Chapter 8
The theme is Gatsby. Blacks, golds, and old glamour. Thursdays are prime nights for parties and mixers, but this night is special. Everything glitters. The candles, the ocean, us.
Thankfully I solved the next mystery of the many I expect on this new journey. I remembered that I didn’t go to this party the first time because I went to coffee with Reid. Our big first date eclipsed smaller memories surrounding it.
After getting my number, Reid called me the very next day, and I smiled hugely into that flip phone, already tripping if not totally falling for the genuine boy from the rooftop.
I didn’t know much yet, but I knew he worked in finance and lived in a loft downtown, which was awfully convenient for dating a USC girl, one had to admit.
Anyway, the point is—the party of the semester didn’t matter back then.
Nothing else did. Because the slightly older, endearingly honest boy hooked me immediately.
His questions came in earnest without being too serious, even the deeper ones: Tell me about your family.
What do you want to do after graduation?
Do you believe in God? There was something cerebral about him, like a handsome owl, with the wire-rimmed glasses he wore to coffee and his textured hair the color of peanut shells.
He had a sturdiness, but with wings. Solid but playful, both knowing and curious.
He seemed ready to party and learn, in equal measure, depending upon the mood.
I take a breath.
There’s no Reid in this world.
We waltz into the open floor plan of the Malibu beach house, Camila squeezing my hand as we weave our way through college kids clustered around us in vintage elegance. Quinn rushes ahead, exploring, bewitched.
Everyone looks so young, I think—too young to possibly grasp the opulence of this party, of their incredible lives, the gift of a night like this. It looks like we’re all playing dress-up. Which, I suppose, we are.
My design eye is gawking at the house. It’s mid-century modern heaven—years before these kids will know what to call it—but coastally influenced too.
Sleek lines, glossy teaks, and glass—so much glass.
Geometric art pieces and bubble pendant lamps.
Pops of golden yellow and sage. The whole place screams lifeguard tower, with its bold angles and California airiness.
And then, in a breath, it hits me: In less than twenty years, this is all going to burn.
A reverent sorrow clenches my chest as I recall the hours—and hours, and hours—of horrific news coverage.
Los Angeles in a blaze. This house won’t last. None of this coastline will.
I nod in silent respect with another step forward.
“Whitney lives here?” I ask. “I mean, when she’s not at school?”
“Yes,” Camila confirms as we float toward the back patio, beckoning us with its jazz music and ocean view. “She was a childhood actress on that show—remember it? Whitney’s World?”
Recollection clicks. “Wow, really pulling that one from the archives.” But of course.
Rascally Whitney with her signature pout and red pigtails, and her younger towhead twin brothers.
The three of them dazzled together in the popular family sitcom.
It was one of my earliest pop culture memories of twins.
How fun! I’d love twins someday, little Sutton would dream.
Whitney never even rushed our sorority, just magically appeared in Alpha Gamma one day.
No one asked questions. She slipped right in, endlessly lovable and wildly generous with her charisma and dollars.
She’s been offering her home as a party venue for months.
Finally, it seems, we’ve taken her up on it.
We’ve taken her all the way up on it.
Camila sweeps the place with an open palm. “The show only ran for four years, but apparently it was enough to buy this. Her parents and brothers still live here full-time.”
The word bears repeating: “Wow.”
I wave to Eve, Courtney, Kendra, and the other girls who came out for my birthday. Two nights in a row? How did we do it and look so fresh?
Every one of them shimmers in some combination of black fringe, satin gloves, and a feathery headpiece.
I love that the boys are suited up; it’s a refreshing break from the typical theme-party rags thrown together.
On the car ride here, Camila reminded me this was a mixer with our brother fraternity, Sigma Chi.
The brothers nod hello, tip their heads, a few of them in Panama hats.
When we arrive on the back deck, a glass wall around the perimeter thinly separates us from the strip of sand and foamy waves.
You could smack right into the barrier if you weren’t careful.
To the right of a rectangular pool is a stylish bar, hydrangeas towering in clear vases on—yes—yet another gold surface.
“You want something to drink?” I ask Camila. “I think I’ll go get in line.” Club soda with lime, maybe, still needing my head bell clear to avoid any missteps into the weird truth I’m hiding. Into the glass wall.
Camila flaps a gloved hand. “You go. I’ll mingle.” She gives a shimmy in her two-piece number, black fringe dancing in the breeze with her eyes. Her skin glows in the moonlight.
My throat catches again at the vision of her, the life of her. I hold back another I miss you. “Have fun!”
Adjusting my headpiece—bands of satin, black feathers, a brooch—I beeline for the hydration.
With every blink, I savor the night. The details of the decor, the Charleston swing tunes, the din of the crowd and of simply being twentysomething.
I’m here, at a beach house in Malibu. I still can’t fathom it.
Shaking my head, I slip into line behind a broad-suited back.
This guy’s tall, I observe. I peer around his substantial shoulder to see if I recognize anybody in front of him, but I don’t.
There’s a general sense of camaraderie, but nothing specific.
Several of the guys are already beginning to sway with intoxication.
Like the mom I am, I eye the pool cautiously.
As if hearing my thoughts, the suit in front of me turns around. He looks at the guys in line, then at me, then at the pool.
“Think I’ll have to make any rescues tonight?” he jokes.
I laugh—a sincere, surprised laugh. “Beach or pool?”
“Either? Both?” He gives a wicked smile. “I can always step back there to start watering drinks down too.” He lifts a finger to the most perfectly symmetrical mouth I have ever seen, in a shhhhh. Not to mention the most deftly carved bone structure. Cheeks and jaw. He’s a sculpture.
“Well, I’m CPR certified. So, we’ve got the party tricks.” I tilt my head, déjà vu tickling at my brain. “Have we . . . met before?”
He winces, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That was quick. Or slow. Depending.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t come around much. To the scene.” He twirls a finger in the air. “I’m barely at Sigma Chi. I live way off campus.”
I frown, still confused.
He sighs. “I would say I try to keep a low profile—but everyone gets a good laugh when I say that.”
Looking up at him in my four-inch heels, this does prompt another good laugh out of me, only because of his height. He’s the type of guy that confronts you simply by standing there, breathing. “You look familiar. That’s all.”
I squint.
You’d think I could place this face.
But then, as he takes a step backward, toward the front of the line, I snap my fingers.
“Oh my gosh,” I squeal. “You’re the billboard guy! On Sunset! Wow. I can’t believe I placed it, first of all—but also, here you are! In the flesh!”
“And in clothes,” he offers.
I laugh again, from my chest. “I mean, you said it, not me.”
“Better to own it immediately, I’ve found.”
I take another step toward him as he steps back, inching us toward the gilded watering hole. We’re in a strange, easy dance. The mom and the male underwear model. “So, I’m guessing girls either run up to you in recognition or finally place you after hours and hours?”
“Something like that.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Something in the middle.” His eyes twinkle. “Something like this.”
I blush.
Oh my gosh, am I blushing?
More importantly, is this cutie pie even legal to be getting a drink?
“How old are you?” I inquire, guessing twenty-two.
“Twenty-three.”
Close.
“I’m a senior,” he says. “Well, super-senior. Modeling . . . it’s . . . uh . . . I’m on the slow track. What about you?”
I think of Reid, his unwillingness to guess my age, so proper out of the gate. I obey the urge to test this young stallion, to see if my forty-ness is leaking out yet. “Guess.”
“Hmmm.” He bites his lip. “I’m gonna go with . . . not a day over twenty-one.”
“Ha!” I stab a finger at his chest. “Wrong. I am exactly a day over twenty-one. Yesterday was my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday, then.” He smiles.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I’m pretty sure Gatsby’s got the tab tonight.
” His voice drops. “Isn’t it weird how a mysterious Gatsby always has these things covered?
Do you ever think about that? We don’t pay that much in dues.
I’ll never understand, but I do appreciate it. ”
I hear myself laugh again.
He’s funny. Self-aware. Observant.
“So.” I smile. “You model, huh?”
“Afraid so.”
“That bad?”
“Depends. The money’s amazing. I mean, I’m no Gatsby, but I’m saving a lot. I’ll pay off all my student debt within a few years. And then I want to do . . . other things.”
Mature, I think, impressed. “Like, not in your underwear?”
Now it’s his turn to cackle—and flush from the neck.
It’s adorable.
“Invest,” he says. “Invent, maybe. Travel. Work in business.” He half smiles. “Take you out on a date.”
Whoa!
I wasn’t expecting that.
“I mean,” he goes on, “I’d love to do that now and not later, like the other things, but while I’m listing my dreams . . .”
Is he serious?
Are we bantering?
Am I old enough to be his mother?
Is he closer to my age or Max’s?