12. Floor Mattress Deviant
Floor Mattress Deviant
He’s in a different hoodie this time, black instead of grey, and baggy black parachute pants.
There are signs that he’s made an effort or at least attempted to launder his clothes, which doesn’t bode well for my suspicions that he’s attempting to bang me.
Before I could jump to further conclusions, I take a time out to remind myself that not every man wants to sleep with me.
It’s possible that Rhys does have more than one hoodie in his closet. I’ll know soon enough.
“This place is amazing,” I blurt out as soon as he buzzes me in. “And here I thought you were staying in one of those luxury new builds.”
“It was an old apartment, converted into a condo.” Rhys holds the gate open for me, waiting as I try to drag myself away from admiring the bougainvillea bush creeping up the terracotta facade. Even the blossoms are more vibrant here.
“Over here,” he says. No hello. No, ‘how was traffic?’ That just goes to show the extent of his antisocial behavior.
Every L.A. resident asks about the traffic.
It’s the perfect icebreaker, as natural as bonding over the weather.
We don’t have much variation in weather, so we talk about the five car pileup on the 405 or rush hour on Wilshire.
I follow him across a shaded Spanish courtyard, past a blue mosaic fountain, and up one flight of steps. It’s mid-May, the height of jacaranda season; the massive tree in the courtyard is in full bloom, sprinkling purple blossoms onto the courtyard.
In a desperate attempt to make conversation, I say, “Man, how ‘bout that traffic...”
“What about it?” he asks, barely looking over his shoulder.
“That was a helluva drive,” I shout after him. “It’s not easy getting here from Redondo.”
“Traffic here sucks.”
“Are you from L.A.?”
“Vacaville.”
“Oh,” I muse. “NorCal. That explains a lot.”
Rhys finally spares me a glance. “What does it explain?”
“One of my oldest college friends is from San Francisco. Upon first impression, I thought she was the meanest girl I’d ever met. Cold as ice. She gave everyone on our floor one of those sneaky ‘once overs’… like this,” I demonstrate the stare. “Made it pretty clear she was judging you hard.”
“And you’re still friends?” Rhys asks.
“Best of friends. Once I got to know her, she turned out to be pretty cool, nice, in her own way. Just had to crack that NorCal shell.”
“So I have a ‘NorCal shell?’” Rhys asks, sounding amused.
“Big time,” I say. “You remind me of her.”
“And what did she think of you? Do you have a ‘SoCal shell’?”
“SoCal girls don’t have shells. We’re just friendlier by comparison.”
“According to your anthropological observation?”
“Naturally,” I say, steering his jab to my advantage. “But to answer your question, her first impression of me was not great either. She thought I was fake.”
Rhys halts for a beat and turns back to me. “You? Fake? No…”
“I’m only fake in that I exaggerate the truth from time to time.”
Now Rhys gives me that judgmental once-over I was just telling him about. “No comment,” he says, and points to Unit 203, effectively ending the conversation. “I’m here.”
His place is at the end of the open-air landing.
Rhys guides me to a freshly painted teal door, but I wander off, bracing my weight against the iron-railing like I’m a starlet in an Old Hollywood movie.
As a seasoned SoCal native, you would think I’ve experienced everything Los Angeles has to offer, that I would be unimpressed by palm trees and desensitized to movie stars.
You have to remember that I spent my childhood playing on a cracked sidewalk, under the shadow of oil wells and shipping containers.
While I’m used to palm trees and sunshine, I can’t help feeling like a tourist in my own city whenever I venture up the 405, into Santa Monica and the West Side, into Downtown, Hollywood, or even here, into Culver City, a quiet-by-comparison suburb with a strange mix of movie studios and 1920s fairy cottages.
I guess I never grew up and lost my sense of wonder, no matter how much adulthood beats you down.
The same, however, could not be said for Rhys.
“How exciting!” My smile is bubbly and effervescent. “To be a homeowner.”
He shrugs, that mythical NorCal shell in full effect. “Still feels like living in an apartment, except now I have an HOA on top of my mortgage.”
“But you get all this...” I wave my hand at the courtyard.
Rhys glances down at the jacaranda-covered cement with an apathetic shrug. “It needs tending. The gardening service my HOA pays for must be on vacation.”
“Don’t be such a buzzkill. It’s rustic. I bet you don’t have anything this nice in Vacaville.”
“We have parking in Vacaville,” he says dryly.
“Papa Roach came from Vacaville.”
“Okay…” Rhys frowns, blindsided by my random fact. “What does this have to do with parking?”
“It doesn’t. It’s just that when you mentioned you’re from Vacaville, I suddenly remembered an old VH1 Behind the Music on the band. Cut my life into pieces. This is my last resort,” I sing. “Do you listen to them?”
Rhys rubs the back of his neck, more confused than ever. “I’ve heard the song…”
“Do you know them?” I press. “Like personally?”
“Do you know every band that came out of L.A.?”
Fair enough. “Are you a nu-metal head?”
“Not particularly,” he says. “Why?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “You just dress like you stepped out of an early 2000s garage band.” I pause, fixating on those black parachute pants. “In Vacaville.”
“I should be offended on behalf of my hometown and nu-metal music in general,” he says with an exasperated shake of his head. “But I’ll give you a pass on account of your aggressive ADHD.”
I blink. “I don’t have ADHD.”
When Rhys fails to comment, I whirl around and breathe in the sweet blossom air. “If I lived here, I’d set up camp down there. Tow in one of those rustic lawn chairs and sunbathe into a crisp.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of spare time, Director of Data Analytics,” comes his dry reply.
I’m in the mood to ignore his digs. “Do you relax by that fountain?”
“What fountain?” Rhys asks, inserting his key.
“Are you serious?”
Detecting the consternation in my tone, he glances over his shoulder. “Oh. That fountain. It gets disgusting, what with the jacaranda blossoms falling in and turning the water into sludge. It’s a mosquito breeding ground. I won’t go near it.”
Having delivered such an uplifting commentary, Rhys shoulders his way inside, leaving the door ajar for me to follow.
I hesitate at the threshold, torn between curiosity and self-preservation.
“Why don’t you grab your laptop and we can work outside?
It’s a shame to waste such a beautiful day, don’t you think? ”
“I don’t like glare on my screen,” he says from somewhere inside. “Hurry up. You’re letting flies in.”
Shit. I pat my tote bag, feeling for the reassuring bulk of my pepper spray before wiping my feet on the doormat. Entering cautiously, I gaze around the living room, my eyes settling on the pile of moving boxes stacked against one wall.
“Wow.” I don’t really mean ‘wow.’ I’m just trying to be nice. “Looks like you just moved in last week,” I say, my attention settling on a basic grey couch with basic grey cushions and hardly anything in the way of throw pillows.
“Just shy of two months,” Rhys says, handing me a bottle of water from the fridge.
Figures.
“May I?” I wander around the space before he could say yes. Cold. Functional. In progress. A guy space if I’ve ever seen one. Swiping a finger on the kitchen counter, I tilt my head grudgingly. At least it’s clean.
If Rhys finds my scrutiny of his living conditions strange, he doesn’t show it. He’s setting up his work laptop on his coffee table.
“Aren’t you going to give me a home tour?”
“There’s not much to see,” he says, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Why? Do you want one?”
I prop my hands on my hips, exasperated by his lack of manners. “I think it’s customary to give your guests a tour when you invite them to a housewarming. In fact, it’s rude not to.”
“Is it?” he asks, genuinely curious.
This guy couldn’t be any more oblivious if he tried. “Yes!”
“Alright,” he shrugs, reluctantly getting up.
“Um...” At a loss for words, he gestures awkwardly around his barren living room.
Save for a sad pothos dangling by the window and a takeout menu pinned to the fridge by a free Coldwell Banker Realty magnet, Rhys’ decoration was minimalistic at best. I would say this is the perfect example of a serial killer’s apartment: clinical.
Then again, even a serial killer has a collection.
“Does this fireplace work?” I run my hand over the Egyptian/Art Deco motifs on the mantel. “This must be original to the place, but the kitchen looks renovated to fit your style, sadly.”
Rhys peers at the fireplace as if seeing it for the first time. Then he turns to the modern white kitchen. “My style?”
“Cold and sterile.” I peer at his confused expression. “Hey, don’t look like that,” I sock him playfully on the shoulder, “I’m joking.”
“I got that,” he mumbles, then clears his throat and awkwardly gestures to the wilting pothos. “I got a plant.”
“You need to water it. Do you mind if I... show myself around?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Are you always so apathetic about everything?”
Rhys pokes his head up from his laptop, his expression the picture of ‘I don’t give a damn.’ “It’s part of my NorCal shell.”
My God. He can joke after all.
Permission granted, I make my way down a narrow hallway, poke my head into a tidy bathroom devoid of countertop clutter.
One of the bedrooms, which I gather to be a gym, contains a single rowing machine and a set of weights.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him in anything other than an oversized hoodie or an ill-fitting suit.
The overall impression I get from Rhys is trim yet ‘scrawny’ with hot soccer bod potential.
Maybe the weights were an aspirational purchase. I doubt they get much use.