s old cat Bruno?”
“Yeah. Why, do you know more ancient decrepit Brunos?”
“No. And no.” He pauses for a beat. “He’s dead.”
I start laughing. Harder than I should be at the demise of poor Bruno. But something about Luke’s delivery of the news kills
me. Or maybe the hangover destroyed half my brain cells. Soon I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.
“That cat was such an asshole,” I manage to choke out.
“He was, wasn’t he?” He starts laughing, too, but I think he’s laughing because I’m laughing, not necessarily because he also
finds it funny that Bruno is no longer with us.
We used to laugh like this all the time, enough that it sometimes got us in actual trouble with Brett for being unprofessional.
There was one time when we lost it more than we ever had, during press before our final season.
In the video, the interviewer is asking us something about Don Jernigan, who played my dad on the show.
Don had a notoriously sensitive stomach, and one day crafty decided to do a big Mexican spread for us.
Don had a spicy burrito. That afternoon, you could hear him going to the bathroom from, like, three trailers away.
Probably from a different state, or maybe even from outer space.
Luke and I thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened, and in the interview, when they asked us something about Don, I can’t remember what it was, Luke replied by saying, “I think he’s gonna make a big splash. ”
And we both lost it. Even the interviewer started laughing. You can’t help but laugh watching it.
It feels good to laugh with him like this again.
When we get back to my house and I’m about to get out of the car, he says, “I’ve really missed you, you know.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“No, like . . . really. Being around you again. I forgot what it can be like, to be able to just . . . be with someone,” he
says. “It isn’t like that for me anymore. And don’t get me wrong. I have friends. This industry is just . . . it gets into
every pore of your life. Lots of smoke and mirrors.” He glances at me. “But you know that.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
For a moment, there’s an electric charge between us. Like there’s something different about the way he’s looking at me. But
I’ve misread his energy before. Fool me once, and all that. So I drop his gaze and pretend to fix my seat belt.
“Are we having another session tomorrow?” I ask.
“Session?” he repeats.
“Yeah. Like, work session.” I motion between us. “The reason we’re hanging out?”
“Oh yeah. Duh. Unfortunately, no. I need to go into New York later today for this magazine shoot tomorrow morning, and then
I’ve got work I need to take care of on Monday and Tuesday. But Wednesday afternoon?”
“Wednesday,” I agree.
Later, I upload all the footage to my computer and go through it. I send a three-second clip to Luke. It’s the moment Angel
turns vicious in his lap, and the expression on Luke’s face is priceless.
LUKE:
That dog had problems
HAS problems, I correct him, and Luke laughs in response.
After that, I do something I never do: I rewatch an old episode of Bricks. Not to hate on myself. Not to open old wounds, or to cringe in embarrassment at my overacting or looks.
I watch it to remember the good parts.
It’s from the third season, right around when Luke and I started getting close in real life. You can see it in the way we
act—there’s an ease between us. An emotional shorthand, a natural affinity for each other, even though we’re in character.
I watch a couple of more episodes and try to detach myself from my own mind, my own history. And you know what? The show was cheesy as hell, but I wasn’t bad. Luke’s words from the other day wash over me. Maybe I was talented. My comedic timing was great. I was compelling on-screen.
And for the first time in a long time, it feels good to revisit this. To revisit myself, the girl I was, who so fearlessly
took center stage.
When Mom gets back from Todd’s, she makes white chicken chili and corn bread. She has some invoices to take care of, so she
heads upstairs while I take a bowl of pumpkin pie ice cream with the leftover apple fritter crumbled on top into the den.
I put a crackling fire on the TV, since we don’t have a real fireplace, and snuggle up under a fuzzy Target blanket to scroll
aimlessly on my phone. I’m so glad it’s Saturday and not Sunday.
Around nine, I get a DM from Evie on Instagram.
It’s a story from one of the anonymous celebrity gossip accounts she follows, along with a message that says, Ugh! I was hoping he would fall madly in love with u
I click into the post. It’s a grainy picture of Luke, and it has to be real time, from earlier tonight, because he’s wearing
the same thing he was this afternoon. But he’s not alone, because Ana?s Labrie is also in the photo. They’re going into a
restaurant in the West Village. Neither of them is looking at the camera, and she’s a few paces behind him, but they’re clearly
together. Maybe even together together.
The story goes that she was plucked out of obscurity at a flower market in Nice.
Clips of interviews with her are always popping up on TikTok, where she’s self-deprecating and funny, all with a lilting French accent.
She’s modeled in a Dior campaign. Even her name is beautiful.
Ana?s Labrie. Whereas “Claire Hopper” sounds like a cartoon rabbit.
But if they are dating . . . was there a chance she was with him when I called him last night? Did they laugh about it together?
Who was that? I imagine her saying, with her lilting touch of a French accent, her pillowy lips and soft blond hair.
No one, Luke tells her. Maybe he felt embarrassed for me in the moment, the silly little high school student that I am. Some girl who used to have a huge crush on me.
Imagining this is terrible, yes. But I’m not a heart-eyed thirteen-year-old anymore. Who he’s seeing is absolutely none of
my business. He taught me that already, but apparently I needed the reminder.