Chapter 27
For the first time in weeks, I have a dream that night.
There’s rushing water, I can hear it but I can’t see it.
I am surrounded by water and it’s overwhelming.
A voice calls out to me, and when I turn to look for who’s behind it, I spot a creature through a cloak of fog.
It’s white—but I can’t tell what it is. A horse?
Someone is calling me, but it’s not my name.
I just know they are calling out for me.
I wake up tangled in my sheets. I don’t have time to process the dream because both Mica and Ozzie discover that I’m awake and jump into bed with me—elbows jabbing into my sides, little bare feet bouncing off my pillow.
“Wake up, Auntie Cassie!” Ozzie screeches, getting me into a chokehold. Who needs caffeine with these two, honestly.
We’re on the deck repotting some houseplants (well, Mica’s watering mostly himself and his sister) when Mar and Logan arrive. After all hugs are had and bags are packed, Mar hands me a crate of wine.
“Oh my god,” I say, almost falling over when I take it. “This is too much.”
“No, it’s not,” she says firmly. “You had to go to the hospital and hang out with a kind-of ex for me.”
“Because I’m the world’s worst babysitter!”
“Shut up already. Show me what you’re wearing tonight for the date?”
After they all leave, Daniel sends me a text asking for my address. We make plans and I spend the rest of the day prepping my bod for this very-big-deal first date. And at seven on the dot, the doorbell rings.
He’s right on time. Tonight, anyway. In life, he’s a little late.
I open the door and Daniel’s standing there holding a bouquet of dark purple calla lilies wrapped in butcher paper, tied with a dark-green velvet ribbon. The sight of them fills me with intense pleasure.
“Hello,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile as he takes in my loose gray trousers and clingy powder-blue cardigan with only two buttons fastened. My wavy hair tumbles over my shoulders, having been air-dried and artfully “undone.”
“Hello,” I say back, opening the door wider. He hands me the flowers.
“Beautiful,” I say, taking them gingerly, not wanting to crush a single stem. “Come in, I just have to grab a jacket.”
He’s looking around my place, staying in his spot in the entryway, when I come back from my room with a suede jacket. When I look at him quizzically, he points to his black oxfords. “Don’t want to move beyond here.”
“Ah, your British parents taught you well,” I say solemnly.
He laughs. “Actually, it was my flatmate out of uni. A Chinese American bloke who nearly murdered me when I wore shoes into our flat the first day.”
“Good man. Or bloke,” I say. “Oh, and one second.” I duck to the corner of the dining room where Betty is currently hidden from view. I pop in some treats and she makes a loud squawk, furious that my movements are so rushed. And pecks my hand for good measure.
“Is that a bird?” I hear him ask from the other room.
I close the cage and walk back to him, nursing the attacked finger. “Define ‘bird,’ ” I say dryly.
“Did it bite you?” he says, stepping over instinctively, forgetting about his shoes. He gently takes my hand to look at it.
“Oh, yeah. Betty shows all feelings by biting,” I say, letting him cradle my hand in his for a second before pulling it away. “I’m fine, she didn’t even break skin this time. Downright mild!”
“Wow,” he says. “Living on the edge, here.”
I’m slipping on some kitten-heeled mules when he says, “Your house is a perfect little dream. The structure, your furniture, all the details like those cupboard handles…just really gorgeous.”
I soak in the words. “Thanks. I grew up in this house and it took me a few years to make it really feel like my own.”
“You grew up here?”
“Yeah, long story,” I say. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”
On our drive, Daniel fiddles with the music so much that I take over, picking Caribou.
Some light chitchat about our weeks is exchanged before I bring up what happened yesterday with Ellis. I want to get it over with.
“So, he knows?” Daniel finally says when I’m done explaining.
“Yeah. And sorry if you didn’t want him to know, but I did. I just didn’t want this to feel all covert and bad.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. He would have found out, you’re right.” But something seems to be bothering him. After a few seconds he says, “How does Ellis always seem to be there when you need him?” His tone is genuinely perplexed, not bitter or insinuating.
“I don’t know.”
“Actually, I don’t even know why I’m acting surprised,” he says. “There’s a joke around our office that Ellis is, like, psychic.”
“What?” I try not to sound as alarmed as I feel.
“He just…seems to know. When you need help with something, when you’re going through a bad time—he’s that guy. You can rely on him.”
Well, this is distressing. Daniel seems to sense the slight shift in my mood because he says, “Maybe we can not talk about Ellis on our first date?” with a grin shot my way.
It goes straight through me, landing firmly low in my belly.
It is just a fact of nature that Daniel is incredibly attractive.
His eyes burn over me before facing the windshield again.
“You look beautiful, in case I didn’t say it already. ”
My jacket feels warm. “Thank you.” I take a surreptitious glance at his camel crewneck sweater and navy trousers. His sleeves are pushed up and long white shirtsleeves peep through. Impeccable. “You look…like a Frenchman. In an ad. About nice watches.”
We both start laughing. “Wow,” he finally says. “I’ve peaked.”
I ask Daniel to tell me “fun architectural facts” about L.A. as we drive down the 110, twisting through the Arroyo full of oak trees and ancient bridges. “Did you know this was the first highway in America?”
“I did, and it makes sense given that it has literal ninety-degree-angle off-ramps.”
“It’s dangerous but exciting, right?” His enthusiasm for L.A. is contagious.
“You’re truly gambling with your life every time you get on it,” I agree cheerfully.
“What was it like for you to grow up here? I can’t imagine.”
Cars are stopped ahead of us, so Daniel slows down.
He knows my mom died but not the full extent of the tragic details.
“I always thought L.A. was actually really normal and not that glamorous. I mean, I went to school and hung out with friends at the mall. But when I traveled after I graduated high school, I realized how unique L.A. was. How integral sunshine was to keeping me sane. How I was so blessedly invisible here.”
“Really?” he says. “I always imagined growing up in L.A. was like, you studied at the beach and partied with celebrities at night.”
“Okay, I think you watched too much 90210.”
“Oh, I had such a crush on Jennie Garth.”
“You would!”
“Please, you were a Dylan girl.”
“Literally I’d be a psychopath if I was a Brandon girl.”
There’s our shorthand again. It’s almost like the getting-to-know-each-other has been bypassed, and we’re in a super comfortable space already.
In that way, this doesn’t feel like a first date at all—it feels like one in a string of many we’ve had over the years.
We drop the car off with a valet and walk into the unassuming but immaculately designed space.
It’s an upscale Korean restaurant that has been buzzy ever since its opening and we get seated in a cozy corner table.
The hostess seems to know Daniel and the two exchange pleasantries.
“Are you like the Mister Rogers of the L.A. restaurant scene?” I ask as he pours me a glass of water from the carafe placed on the table.
“Maybe? Sexy, huh?” His hands are steady as he fills my squat glass. The word “sexy” vibrates in the air for a second.
“Nothing hotter than a man in a cardigan,” I say.
“I’ve got a wardrobe full of them,” he says quickly, winking.
I laugh and am still laughing when the server comes to take our order.
I wave at Daniel, giving him permission to order for us.
He does, with care, but zero pretension somehow.
I realize, then, that I’ve been secretly waiting for him to be an asshole of some kind.
Some very smooth, urbane, bachelor type that is single for a reason.
So far, I’ve got nothing. He’s smooth, yes, but just because he’s comfortable with himself.
It’s not practiced, it’s natural. And I suppose that the whole British factor might be a part of it.
We American women are so utterly incapacitated by a British accent.
“Tell me about your dating history,” I say after the server leaves. It’s time to cut to the chase.
“Pardon?” he says, only half joking.
The soft lighting in the restaurant makes him look dreamy and soft, but I will not be deterred. “I’ll give you mine. I’ve had a few serious partners, but I’ve never had one serious enough to live with or contemplate marriage with. And my last serious relationship was a whopping five years ago.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, smiling. “Well, I have had only two serious girlfriends, and one of them I did live with.”
Something jealous and spiky pushes into my chest. “Oh yeah? How recent?”
“We broke up seven years ago. I beat you. Anyway, we broke up because I worked too much,” he said.
Then he shakes his head. “Actually I don’t know why I said that.
It was because…I didn’t let her in. That’s what she said, anyway.
And she was probably right, although I felt like I was letting her in as much as I could. ”
Our drinks arrive and he thanks the server before continuing. “My parents died. And I shut her out because I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it unless they truly understood grief. And Elenore, bless her, she didn’t.”
I take a sip of the bracing ginger cocktail in front of me. “Unfortunately, I know what you mean.” His eyes meet mine in understanding, and then I tell him an abbreviated version of my sad Mom story.