Chapter 13 #2
“What does it feel like?” she asks. “To be older? Wiser? Gosh, you’re a mom? You have a husband? Where are they now?”
“I think they’re . . . on pause?” I shrug.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I’m trying not to think about it too much.
“But honestly, grown-up life is . . . wonderful. In so many ways. The biggest gift. But there is a tremendous amount of responsibility. More than I ever imagined. Or maybe I just never imagined what the responsibility would feel like. If that makes sense.”
She nods.
I finally open my salad and grab my fork.
This is making me hungry.
“I’d describe it as this weird combination of strength, wisdom, and chops—like this other level of womanhood, for sure.
I’m bolder. I know what I like and what I don’t, generally speaking.
I know who I love, who loves me. Opinions of others matter substantially less.
” I pause. “But not . . . all-the-way less.”
She leaves space for the rest of my answer.
I stab at a piece of chicken. “It’s just so weird to not be the youngest one in the room anymore.
You know? And there’s a lot of Am I doing this right?
It can also feel a little like a midway date with your own mortality.
” I hold my fork in the air. “Did I make the right moves? Is my marriage okay? Am I raising happy kids? Am I saving enough for the future?” I meet her eye.
“What will I leave behind, you know? And my parents. They’re so much older now. I only have one grandparent left.”
“Grandma Mabel?” Quinn guesses.
I nod. Magnificent Grandma Mabel. To know her was to love her. Even if we had barely any of her left.
Quinn’s hand rests on mine now.
“Okay, you hag,” she pokes. “I’m not one hundred percent on board with this, but let’s say I were. Let’s say I want to believe you. What else can I tell you?”
I sigh, thinking of the dark club. “Do I . . . go to church anymore? Do you? We always did. And we do with our families. I’m praying like I always have—but I’m not really getting the vibe that it’s part of my life here.” I sigh. “Man, LA is a doozy.”
“You can say that again.” She waits, seeming unsure how to answer. “We haven’t been going, no,” she says finally. “Not for any major reason. We just—my med school, your acting. If it’s important to you, though, let’s go.”
I smile. “I’d like that. I think. I know God doesn’t only exist in buildings, but I can honestly say my faith is the only real constant in my life.”
“That seems noteworthy,” she says.
“It is.”
“Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
I look around, considering what else I want to know. “What a darling girl pad we have,” I observe. “Did I decorate our apartment?”
She nods. “I adore it.”
“I’m an interior designer when I grow up.”
“Seriously?” She squeals. “I love that for you.”
“People use that phrase a lot, in the future. I love that for you. So ahead of your time.” I wink. “What are my days usually like? Was this week typical?”
“Totally,” she says. “But you’re usually on way more auditions.
You have been working your butt off since you signed with Sam senior year.
Some days, you have three or four, literally all over LA.
Your commercial was a huge deal. Between those residuals, your restaurant job, and my savings and financial aid .
. . we pay the bills. But it’s hard, I won’t lie.
We’re making it, but every month is a squeeze.
” She hesitates. “And I see the toll all the hustling has taken on you. I get the sense you might need a rest.”
I smile sadly, getting the sense she’s right, wishing again that the LA dream hit differently than it feels.
I shudder, thinking of Coleman.
“Benjamin Sutton.” Quinn sighs, eyes scanning me. “Doing time backward. A marvel.”
“I guess,” I humph. “I do have one more question.” I swallow. “What’s Camila doing? Are we all still close?”
“So close!” she says. “She’s working as a kindergarten teacher in San Diego, but teacher jobs are scant right now. You . . . know about that, right? California being a mess? The economy? Restaurant jobs are in crazy demand, by the way. You’re fortunate.”
I nod. “It gets better. Sooner than you think.”
“Gosh, I hope so. Good time to be a student too. Anyway, Camila says if she gets pink-slipped at the end of the year, she’ll go teach somewhere abroad for a while. Probably Latin America in a bilingual school.”
I smile, remembering.
Always loved that for her.
I snap my fingers. “Something else! Did you know that Parker and I kissed? Did I tell you about it? Before he went to Miami?”
“Duh!” she says. “Ever since, I’ve been waiting for him to initiate a Big Conversation. You told me the kiss meant nothing and that you didn’t want to talk about it.”
I grimace. “Savage.”
“Ha! No kidding. He brought it up, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He said he needs space. But we’re meeting tomorrow, to talk some more.”
“I knew it,” she says. “He’s been in love with you for a while now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you dense? I mean, sorry. But yes. He dates around, but it’s obvious he only has those underwear-model eyes for you.” She puckers her lips.
I stick out my tongue. “Have I ever liked him romantically?” My body kept mixing the signals.
“I think you’ve tried,” she says understandingly. “You love him as a friend. You think he’s handsome, because you have eyes. But something has held you back. I always thought it was . . . you know . . . Holden. But maybe you’re just not that into him.”
“Gosh, the best movie comes out—in a year or two maybe,” I say. “All about that whole concept. He’s Just Not That into You. God’s work, really.”
She gives a laugh. “Just go easy on him, okay? He’s a good one.”
I nod. “I know.”
Satisfied, she drums her fingers on top of her files, a detective who cracked the case. “So,” she concludes, “in theory, you might return to me again, at any time, as this fortysomething Sutton. How will I know it’s you?”
My mouth curves. “Easy.” I chuck the pickleball at her. “That thing.” I point to my eyes. “And these.”
“When are you going back?” she asks.
My insides constrict. “I’m not sure yet.”
But I walk right over to hug her.
Tomorrow, tomorrow.
I hook my car onto Huntley Drive, a blink of a street off Santa Monica Boulevard. Once again, my printed directions pilot me and my trusty Beetle.
Walking up to the frozen yogurt shop, I’m awash in nostalgia with my UGG boots, Citizens of Humanity jeans, and cotton-soft seafoam Splendid top so long-sleeved, it covers my hands. The walls are glass. The roof is a concrete slab.
It’s Pinkberry. The very first one. I made the drive often in college. The waves this place made! In LA and across the frozen yogurt scene globally. They’ve mostly closed in Orange County by now. My craving cranks into gear.
Parker is seated at one of the glossy white tables inside. Black T-shirt today, jeans again, black Jack Purcells. He rises and bares that smile. So striking he could have walked right out of a cover shoot—and maybe he did. I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right but I’m going to miss that smile.
“I hope you don’t mind. I ordered for you.” He hugs me, but it’s robotic.
I sit in front of my mountain of raspberries and white yogurt chips, plain yogurt hiding underneath.
He knows my order.
Of course he does.
“Is it not okay?” he asks, shifting his eyes to the counter. “Did you want to try something new?”
“No, no,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
We scrape into our treats, icy, sour, and sweet.
“I love this place,” I hum, chomping a berry.
He smiles bittersweetly. “I know you do.”
That’s why I picked it, his eyes say.
Some great things have a magical run, but then they have served their time, mine say.
After fifteen minutes of chitchat, skirting around the pink elephant, I finally feel the courage to say what I need to.
Parker must sense it because he gets quiet.
“I want to say a few things,” I explain. “If that’s okay.”
His gaze tunnels into his empty container. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For being the kind of friend you have been to me. I do not take it for granted, not one thing you’ve done. Your loyalty is unbelievable. And that kiss”—even if I don’t remember it—“meant something to me.”
“Yeah, right,” he mumbles.
I find his eyes. “Hey. Don’t say that.”
He makes a fist on the table, tone rising. “What is it then? Why not me? Are you not attracted to me?”
The question borderlines on hysterical as he holds out his arms, this specimen of perfection.
“You’re the most attractive guy in LA, Parker.”
His eyes drop again. “That’s not what I asked.”
I look out the window to the unassuming tiny neighborhood next to us, admiring the irony that a total phenomenon started right here in this nook.
I let the tension sit for a minute.
“I don’t know what it is,” I say finally, telling the truth. “I just know we’re not meant to be.”
I still feel like maybe I’m Reid’s.
I don’t have the answers yet.
I’m seventeen years older than you.
“Okay, then.” He dunks his cup in the trash can behind him. “And I hope you know I wish I could stay best friends with you. I just can’t do it. For now. But you know. Probably not ever.”
I swallow. Ouch. “I understand.”
We breathe in and out in tandem.
“Well, this sucks,” he says, threading his fingers behind his head.
“I know.”
Reaching down into my purse, though, I’m ready for the rest of this meetup and everything I want to give him, even if I can’t give him us. I retrieve a pad of paper and pen, and toss them across the table.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Don’t ask any more questions,” I instruct. “Just write down every single thing I say.”
“Ummm. Okay?” He uncaps the pen. “Weirdo.”
I’ve been getting that a lot lately, but I endure. “I’m going to tell you three things. And trust me. You want to listen.”
He looks intrigued, bobbing his head.
“First, I want you to light up Craig Coleman. Find a journalist you trust. Tell him what happened to me. Tell him everything. Find other women. There are hundreds of men like him in Hollywood. Blow the lid off this story.”
“Are you sure?” Parker asks.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Don’t say my name. But say everything else. Sadly, it needs to come from a man first. Secondly.” I pause for impact. “You need to buy stock.”
He cackles. “The online bookstore?”
I hold up a palm. “Not just books. Already more than books. You don’t need details. Just trust me. Take as much of that modeling nest egg as you possibly can and invest. You said you want to invest, right?”
He nods.
“Throw in some Apple stock, too. Buy a house this year while you’re at it. By the end of next year, at the latest. If you do these things . . . well, you will be sitting pretty. Or, prettier.” I smile. “You’re already very pretty.”
He mimes a salute, the corners of his mouth ticking up. “Was that three?”
“No, those were a package deal. My financial advice.”
“Since you’re suddenly Warren Buffett?”
No, I’m the Cheshire Cat, smirking. “Ahem,” I continue. “Lastly, in the February when you’re thirty-six years old, and news breaks of a mysterious virus detected in China—”
He stares at me blankly, so I reach over and tap the pad. “Write this down!”
He rolls his eyes and presses his pen to the paper. “In the February when I’m thirty-six years old, and news breaks of a mysterious virus detected in China . . .” he parrots.
“Buy toilet paper,” I say. “Buy lots—and lots—of toilet paper.”