Chapter I
I
Under different circumstances, maybe I’d be excited.
Maybe I would be giving myself over to youthful optimism, listening to music, having a drink, and savoring the ritual of getting ready.
Unfortunately, as it stands, I’ve surrendered to nerves and worry, staring at my own reflection in total silence like I’m preparing to deliver a dramatic Shakespearean monologue.
At this point, I hardly even see my face in the wooden vanity mirror—just bits and pieces.
A pair of lips, almond-shaped eyes, a smattering of freckles against a warm background of brown skin—like an abstract painting.
Shifting in my seat, I turn my attention to the jumbled assortment of pens, pots, and brushes strewn across the table.
I’ll obviously choose my go-to cat eye, a style that’s evolved from the thick, clawlike blob my best friend Lexi once demonstrated on her own eyelids in our middle school bathroom to become the understated look I wear now.
But still, presenting myself with the illusion of choice gives me something to do. A sense of control.
I pretend to consider my options as I twiddle absently with my necklace—a sterling silver hand with crossed fingers.
The side of my thumb slides over the grooves and lines of the metal palm, following along to the twined fingertips as I let it fall against my chest, the reminder of its presence providing a small sense of comfort.
It was a gift from my mother, one of many good luck charms and protective talismans she’s given me over the years—my name, Shera, being another.
Shera—my mother’s spelling-be-damned creative take on “Scheherazade,” the narrator of Arabian Nights, who saves herself from execution at the hands of an embittered sultan by telling him elaborate, captivating folktales every night.
She always said my name would weave some spell around me—that my words would carry me to safety, and as I told my stories, they would set me free.
True to my namesake, I am a storyteller—a writer, though a nonpracticing one at present.
I haven’t felt the spark of inspiration in ages, but I suppose I still find creative ways to tell “stories.” This evening, for example, I’m using my gift to imagine every possible worst-case scenario for hours on end, envisioning each scene with vivid clarity like a screenplay, complete with dialogue and stage directions.
I guess I don’t always know how to distinguish anxiety from intuition. These days, every turn of my stomach and throbbing heartbeat feels like a warning that my world is about to come crashing down, and—
No, tonight is different, I remind myself. Tonight, the uneasy feeling has a clear point of origin, an obvious explanation: in less than an hour, I’m finally going on a very-nearly-assured-but-not-quite-certain date with Michael.
I guess I have Lexi to thank for that too, for setting it all in motion when she urged—or rather, forced—me to accompany her to that folk music show four months ago . . .
It was October. My ability to stay home and wallow for days on end had reached Olympic-level dedication, so when Lexi called to invite me to what she described as a “Topanga Canyon thing” in the backyard of an antique shop, my practiced response of “Sorry, not tonight” was already in the chamber.
“Okay, I’m declaring martial law on this one,” Lexi proclaimed over the phone. “I’m picking you up, and we’re going—it’s time to leave the cocoon.”
After being unceremoniously hung up on, I stood frozen for a few minutes, debating whether or not defying my iron-willed childhood friend was even possible. In the end, I decided it was easier to accept my fate.
Topanga had been our longtime playground—a place we frequented as teens for its wild beauty and wilder parties.
Now in our midtwenties, we rarely found ourselves trudging through overgrown fields in the pitch darkness to find hippie keggers, but the canyon still had an irresistible enchantment about it.
That night was no different—chirping crickets intermingled with soft chatter as vintage-clad locals sprawled out over well-trod Persian rugs and slung themselves over battered velvet furniture.
It had all been arranged in the middle of the yard beneath a rough-hewn wooden gazebo, resembling a makeshift outdoor living room.
At the head, a man in a Canadian tuxedo perched on a rickety barstool playing Tim Buckley songs on an acoustic guitar, his eyes shut tight due to either overwhelming nervousness or overwhelming emotion.
Listening intently and sipping Two Buck Chuck from a paper cup as I sat huddled beside Lexi, I began to enjoy myself for the first time in what felt like eons.
A rugged, handsome stranger caught my eye almost immediately, standing a full head taller than most as he leaned cooly against one of the support posts, pushing his long, faintly unkempt California-brown hair behind his ear.
I watched as he took a swig from a glass beer bottle, his lips enveloping its mouth, and felt a slight flutter in my stomach as his piercing gaze turned to me.
Meeting each other was a measured dance.
Rising from my seat, I intentionally created a small disturbance, pushing gently through the throng of guests as I made my way to a seat on the store’s craftsman porch steps just behind the crowd and lit an American Spirit.
I hoped he would join me—I didn’t really smoke, but I’d learned to use cigarettes as props for the purpose of getting both in and out of social situations.
Though the stranger stole a casual glance back, observing my display with what looked like a small, knowing smile, he still made me wait a good ten minutes and two cigarettes before making his way over.
“Mind if I get one of those?”
I turned as he announced his presence, propping one of his sturdy made-in-America Frye boots up on the step beside me and settling into another casual lean against the railing. He looked good leaning, though it crossed my mind that he seemed a little posed.
“Sure.” I handed him a cigarette with a flicker of satisfaction, studying his face as I did so. Midthirties, world worn, sunbaked skin. Probably an occasional surfer, but more of a cowboy than a beach bum.
“I’m Michael, by the way.”
“Shera.”
“Sher-uh,” he repeated. “That’s an interesting name—never heard it before. What does it mean?”
I considered just how much of a history lesson Michael really wanted, but before I could answer, he leaned forward, squinting slightly as he stared intently into my face.
“Wait—what color are your eyes?”
“Hazel. Or green sometimes—but mostly hazel.”
I fumbled for the words slightly, my heartbeat quickening under the heat of his gaze as I realized it was the first contact I’d had with someone I found attractive in a long while.
Suddenly the “cigarette break” move felt too daring—like I practically asked him to fuck me right then and there with my subtle beckoning.
Now that he had come, I didn’t quite know what to do with him.
“That’s wild,” Michael said, running a hand over his stubbly chin. “So where are you from—originally?”
It was a question I’d become somewhat accustomed to from an early age.
Growing up in a still pre–racially conscious Los Angeles with olive-brown skin, dark 4A hair perpetually worn in braids, and light eyes—the collaborative product of my Black mother and fair-skinned Louisiana Creole father—meant that it was most often posed by middle-aged, surgically taut Caucasian women in its more jarring form: “What are you?” I wasn’t bothered by curiosity, just the framing that made me feel divorced from humanity in some small way.
I told Michael I grew up around Venice Beach, in an apartment off Ocean Park, but from his continued curious expression, I could tell that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
Regardless, I asked him the same, and he said he was a transplant from Seattle, having only recently settled after finding the perfect yurt/guesthouse to live in.
“Well, since you’re new to LA, I’d like to offer my services as an official tour guide,” I said, daring myself to flirt more openly. “I live in Silver Lake, which is basically on the other side of the world, but maybe I can show you around my neighborhood sometime.”
Michael smiled, but before he had a chance to respond, Lexi bounded up beside us, her sandy-blonde hair frizzy in the night air as she buried her nose in the fluffy collar of her vintage Penny Lane coat.
“I gotta get out of here, Sher. Too cold.”
I felt my heart sink, disappointment flooding through me at the thought of what could have progressed with a little more time, but I only nodded, rising and turning to Michael.
“Well—guess I’m off.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sher-uh.” He exaggerated the pronunciation again—a callback I suppose I was meant to find endearing but was slightly irked by instead.
Without warning, Michael stepped forward and pulled me into a warm embrace, my nose pressed against his chest. His large hands moved over my back, one resting in the curve of my spine and the other crawling upward, holding me steady between the shoulder blades.
His size, his warmth, his body, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d—
“I’ll see ya around,” he said, breaking away suddenly and halting my train of thought. It took me a moment to collect myself—I hardly remembered walking to the car.
On the drive home, I asked Lexi about Michael, and she informed me that though she hadn’t personally met him before that evening, she’d heard about him.
“He’s a filmmaker, or wannabe at least. He hasn’t been here long, but everyone’s calling him the ‘Babe of the Canyon.’” She passed a hand in an arc through the air as she announced his title like she was painting the words in lights.
“You know, it’s kinda like a small town up there—he’s fresh meat, and the ladies want a piece. ”
“Fuck.”