Chapter 10
White ceramic clatters to the floor in shards around my bare feet. I yelp, unmoving in front of the granite counter before me. Final drips of black coffee percolate into a glass carafe.
No Nespresso machine in sight, the old-school black contraption hisses and taunts me. I gulp, assessing the scene, keeping one eye cautiously shut.
The apartment around me is strikingly beige but apparently new—or newish.
I remember when speckled granite was all the rage.
The kitchen and great room are nice, if a tad dated.
I’m struck by the cream of the walls. In present-day design, it’s bright whites or bust. At first glance, the place reminds me of our first apartment—mine and Reid’s—Orange County new construction.
But there is no husband in sight.
Instead, I note the obvious signs that girls live here. Bohemian throw pillows—magenta pinks, turquoise greens—looking straight out of Anthropologie. Woven blankets, two vintage Vogue posters, scents of vanilla and grapefruit. Multiple candles. It’s homey. It’s cute.
The door to the apartment swings open.
“I’m hoooooome,” sings a voice—a familiar, comforting voice.
It’s Quinn! My roommate? It worked? Gratitude splinters inside me. I still haven’t moved, paralyzed here in the coffee-mug ruins. “In here!” I yell.
I glance at the oven clock, glowing 7:01 a.m. At least I don’t sleep until nine anymore. We’re growing up incrementally. But why is Quinn just getting home?
She flings her backpack over the white-slipcovered couch, which I recognize as IKEA. It’s one of their best pieces ever, versatile, durable, washable. I’ve used it in plenty of homes, to save on budget for other more striking showpieces.
“What happened over there?” she asks, eyes round with concern. “Hold on. Don’t move.” She disappears into the hallway and returns with a broom and dustpan.
Crouched at my feet in green scrubs, raven hair piled into a topknot, she cleans up the shards as I stare down at her, wholly transfixed. It’s like I’m watching a ghost. Every move she makes is methodical, those hands in professional training.
Of course.
Quinn must be in med school after her gap year.
Are we really pulling this off? Roommates in our early twenties?
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, though I’m thankful. “Did you—where were you?”
She opens the cupboard under the sink, dumping the mess. “I had to study. Beat morning traffic.”
“All night? You studied all night?”
“What else is new?” She shrugs, propping the cleaning tools against the counter. “In the library. The drive is getting old, though, I have to say. So many of my classmates live in UCLA housing, and I finally understand why.”
I latch onto the clue and could dance with ecstasy. I might start spinning like a ballerina here in the galley kitchen. Quinn got into UCLA med school—in this life too. All over again, she did it.
But then I nod dumbly because the detail, while precious, still reveals quite little.
“I’m going to hop in the shower.” Quinn pulls out her hair tie, shaking her mane free. “I’m heading back to campus around three. You have your weekly lunch, right? It’s Wednesday?”
I squint, praying to heaven I still keep a vigilant calendar. “Yes?”
She flicks my arm, and I look down at my oversized white cotton USC T-shirt. “Drink some coffee,” she lectures. “He’ll be waiting. And I keep waiting for the day he just declares his love for you on one of these ‘friend lunches.’”
Her air quotes are violent.
But—he?
There’s a he?
My brain is too blank to pretend I know who Quinn is talking about. Casually I open the cupboard above the coffee maker, thankful to see all the mugs. I retrieve a fresh one with extreme gentleness.
“Lunch with . . .” I let my voice trail and hope she’ll fill in the gap.
“With your ‘best friend’?” She crooks her fingers once more in the air. “You know, besides me.”
“Oh, yeah!” My smile is cheesy. “Of course.”
“Well, anyway, weirdo. Have fun. The Christmas decorations should be up at The Grove!” Her voice purrs coyly as she disappears down the hall. “Not romantic at all!”
I put my questions on hold as I prep my coffee. At forty, I’ve abandoned all processed creamers for almond milk—but I’m elated to behold today’s refrigerator contents and see that my twenty-three-year-old self still holds a deep allegiance to Coffee Mate.
Yes.
Snickers flavor, at that.
I pour an inch into my coffee, because why not, and wander to a small desk in the corner of the adorable living room.
The desk is worn white wood, looking thrifted, accented with a blush velvet chair.
I approve wholeheartedly. The space feels like mine, so I sit, gripping my hot mug and thrilled to see a weekly day planner splayed in plain view.
I gasp when I see the card serving conveniently as its bookmark. It’s my face. Not just that. It’s a headshot. My biggest smile, brown eyes playful, blonde head turned to look over the shoulder of a black leotard top. Under the image, my name:
Sutton Lancaster
SAG-AFTRA
Followed by my measurements and my address in Los Angeles, California.
I flip over the card to see three more versions of me. In one, I am serious, angry even—eyes sultry, mouth a thin line. I’m wearing red.
In another, I’m in a fluffy blue blouse, hair tousled in beachy waves, smile mid-laugh, all of it serving shampoo-commercial girl-next-door sexiness.
In the final image, a black-and-white, I’m leaning forward in reading glasses and a trim blazer, chin on my fist, mouth open, hair lacquered in a low bun. I look like a professor or CEO.
Have I really done it?
Am I an actress?
Did I really earn my SAG card?
I want to know everything, but I also realize I might only be able to handle one thing at a time in this new existence.
Gasping anew, I see something else gleaming up at me from the desktop. I swear it’s actually sparkling, as I touch it carefully.
Steve Jobs, I love you.
Once again, I’m holding an iPhone. It’s both too small and too heavy, but I don’t care. It feels like a toy in my hand.
But it’s a powerful toy.
More in business with every beat, I scan my calendar for the day. Sure enough, I’m two years ahead. Twenty-three. And Quinn was right. In a handful of hours, on this Wednesday in November, I have important plans.
Lunch with Parker at La Piazza.
Everything about The Grove feels even more vibrant and charming than in my last living memory as a grown mom, when I brought the twins to the American Girl store for their fifth birthdays.
The ear piercing, the hair salon, the darling café—a little girl’s daydream.
Not to mention the well-known outdoor mall’s double-decker trolley, farmers market, and picturesque main street—indeed, already frosted with the magic of Christmas.
Giant wreaths, ornament balls, fresh garland.
It doesn’t feel man-made; it feels spun from pixie dust and Santa himself.
Now I sit on the outdoor patio of the Italian restaurant and marvel at how much I truly feel like a traveler, sipping my lemon water, watching the crowds drift past, nobody in a particular rush on this bright weekday afternoon.
Nobody’s burrowed into their phones, either, I can’t help but observe. I don’t even pull out my own.
It’s all so . . . refreshing.
Today’s outfit options were a step in the right direction, but the jeans are still a nightmare, plunging low down into the ground. I love my peacoat, though. Houndstooth never goes out of style, and neither do black leather boots.
My sunglasses, meanwhile, are a dead giveaway of the times. Giant. Black. Plastic. Round. I’m an alien in more ways than one.
I see Parker before he sees me, and I’m unable to stifle the joy that tugs at my mouth.
I’m strangely touched that our Gatsby connection outlasted the extravagant party—that it lasted for years.
That Holden didn’t ruin that night. I’m so thankful, in fact, I could possibly cry.
We became friends, stayed friends. Without ever becoming romantic, no less.
At least, according to evidence and Quinn’s quips.
I rise as he strides toward me, winding through tables and turning heads. He’s a knockout, no question. Same thick hair, broad stature, movie-star gait. Strong face chiseled from stone. He gathers me into his hugeness, and I can’t help but breathe him in. Manly musk and clean soap.
I shiver, viscerally awash in memories I can’t recall. I think of a podcast I recently heard about the body’s capacity to store our memories, as opposed to only the brain.
“Long time no see!” I squeal—maybe too exaggeratedly—before pausing to consider that it might not even be true. For all I know, I saw him last night.
But he pecks my temple and says, “Me too. I’ve missed you so much.”
Phew.
“I’ve been traveling nonstop since summer,” he adds. “Really glad to be home for a while.”
Taking the seat across from me, he wears a gray Henley—molded nicely to his tight muscles—with dark jeans and white Converse. His black Persol sunglasses are much more timeless than mine.
He pulls a slice of bread from the basket. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
I pretend to lose myself in the menu, but I’m stealing furtive glances over the top. Parker chomps on the bread, jaw working it. His sandy-blond hair looks darker to me. I feel a little less like his mom. My nervous system is both completely at home and charged with electromagnetic currents.
I remember Quinn’s words. Your “best friend.” And her hostile air quotes.
“So, you’re home for a while?” I ask.
“Three weeks. Then back to Milan.”
I lift my brows. “Milan, huh? Mr. Big Time!”
His features go firm and serious. “Two more years. I think I’ll be ready to hang up the undies then.”
I laugh loudly, recalling his wit. “You think you’ll miss the attention?” I tease. “Ladies clamoring for a moment with their favorite model?”
His shoulders tense. He says nothing. I wonder if I zapped a nerve.
Oops?
Silence floats between us.