Chapter 5 Cleo
CLEO
I’m in my bedroom early Saturday evening after performing at a children’s holiday party in Sherman Oaks.
I just took the neighbors’ dogs for a walk and responded to some queries from my Etsy store.
Now I’m minding my own business, frantically trying to pick out a costume while eating a protein bar and listening to Christmas songs, when my old friend and new landlord, Franklin Baldwin, calls out, “This has to stop!” He bangs on the closed door with the palm of his hand and says, “I don’t care if you’re naked or not—I’m coming in. ”
“Sadly, that is the sexiest proposition I’ve had since I moved to LA.”
He opens the door, sees me in my pink-and-white-striped stretchy polyester candy-cane jumpsuit and slaps his hands over his eyes. “I came in here to tell you to stop playing that Mariah Carey song over and over, but now I only hear the sound of my own voice screaming inside my head.”
He is so dramatic—I love him. Franklin and I grew up next door to each other in Paso Robles, and when he heard that I had to find a new apartment after my New York boyfriend dumped me, he encouraged me to move back to Los Angeles, offering me his spare bedroom.
I’m paying rent, of course, because I can afford it.
Apparently a teacher from Paso Robles met the love of her life while living in this very room!
I would be into that. I think I’m ready for the love of my life.
I just hope he’s ready for an emotionally mature grown-ass woman in a candy-cane costume.
“Shoot, you know what…I just realized I can’t wear this to the party I’m going to because—”
“Because it’s not a party for blind people?”
“Because there will be adults there, and the last time I wore this in New York at least ten guys walked up and licked me.”
“Ew. But also, does it come in my size?”
“You can have this one. I’ll alter it for you. And let’s be real—I was licked by random strange men in New York while wearing jeans and a sweater too.”
“I can totally see how someone who isn’t me would find you super yummy.”
“That is honestly the most flattering thing you have ever said to me—thank you! Can you unzip my jumpsuit and help me remove this headpiece?”
“That is, sadly, the sexiest proposition I have had since you moved to LA.” Franklin removes the stuffed, arched cane hat from my head, tosses it onto my bed, and then gestures for me to turn around so he can unzip me.
“Okay, I will say that your booty looks sensational in this horrific boner-reducing waste of pink-and-white polyester and faux fur.”
“Thank you! Now help me decide what to wear to the party I’m going to in Brentwood.”
“Miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, knee-high boots, bralette under a tight sweater. Next question.” Then he mutters “No, no, no, God no!” as he goes through every item that’s hanging in my closet, eighty percent of which are costumes.
“It’s for a job. This adorable seven-year-old boy hired me, and I want to wear something special instead of one of the elf costumes I always wear around the holidays.
I’ve only worn this one once since I bought it,” I tell him, pulling out the glittery blue-and-white snowflake costume.
“But the last time I wore it a really creepy guy asked if he could pay extra to find out if I’ll melt on his tongue. ” I shudder at the memory.
“If he was hot and had an English accent, then yes please; if not, that is grounds for pepper spray.”
I look at the clock on my bedside table. “Shoot. How long does it take to get to Brentwood from Silver Lake on a Saturday?”
“It takes forty-five minutes to get anywhere in LA—no matter what time of day it is, where you’re going, or coming from.”
“That can’t be true, but whatever. I’ll just wear an elf costume.”
“It’s a nighttime party. There might be single uncles and daddies there, so wear the slutty elf costume.”
“I don’t have a slutty elf costume.”
“You do if you wear whatever elf costume you crafted to make yourself look unsexy and then you wear that one pair of high-heel boots you got eight years ago to bewitch a certain asshole who shall not be named.”
I gasp.
I can’t believe he brought up the unnamed asshole from eight years ago.
The tip of my nose tingles and the rims of my eyes start to burn.
I’m having an allergic reaction to the very thought of him.
I purse my lips, step over to my closet, and pull out the Santa’s helper elf costume with the shortest skirt and the most flirtatious pom-poms. I will pair them with my most demure opaque red-and-white-striped tights. And I will wear braided pigtails.
“You really aren’t going to get in touch with him?” Franklin asks, in the most sincere tone he’s capable of.
After clearing my throat several times and then replenishing my fluids and then finishing the protein bar I was eating before I was so rudely interrupted, I say, “He could have reached out to me at any time in the past few years, but he hasn’t.”
“Okay. But you still have the boots. I saw you unpack them when you moved in.”
“Franklin. I am not wearing those boots.”
I am wearing those boots.
I haven’t worn them in exactly eight years and one day.
But these boots still fit like a glove, and I do feel sexy in them.
Any time I close my eyes I can still see the look on his face when he saw me in that short skirt and these boots when I walked into the party that night.
He absolutely was bewitched. But he looked so handsome, and I was bewitched by his scent too.
He smelled like a stroll up the snowy path to a fancy cabin in the woods, if a grumpy earth fae had spilled whiskey on the path right before I got there.
And then when he crooked his index finger under my chin and kissed me under the mistletoe, he was so gentle but commanding at the same time.
And the way he snaked his arm around my waist…
Nope!
Nope, nope, nope.
As I pull up outside the entrance to a really beautiful mansion in Brentwood, before the valet comes around to open my car door, I get into children’s party mode.
I can’t be a sexy children’s party entertainer who’s flooding her elf panties over a steamy holiday party spank bank memory!
That’s just wrong. Focus, focus, focus. What do the elves call Santa after he’s had beans for dinner?
Farter Christmas! My goal is to earn money to invest. Not to get drunk later and text some asshole I had a moderate amount of crackling chemistry with before I was legally old enough to rent a car in the United States.
When the valet opens my car door, the mildly cool night air carries the scent of citrus flowers, the sound of dozens of people chatting outside behind the mansion, and the yuletide vocal stylings of Michael Bublé.
I pull my wagon that’s filled with well-organized props along the decomposed granite path that leads around the side of the house.
The path is lined with strings of white lights that hang from metal poles that are also adorned with very tasteful and aromatic wreaths made from rosemary, eucalyptus, and berries.
At the tops of the metal poles are menorahs with flickering battery-operated candles.
All of the decorations are so tasteful and lovely, but they are not giving kid-party vibes.
I hear the sound of a utensil clinking against a glass. The volume of the Michael Bublé song is lowered. A gentleman speaks into a microphone, saying how beautiful the ceremony was and how glad he is that Barry and Alyssa found each other…
Uh-oh.
Am I at the right house?
I triple-checked the address Paxton gave me before driving onto the property.
When I go through the open gate to the expansive backyard, I stop to survey the scene.
There’s a buffet table, there are about half a dozen dining tables.
Some people are eating dessert. A number of people are milling around.
There’s a huge live Christmas tree and a few little kids sitting on the grass around it.
There’s a photo booth and a dance floor.
And an arbor that’s wrapped in Christmas and Star of David lights, pine branches, and roses in the far corner of the yard.
This is not a kid’s holiday birthday party.
This is a fucking wedding reception.
I look around for a place to hide my wagon, but an elegant lady in her sixties walks over to me. She’s wobbling just a little and doing a very good job of almost not staring at me like I’m a total weirdo. “Hello there. Are you a friend of Alyssa’s or Barry’s?”
“Um. I’m a friend of Paxton’s?”
“Miss Cleo!” I turn my head toward the pitter-patter of little feet on cement. My new young, bespectacled friend Paxton is looking very handsome in a cream-colored suit. Once again, he has a frosted cookie in one hand, and I have to suppress the urge to reach for a wet wipe. “You came!”
The man who’s speaking into the microphone is far enough away that our voices aren’t disrupting his toast. “Of course I did,” I say to him. “Hello!”
“Grandma, this is Dad’s date,” Paxton says to the elegant, maybe-tipsy lady.
I look around to see who he’s referring to.
“Really? Oh, my goodness. Wow.” She covers her mouth. “I’m sorry, but this is fantastic. How very nice to meet you…” Paxton’s grandma says, holding her hand out to me.
“Oh…” In a bit of a daze, I shake her outstretched hand. “Very nice to meet you too.” I curtsy. I really wish I didn’t just curtsy, but I also wish I wasn’t wearing an elf costume, so fuck me, this is happening.
“Miss Cleo,” Paxton says, swinging his cookie-filled hand between me and his grandma, “this is my grandma. She’s my dad’s mom. I told you he had a date!” he says to his dad’s mom.
“Miss Cleo! Please call me Josephine,” she tells me warmly.
“It’s just Cleo. So nice to meet you,” I say. Did I already say that? What is happening?
“And look at that wagon behind you!” she exclaims. “Are those presents? You didn’t bring that many presents, did you?”