15. Aspen
Chapter 15
Aspen
F riday, the next day, my parents flew into LA to do some production work on their current film project. My younger sister, Maple, came with them just to spend the weekend in LA and to visit me. After filming for Golden Hour has wrapped for the day, I drive straight to the restaurant my dad texted me.
“Miss Jordan,” the ma?tre d' greets me as I walk in. I’ve never been to this particular restaurant before but my parents have raved about it. It’s an upscale Chinese restaurant, vibrantly decorated with rich hues of red and gold. It’s packed tonight, and everyone waiting for a table turns to stare at me, whispering to their friends and partners.
“Hey,” I respond to the man awkwardly. It’s always weird to have strangers know my name without me telling them.
“The rest of your party has already arrived. Right this way,” he says, stepping out from behind his stand.
I turn back to look at Edgar, who’s accompanied me inside. He’s been my personal bodyguard since I was a kid—being the daughter of Robert and Isabelle Jordan will necessitate that—so I can read him like a book. He’s a decadent man and would much rather be inside enjoying the food than waiting outside by the door. But, he’s also dutiful and prideful, meaning he’d never actually ask to stay inside with me.
“I’ll wait outside,” he says, right on cue.
“No way. Come on, I’m sure the rest of the family’s guards are here too.”
Edgar takes a single step forward, clearly interested but not fully convinced.
“They are here,” the ma?tre d' answers. “Sitting at a table beside the Jordan’s.”
“Would you rather be outside in the LA heat, or having a free meal in a nice restaurant? I’m positive my dad is paying.”
“Fine,” Edgar responds, “but only because there might be a security threat in here.”
“Of course. It has nothing to do with wanting to eat with your old buddies.”
“Nothing at all.”
With that, we follow the ma?tre d' to my family’s table, where my parents and sister are talking merrily about something.
“Aspen!” my mom says, jumping out of her chair and racing around the table to grab me. “I missed you so much, my baby. It’s been way too long.”
“I missed you too, Mom,” I say, giving her one final squeeze before letting go.
I notice her hair today is a cherry cola red and straight, with fringy bangs in front. “Maple chose it,” she says, reading my mind. Since my mom lost her hair to chemotherapy four or five months ago, she’s been changing wigs every day. At this point, it’s almost weird to see her with her traditional long blonde hair.
“I love it,” I respond. “I changed mine too.”
“So I noticed,” my mom says, running her fingers through my bob. “I like it. It suits you.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I chopped it mainly for Golden Hour , but I actually really like it.”
“How’s the movie going?” my dad asks, wrapping me in a bear hug of his own.
“It’s good,” I reply. “Long days, but I’m happy to be back on set. Those few months in between projects were weird.”
“I bet,” he says.
“Hi, Maple,” I say, moving to wrap her in a hug. She grumbles in a typical seventeen-year-old way, but hugs back just as tight. “I’m shocked you’re skipping school the first week of your senior year.”
“I didn’t skip. I had a free-period at the end of the day today and we left the second I got out. We’ll be home Sunday night.”
“That’s more like it,” I say, sitting in the vacant seat. “It’s too bad Willow isn’t here. I haven’t seen her in, like, six weeks.”
“I know.” My mom sighs. “But duty calls.”
“By duty, she means New York Fashion Week,” Maple translates for me.
“We saw her and Heena last night. They both said to send their love,” Dad says, ignoring Maple.
“I’d say send them mine back, but they’ll already be in London by the time you guys get back to New York.”
“Yeah. Last I heard, they were planning on flying out together tomorrow.”
“Fashion weeks always make me glad I didn’t become a model,” I say.
“Same,” says Maple.
“Same,” jokes my dad, making us all laugh. Theoretically, I suppose he could have been a model—he’s tall, conventionally attractive, and was born into fame and wealth. But the idea of him as a model is comical. It’s just not his style at all.
“Well, I was a model, and I’ll tell you girls, it’s not as easy as it looks,” my mom says. “There’s a lot that goes behind those few seconds you’re on the runway or that one shot in the magazine.”
“And tell Maple about how much goes into acting,” I pry.
My mom, while from humble beginnings, became an international superstar as a model/actress double-threat back in the nineties.
The waiter comes and takes our orders, momentarily pausing conversation.
“Acting is tough too,” my mom answers after the waiter leaves. “But it helps when you have good costars to work with.”
“Subtle, honey.” A smile tugs on the corners of my dad’s mouth. Twenty-five years later and they’re still as disgustingly in love as they were the day they were married, if not more so.
“I’ve seen some headlines about you and Grey,” my mom continues. “I’ve always said that man is ridiculously attractive.”
I shoot Maple a warning look. While she knows our relationship is fake, my parents don’t. I love my mom more than anything in this world, but she has a big mouth. If I told her about the fake-relationship, she’d accidentally let it slip to someone else, starting a snowball effect. And I can’t tell my dad because he’d immediately go and tell my mom.
Maple gives me a small nod. She understands they can’t know.
“He’s cute,” I confirm.
“Aspen, honey, dogs are cute. Meeko is cute. Grey Aldridge is hot . He’s like a Greek god who stepped out of a block of marble. I’ve rarely seen anyone like him, have you, Bobby?”
“What does he look like again?” my dad asks.
My mom pulls her phone out and brings up a photo way too quickly. Dear God, don’t tell me she’s saved photos of him.
“His legs are like tree trunks,” she says in awe. “And don’t even get me started on those arms. How much do you think he can bench, Bobby? At least three hundred pounds, right?”
“Oh, more than that,” my dad says, taking the phone from my mom and zooming into the photo.
“Guys, can we please stop analyzing my costar?” I ask.
“I want to see this photo,” Maple says, reaching out toward the phone.
She laughs, showing me the screen. Of course, it’s a shirtless photo of Grey. I tear my eyes away, feeling like I’m somehow violating him, even though if I’m being honest, I really want to keep looking. Even though I only look at the screen for half a second before realizing he’s shirtless, his rippling brown skin is burned into my retinas. His muscles have muscles, I swear to God.
“Put that away,” I say. “Mom, why do you have that? And, Dad, why are you enabling her? Aren’t you supposed to be mad? She’s gawking at another man. A half-naked one at that.”
“To be fair,” my dad says, “his physique is exceptional.”
Maple wrinkles her nose. “I agree with Aspen, put that away. You guys are getting creepy.”
“Okay. Instead of objectifying him, let’s talk about his accomplishments. I’ve heard he’s an incredible actor,” my mom offers.
“No,” I reply. “Let’s not talk about him at all.”
“Don’t you like him?” she asks. “You seem to be friends.”
“We are friends, which is why this is weird,” I insist. It’s not even a lie. Grey and I are sort of friends, and this conversation is weird.
“All right, all right, I’ll zip it,” Mom says. “What should we talk about instead?
“How are you doing?” I ask, referencing her cancer.
“I’m fantastic, sweetie.” She smiles.
“Mom.”
“I am,” she defends. “I’m in between rounds of chemotherapy right now, so I’m feeling fine. In fact, I’ve managed to eat three square meals every day this week, and I’m putting on a little weight. Now, how are you ?” she asks, turning the conversation back on me.
“No more breakdowns on the way?” Maple asks bluntly.
“Nope. I’m all good. It’s nice to have a fairly regular schedule again. I missed acting.”
“How’s the therapy and medication going?” my dad inquires.
“They’re good. I’m still meeting with my therapist weekly. She thinks that’s the best plan for the time being. And I’m stable on my medication.”
“Is it working?” Maple asks.
“They’re both working. Of course, anxiety doesn’t just go away. But I’m learning to adapt to it.” They don’t need to hear about the growing pile of stress-knit granny-squares in my bedroom. Or how I cried for an hour earlier in the week. Or how my recommended playlist on the car ride here was POV: you’re depressed in the 70s . This year I’ve been the family’s problem child, and I really want to reassure them that they don't have to worry about me. I mean, my mom literally has cancer…they have bigger fish to fry.
“Good,” Dad says.
“I’m so happy you’re feeling better.” My mom smiles in relief. Good thing I’m an actress.
“So how’s school going?” I ask Maple.
“It’s fine. I hate my assigned lab group, though. I’m in advanced physics with the ditziest girl and the most brain-dead guy. It’s awful, I have to do everything. And even worse, I have to babysit them and make sure they don’t fuck up my experiments.”
“Syrup,” my mom scolds.
“Sorry. I have to make sure they don’t mess up my experiments.”
“Thank you.”
“They’re idiots. I swear, they’re just rich, daddy’s money brats who shouldn’t even be in that school. There’s supposed to be an entrance exam that weeds out idiots like them.”
My dad chuckles. “Honey, I hate to break it to you, but you’re also a ‘rich, daddy’s money brat.’”
“But at least I’m a smart, competent one.”
“True,” my mom affirms.
Our food arrives at the table and while everyone begins eating, my phone buzzes. I open it to see a text message from my PR manager, telling me to keep up the good work with Grey. But what really catches my attention is an Instagram direct message request from Grey. It’s a photo of us sipping each other’s smoothies at Eldora.
@Greyaldridge: I told you so.
I accept the message and reply.
@Aspen: I admit, we do look pretty fond of each other there.
@Greyaldridge: Great acting, Jordan
@Aspen: You too
I slip my phone back into my pocket, somehow both charmed and discouraged by the interaction. I pull my phone out and message him once more.
@Aspen: It’s weird we don’t have each other’s numbers. Here.
I attach my contact card. Seconds later I receive a text.
Unknown Number (Maybe: Grey Aldridge): Exchanging numbers. This relationship is getting serious.
Me: I thought it would be simpler than IG DM, but by all means, we can continue using that.
Grey: I’m just having a laugh. I also prefer texting. So what are you doing right now?
Me: Why, want to take me on another fake date?
Grey: Can’t a guy be curious without having to fake-take-you-out?
Me: Nope.
Grey: Alright, fine. I’ll fake-take-you-out next week, how about that?
“Hello?” Maple says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Who are you texting?”
“Grey?” my mom asks. “I saw you smiling.”
“It’s not Grey,” I lie. “And I wasn’t smiling.”
My mom raises her eyebrows in a yeah, right gesture.
“Seriously! I was texting Willow.” I dig my heels in.
“Saying what?” Maple presses.
“Just telling her how much I miss her and wish she was here tonight.”
My parents’ faces melt and they look at each other in approval.
“That’s so sweet, honey,” my dad says.
I shrug, and attempt to change the subject. I not only hate lying, but I also hate talking about mushy things. So this conversation is headed in the wrong direction for me. “So, how’s you guys’ film going?” I ask my parents.
“Oh, it’s fantastic . We just met with a few other team members and reviewed the proposed final cut of the film. It seems like everyone likes it,” my mom responds.
“Except Tim, but he doesn’t like anything. And if Denise likes it, Tim will sign off on it. That’s how it always seems to go at those studio meetings. Aspen, did I ever tell you about the time your mother was working on a film with them and…” Dad goes on and on about film politics, and I know I’ve successfully gotten off the hook. So I sneak one more text to Grey under the table.
Me: I’d only fake-go-out with you if I got paid ten million dollars.
Grey: Haha. Clever.