XXI Jack
XXI
Jack
The theme is rainbows, and predictably, CJ has gone all-out. Crystals hang from fishing line strung between trees, catching the sunlight and casting prisms across surfaces. Stuart and I were charged with melting chunks of crayon, pouring them into molds to spell Agnes’s name, and packaging them up for party favors. CJ baked and iced cupcakes and set them out on mini painter’s palettes, and I filled the divots with sprinkles of all colors and sizes.
I’m in the backyard setting up tables for five-year-old attendees when Agnes emerges, followed by Stuart.
“Oh, good,” I say to the birthday girl. “Just the lady I was looking for. Tell me, do these tables look right for you and your friends?”
“Yes, Jackie.” She giggles. Agnes had started calling me “Jackie” after five or so visits. “This is big,” CJ insisted. “It means she likes you.”
Since meeting Stuart and Agnes two months ago, I’ve upgraded to sleepovers with CJ at her house. I leave in the mornings to get coffee or bagels or just go for a stroll in a town where no one walks, then come back like I haven’t been there all night. It’s an involved charade that I’m not sure Agnes buys or cares about, but there’s almost something comforting about having a mundane routine. I find I like being forced out for fresh air.
Five minutes before the party’s official start time, I hear a familiar voice. Tom breezes through the back door. “Sorry we’re early. I know it’s awfully rude. But Sabrina was in our bed at 6a.m. asking if we could go to the party yet, and for the first time in LA history, we didn’t hit any traffic.”
I lean in to hug Tom and his wife, Molly, before crouching down for a high five from Sabrina. “Thanks for being here, you three.”
“You kidding? This is what my weekends look like anyway. I’m just thrilled this one’s with a best mate instead of a bunch of film-finance bros I’m meant to make conversation with.”
“Well, thank you still.” I wave as Molly and Sabrina take off to play with the bubbles.
“Is he here yet?” Tom asks.
I scan the scene. Today’s the day I meet Garrett, Agnes’s dad, and Tom knows I’ve been wringing my hands about it. I don’t feel threatened, exactly. He and CJ were work friends who tried to make it as something more and never could. Not that different from how it had been with Ginny and me, CJ and I realized. But Garrett will always be an ensemble player in their lives, and I need him to respect me, at a minimum.
“I don’t see him, but I’m going off the photo in Agnes’s room. If he shaved his beard or something—I wouldn’t know him.”
“What else do we have on him?”
“CJ described him as the strong, silent kind. And said not to bring up the Lakers because once he starts, he can’t stop.”
“Ahh. A sports guy. So she does not have a type.”
I knock his shoulder with mine.
“Driving lesson Tuesday?” he asks, shoving me back.
“That’d be great.” When I first arrived in LA for the Gatsby shoot, I didn’t expect I’d have any downtime, and I wasn’t concerned with how I’d get around. The public transit system here isn’t as accustomed to a famous face as the Tube is, and by now, the reliance on Ubers and CJ has started to take a toll.
“OK, hold please,” Tom says. “I’m being summoned for the change of clothes already.”
I turn my attention to CJ, who is milling around in a striped cardigan and her perfectly worn-in jeans, patting people on their arms with a relaxed demeanor that belies the effort I watched her put into this day. Last week, she told me that she had wondered if her life would be boring to me. I actually laughed so hard I had to sit down. “I’m sorry,” I said as I caught my breath. “But your life is far more fascinating to me than you could ever realize. And I don’t think you know the depths of the monotony I was accustomed to suffering through.” Certain Hollywood events really are magical, but they are the exception: The vast majority of those things are held at the same five places with interchangeable guest lists featuring exactly three people with whom I genuinely want to chat—if I’m lucky.
I don’t miss most of it, and the feeling is mutual, it seems. At first, my absence from the scene was noted, with the trades reporting breathlessly—and speculating wildly—on my decision to withdraw from the Lily Collins movie. Then, gossip sites began to refer to me as “reclusive,” wondering what had happened and suggesting perhaps it had to do with an apparent split from my “longtime love” Ginny Friedrich, though no one could say for sure. But when there was little left to say, the public was quick to move on, anointing another younger Brit named Barnaby Cross as “the internet’s new boyfriend,” which is just fine with me. The only boyfriend I want to be is CJ’s.
“Daddy!” I hear Agnes yelp, running toward Garrett, who I see closing the sliding door with one hand and carrying a stack of pizzas with the other.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” He sets the boxes down and scoops her up. I am surprised at how envious I feel of him. Agnes likes me, but I will never be this. It’s a little painful to witness.
He is about a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and a healthy beard. He looks like the type who might have played, if not American football at university, then baseball, at the very least.
I watch CJ greet him, kissing him lightly on the cheek and leading him my way.
“Garrett, this is my boyfriend, Jack.”
“Glad to meet you,” Garrett says, offering a firm handshake.
“Same,” I say. I’m not sure how to read him. What’s a natural dynamic for the two of us, and can I call up any examples that aren’t from movies?
“I should go finish putting out the party favors.” CJ pats my arm.
“Already done,” I say.
“Amazing. Then I’m going to grab the cash for the face painter.”
“I took care of that.”
“You didn’t pay for her, did you?”
“Of course not, because I knew how cross you would be if I did.”
Four months into our relationship, I am constantly in search of ways to support CJ or make her life easier, but I’m finding it next to impossible.
“Well, thank you.” CJ runs a hand down my arm, and I catch myself preening over the physical attention. “OK, plates for pizza.”
She heads inside, leaving me alone with Garrett and effectively throwing me to the wolves.
“So, CJ says you were away on a big shoot.”
“Yeah, just got back from Prague.”
He has a sort of weathered look, one that I understand women find appealing.
“I love Prague,” I say reflexively. “Went there on holiday for the first time when I was eighteen, the summer before my first year at uni. Did a little backpacking trip through eastern Europe. I would love to go back. It’s been a long time since I’ve been.” Why am I saying all of this, and why can’t I stop?
“I didn’t get to see much of the city, but it seems nice. Historic.”
“And what now?”
“Now?” He repeats my question back to me. “Now, I’ve got about another two weeks until it’s onto the next. You know how it is. No rest for the wicked.” His tone is weary yet conspiratorial, and I wonder if it’s a good or bad sign I can no longer relate.
“What about you?” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Well, I put a pause on projects for now—” I force myself to stand straighter.
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m taking some time off. I was burnt out, needed a break. Hopefully there will be a career for me to go back to when I’m ready.” I intend to sound casual, but only after the words are out do I realize I’ve come off as unsure of myself, like I’ve accidentally shown CJ’s ex a tender bruise.
“I doubt you have anything to worry about.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?” I brace for any number of snarky things he could say.
“Because I’ve seen your work. You’re the real deal. There’s always room for the real deal.”
“That’s...” I trail off. “Well, I appreciate that.” I try not to let my shock at Garrett’s casual generosity register externally. Apparently only one of us was viewing this as a pissing match. “Hey, so, uh, say a person is relatively new to LA and wants to get into the Lakers...” I start.