Havenwood
Prologue Courtney
I kick my wedge-clad foot below the table, allowing it to swing back and forth as I wait anxiously.
It’s twenty minutes past our planned meet-up time, and Carter has yet to arrive. I decide to go ahead and order my coffee without him, hoping to avoid any accusations of loitering from the sharp-featured barista who has spent the last agonizing twenty minutes staring me down.
“Hi,” I greet her with a smile that is only returned with a look of boredom.
“May I please have an iced chai latte with oat milk?”
“Name?” Is her only uninterested response.
“Courtney.”
“$7.75.” I retrieve my card from my purse, tapping the rectangular piece of plastic to the reader. The barista’s judgmental gaze flickers between me and the “APPROVED” message on the screen, as if surprised the transaction went through.
“You can pick it up at the end of the bar,” she informs me with her top lip curled back ever so slightly.
“Thank you,” I barely get out before she walks away from me, tugging on her green apron as she goes.
“For $7.75 you’d think the drink came with customer service,” I whisper to myself, not appreciating her demeaning air one bit. Her attitude is literally the epitome of Los Angeles culture, and I remind myself that I can’t blame my dislike of it on her. Yet when an iced chai latte with oat milk is called for “Whitney” a few minutes later, that sentiment is a bit harder to remember.
I count the seconds as they pass by, watching the ice cubes slowly melt inside my plastic cup, watering down an already weak chai, and Carter is still nowhere to be found. I pull out my cell, noting that he’s now thirty minutes late without so much as a text. I debate calling him, but before I decide, Carter enters through the swinging glass door of the cafe, combing back a strand of blond that has dared to move from its gelled position.
My face lights up at the sight of him. Part of me is relieved that he didn’t forget about our date entirely. Carter and I have been dating casually for the last six months, and on several occasions, I’ve had to eat alone at nice restaurants because he forgot about our plans. Busy men have a lot on their plates; I try to remind myself each time it happens. At least being stood up at this coffee chain would’ve been less painful than the time Carter forgot about our date at Flemings.
“Hey!” I wave him down. He cringes slightly as his grayish-blue eyes scan the other faces in the sleek cafe.
“Not so loud, Court.” He reminds me in a low voice as he pecks my cheek and takes the seat across the table from me.
“Right, sorry.” I giggle. Carter and I aren’t technically dating, but for good reason. Carter is trying to make it big as an actor, and as such, he can’t be seen as someone who is “tied down already.” He’s worried that he will be typecast as the attractive boyfriend and can’t risk that limitation at such an early point in his career. Initially, I didn’t understand his reasoning, and admittedly, it stung when he told me we should be seen together as little as possible in public and avoid titles.
Personally, I don’t think dating a screenwriter like myself would stunt his career as badly as he seems to think it will. But, as always, it’s Carter’s way or no way. I suppose I’ve become desensitized to it all, just glad to have his company whenever he’s able to give it. Carter’s uncle is a big-name director who constantly has Carter auditioning for roles or making connections, leaving little time for us besides late at night.
“How are you?” I ask, mindlessly rubbing condensation from my cup. Carter crosses his leg over the opposite knee, looking confident in himself as he always does yet weary of our surroundings. I wonder what exactly about the coffee shop has him on edge. Is it the risk of people seeing us?
I look him over, admiring the way he looks so put together. Carter is conventionally attractive, sporting a chiseled jawline and butterscotch blond hair that he always keeps gelled back. His expensive, blue-tailored suit makes his eyes pop against his sun-kissed skin. Anyone can see that he is out of my league, and that is probably why I haven’t pressed him to elaborate on the current situationship we had going on, although the question burned inside me daily.
Despite my unrest about our unlabeled status, I have a feeling that today is the day Carter will officially ask me to be his girlfriend. I mean, he probably won’t say it like that, he’ll phrase it more maturely. He’ll probably ask me to be exclusive, a word thrown around constantly in LA. And of course, I’ll say yes.
Why else would he ask me to meet him at this ridiculously overpriced coffee chain at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday when this is normally his sacred gym time?
“Sorry, I waited for you but figured I should probably buy something if I were hanging out here.” I signal to my chai. In return, Carter offers me a tight-lipped smile, his eyes squinting despite the smile not reaching them. I can tell it’s disingenuous. Is he upset I ordered my drink without him?
“I can wait in line with you if-,” He cuts me off with a raised index finger, his way of commanding silence when he wants to speak. It always feels extremely degrading when he does that, but I figure that is just one of those things that make Carter Carter. I close my open mouth, a questioning look overtaking my face as the words die on my tongue.
“I just had a meeting with my uncle,” a proud smirk teases at his oval lips.
“That’s exciting, good news?” I raise an eyebrow that follows the pitch of my voice.
“He thinks he’ll be able to get me the leading role in his next project.” As he tells me this, his smirk turns into a full-fledged grin, putting Carter’s pristine veneers on display. “Wow, Carter, congrats.” I breathe excitedly, reaching across the table and cupping his hand with my own. He looks down at our hands with an expression I can’t quite place. Carter awkwardly pats my hand with his free one, a gesture that is meant to appear endearing but instead feels hollow. His body language reads as a mix of discomfort and disgust, as if I’m a filthy peasant daring to touch a king, not a woman he’d hooked up with a dozen times. He pulls his hands away, folding them together over the table a safe distance away from my own.
“Listen, Court, that’s why we’re meeting today.”
My stomach flips as I note the patronizing tone in his voice. I pull my hands back cautiously, tucking them into my lap. Where the hell is this going?
“What’s going on?” I question warily.
“I hate to do this, but you understand.” He offers me a look of faux sympathy, and, for being an actor, he isn’t very good at pretending to be remorseful. I knit my eyebrows together in response, not trusting my voice enough to ask him straight up what he means by that statement.
He sighs as if I’m making his life more difficult by being unable to read between his very confusing lines. Reality comes crashing down on me as I put together the meaning of his words, hitting me over the head like a rock. He didn’t come here to ask me to be his girlfriend at all.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“Come on, Court. We were never together, so I can’t break up with you. I just think it’s best if we go our separate ways.” He gives me a bored shrug. I scoff in disbelief, double-checking my hearing in the process. There had been no prior indication that Carter wanted to go separate ways. He had never expressed being unhappy with me before, and I had abided by every ridiculous rule he had laid before me.
“Can I ask where this is coming from?” I’m too stunned to be emotional or else I might have shed a tear over our relationship ending so abruptly like this. Or maybe I would’ve kicked him in the balls, but instead, I sit there with my mouth hanging open in disbelief.
“I don’t know how much more obvious I can be.” Now he sounds flat-out annoyed with me, the way he does when an unhoused person dares to ask him for spare change.
“I am going to be a movie star, I’m getting my big break. You are a low-level screenwriter who hasn’t worked on anything big in months.”
“Carter, there’s been a writing strike. ” I remind him. He knows that my union and I are advocating for higher pay since the cost of living has skyrocketed, and it’s almost impossible for any of us screenwriters to survive in Los Angeles. Many of us are forced to live in cheaper, less safe outer skirts of the city and commute to work. I’m privileged enough to stay within city limits, but my budget is dominated by rent and never allows for much else, a fact that always pisses Carter off.
“Excuses.” He rolls his dull blue eyes, the same ones that I had found so attractive not long ago. Now I see them for what they are: cold and unfeeling, even a bit manipulative. He checks his boujee watch, a displeased hum coming from his throat as he notes the time.
“This is taking too long, I’m going to be late for the gym. Look, Court,” he repeats the nickname I hate.
“It was fun; we had some good times; now it’s time to end things gracefully. I can’t date a nobody. Please don’t embarrass yourself.”
He rises from his seat and hesitantly pats me on the shoulder. His look of faux sympathy sliding off his face by the second, only to be replaced with one of relief as he adorns his luxury brand sunglasses and walks out the door.
I stare at him in bewilderment as he goes, finally able to see him for what he is. The gaslighting, calculating, awful side of him is finally shining past the rose-tinted lenses I always regarded him through, and I feel sick to my stomach. God, I feel so stupid and so naive for not seeing the signs sooner. Carter Forbes is an awful person, why had I made so many excuses for him?
My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and my throat stings from holding back angry tears, I wish I were anywhere but in public right now. I scuttle out of the overpriced coffee shop, ordering an Uber from my phone as I do.
* * *
Once I’m through the front door of my apartment I head straight for my ratty, old couch. I pull my beat-up laptop into my lap and pop it open, staring at the blank screen before me. Whenever I find myself going through something as emotionally tumultuous as a break up I like to write about it. I prefer to get my thoughts down on paper to help work through them, I like to feel my pain so that I can heal from it. But I don’t feel much of anything right now, it’s all still so fresh.
I’m out of a boyfriend, out of a job (temporarily), and almost out of money. Luckily, I have a large savings that I spent years building, out of fear of a strike like this lasting as long as it has. However, I don’t want to dip into it until necessary, and as of late, it’s getting necessary.
I click out of my blank document and look down at the red bubble lingering above my email’s spam folder. I drag my mouse to it, drawing the little digital hand in circles over the folder before caving and double-clicking it open.
There they were—the weird, slightly ominous, and random emails from an unknown sender. There are three of them, and they all contain the same content: a listing for a rental home in Havenwood, Massachusetts. The house is a beautiful two-story Cape Cod-style home listed for a criminally cheap price, even for New England’s standard.
The emails never surrender any other details, just the picture, stats of the house, and the number to call. I bite my bottom lip, twirling the ring around my thumb as I contemplate my options.
This could be a great start to a temporary hiatus, in which I won’t have to think about the strike or bills or how much I hate snobby L.A. culture or men—especially not two-faced, gorgeous, golden boys who drop you like trash when you’re no longer useful to them. Before I can talk myself out of it or consider any logistics, I swipe my phone off its charger, nimbly punching in the digits on the screen in front of me.
This will be good for me, I convince myself as the dial tone rings in my ear. No drama, no relationships, no boys. I’ll find the first sex shop in Havenwood and buy a top-of-the-line vibrator if that’s what it will take.
“Hello? Hi, my name is Courtney. I’m calling about the rental on Queens Avenue in Havenwood, Massachusetts.”