Chapter 12 Liz
Liz studied the Tulum-inspired decor of the restaurant as Preston mumbled assurances that he’d only be a couple more minutes on his phone.
Basket lights emitted a soft golden glow, the furniture was all made of rattan and beachy off-white rope, and hammered terra-cotta tiles covered the floor.
It came together to invoke a sense of relaxed, if appropriated, exoticism.
Don’t you feel like you’re on vacation? Despite it being the tenth restaurant of its kind to pop up in the past year, with the foodie blogs reporting on the Tulumification of Los Angeles.
Liz took a sip of her mocktail, a bland imitation of a margarita without any of the ingredients that made one tick.
Preston drank half of his Casamigos Blanco margarita in one pull without breaking eye contact with his device.
Liz would have preferred a taco truck, but this temple of fancy plant-based Mexican fare seemed as good a setting as any for the conversation Liz wanted to have with her boyfriend.
Now that she had voiced her desire to quit her job, it felt real, so Liz figured she should probably tell Preston she was thinking about it, given that they were a unit and that’s how coupledom worked.
Talking to each other about the minutiae of their days, discussing big decisions, disclosing (most) aspects of their lives…
that’s what adults in a relationship did, right?
But Liz hadn’t wanted to broach this conversation over another home-cooked meal because she had a strong suspicion that if she did, memories would crop up of the last one she had engineered.
Liz tried to forget Preston’s blank-eyed stare when she had told him that she was pregnant—and the way his vocabulary had dwindled to one word: wow.
Deep down, Liz knew that the casual, easygoing equilibrium their relationship had always been defined by couldn’t last forever.
She was halfway through the pregnancy, and she and Preston had important subjects they needed to tackle soon.
Who was going to take care of the baby? Private school or public?
Would they split costs or prorate them based on income? But one step at a time: her employment.
Ever since Cam had settled his ass next to Liz’s plant and reprimanded her for not serving up the dregs of humanity, Liz had been crawling with resentment and disgust towards The Catch and anyone who enjoyed working for it.
It was like art and cinema and literature didn’t exist. Even though art and cinema and literature were often about sex, that wasn’t the point.
There were other things to do on a Saturday night than try to make out with a steroidal RN whose abs looked like a rack of lamb.
Preston finally put his phone down. Liz didn’t wait until the light on the home screen had blinked off. “I hate my job and want to quit,” she said. So much for a preamble. Preston screwed up his face and looked like he’d had either too much or not enough of his margarita to process this.
“What? I thought you liked your job. You’re on a hit show!”
“I did. At one point. Maybe? But now I hate it,” Liz said. “It makes me understand why people have psychotic episodes in the workplace and HR has to flag their files and recommend IOPs.”
“What’s an IOP?”
Liz should’ve known Preston wouldn’t be familiar with this term.
His family believed in gin, not therapy.
“Intensive outpatient program,” she said.
“Anyway, the point is, I hate my job, and seeing how much you’re obsessed with yours, and how my new friend Victoria loves what she does—it only makes me feel worse. ”
“Well, she’s right,” Preston said. “Your job is so much of your life. Of course you should do something else if you don’t like it. What are you thinking?” Preston asked. “The Bachelor or a Housewives franchise?”
“No. I don’t want to go from one vile reality show to…another kind of reality show.”
Their waiter delivered a basket of chips and a ceramic bowl filled with guacamole the color of Kermit the Frog.
The bowl reminded Liz of a pinch pot she had made in second-grade art class but never saw emerge from the kiln because Angela had moved them to Twin Oaks, an intentional community in Virginia, before it was fired.
“That makes sense,” Preston said. He looked skeptical, though, like he was trying to process the discrepancy between Liz being staffed on a show that was a cultural phenomenon and Liz suddenly declaring she no longer desired any involvement in said success.
“I know that life isn’t a rom-com, and at a certain point, you can’t have these unreasonable, crazy dreams about what you want to do, like ‘I’d love to be a prima ballerina or own a vineyard in Tuscany.’ ”
“You want to be a ballerina?” Preston asked.
“No. I’m not eight years old,” Liz said.
“I just think there’s a difference between settling and selling your soul.
” Liz looked into Preston’s eyes. “I hope there is, anyway.” Liz also hoped there was a difference between pursuing a dream and chasing the contrails of a self-indulgent artist’s fantasy à la Angela.
There had to be a sweet spot where passion and paycheck and purpose converged.
“I had no idea you felt this way,” Preston said. “Of course you shouldn’t sell out.” Liz beamed at him, overflowing with gratitude.
“What do you want to do?” Preston asked.
Liz took a deep breath. “It’s probably going to sound as ridiculous as wanting to be a ballerina, but I’d really love to edit features—indies.
Small arthouse films that say something.
That mean something,” Liz said, feeling so self-conscious about this admission that she was tempted to pick up the bowl of Kermit-green guacamole and shovel the whole thing into her mouth.
“A24, Searchlight kind of stuff?” Preston asked.
“I mean, that’s the dream,” Liz said. “But I’d probably have to start out smaller than that. Like, really small. Work for free for a bunch of USC Stark kids doing their student films or something.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Preston said.
“That’s the first thing I tell my clients when we’re negotiating a deal.
Always ask for more. Always act like you deserve more.
Otherwise, you’re never going to get it.
” Liz nodded. “So yeah, you gotta do it,” he continued.
“Edit an indie! Bring home an Oscar! Or, you know, an Independent Spirit Award.”
Liz giggled despite her doubt, pleased with his encouraging response. Preston lifted his margarita.
“To your new career.”
Liz clinked her glass against his and enjoyed the sound they created together. It made everything feel real and substantial. It made her feel like she and Preston were united in this. It made her feel a little buzzed despite her anemic, virgin cocktail. “Thanks for having my back,” she told him.
“Of course. Obviously, indies are really tough, though. Getting financing, operating on a low budget, dealing with psycho actors who want to talk about a scene for four hours, securing distribution…” Preston must have seen Liz’s expression falter because he trailed off.
“But it’s not like I have a ton of experience on the feature side.
I just hear talk in the office. A guy I know had a passion project, great fucking movie.
Charlize starred in it! Premiered at Toronto. No one saw it.”
“That sucks,” Liz said, shifting unhappily on the white-and-beige chair cushion.
“The point is: You gotta shut all that stuff out!”
Was that his point?
“This is gonna be great.” Preston nodded energetically, like he was at a Tony Robbins seminar.
“It probably won’t be great at first,” Liz said. “But I’ll work my way up, I’ll work hard, and hopefully it will work out.”
“It will. And in the meantime, I’ll support you. You don’t have to worry. I’ll get you a credit card.”
“No,” Liz said quickly. It was an automatic response, one she didn’t have time to parse before the words flew from her mouth.
“That’s not necessary. I can’t ask you to pay for me.
” Preston looked at her, uncomprehending, and Liz tried to figure out the reasons for her vehemence.
Maybe it was because Victoria had discussed the importance of a woman being financially independent and Liz didn’t want to disappoint her friend.
Maybe it was how Preston had phrased it.
He wanted to do this for her, rather than thinking of them as an us, with the offer intended to serve them as a unit.
Or maybe it was that some fledgling part of Liz wanted to achieve success in her own right so that she could embrace the feeling of satisfaction if and when it came, so that she could claim it without having to attribute any of it to someone else.
Liz reached across the table, not towards a crispy chip and dollop of guacamole, but for her boyfriend’s hand, and said, “I appreciate it, Preston, really, but I have to do this on my own.”
“I’d get more points,” he offered feebly, before dropping it and asking if she wanted to split the jackfruit tacos and jackfruit enchiladas, which sounded like the same concoction of ingredients in nominally different forms.
When they got home from dinner, the jackfruit was sitting in her stomach like a lump of lead, right next to the spot where about the truth of their baby’s conception had lodged itself permanently.
Still, Liz was inspired to put on a loose (forgiving) nightgown, light a few candles, and try to seduce her boyfriend.
If only she knew how to go about such a thing.
Even before she was pregnant, Liz usually let Preston initiate.
But tonight she was feeling brave, emboldened by Preston’s positive reaction to her career goals.