2. Nicola
Nicola
I wait in the driveway for Emmy, readjusting the little air freshener that hangs from the Beetle’s rearview mirror to block out the scent of old fast food and something else deeper, more sour, that we could never quite place.
Emmy gets in, slouching low in the seat as we head to Beverly Hills High.
When we pull up near the drop-off zone, she’s hunched down and nearly invisible.
“I bet most kids have their own cars here,” Emmy says as we stop at the corner, away from the other moms in Range Rovers, Bentleys, and Teslas.
“Well, you’re not most kids,” I say lightly and instantly regret it. “You’re you.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” she says and opens her door. She gets out with her black JanSport backpack and slams the door before I can think of what to say. I lower my window and lean over. “Emmy. I love you.”
“Love you,” she mutters, looking wearily at the crowd of kids circling near the entrance. A banner with red paint hangs above the double doors, reading, “Welcome Class of 2022.” Outside, some kids are gathering, cliques here and there, and my stomach rolls remembering my first day of high school.
She’ll be fine. She really will be. Relax.
Putting the car in gear, I pull off, and in seconds, I lose sight of her.
My chest burns a little as she goes. The sting of letting her go is sharper than any of the years before. We were always like a jigsaw puzzle, our family of three. But without Ben, there is a piece missing from us. A connecting piece, maybe.
You’re driving, remember? Concentrate.
There are red lights all the way along Wilshire toward the Whitmore Hotel, the place where they filmed a famous movie in the 80s about a reclusive actress.
I never intended to work at an upscale hotel in Beverly Hills serving the wealthy elite of the city, but when you’re out of work and owe medical bills, you take what you can get.
I enter through the employee entrance at the back, away from the sweeping, grand foyer with the oversized Tiffany flower display.
I take the elevator up to the Club Level, where the eleventh floor overlooks the part of Beverly Hills they call the Triangle, the intersecting streets full of high-end restaurants and designer shops along Rodeo Drive and Beverly Boulevard.
The scent of eggs, bacon, and pastries hits me, and my stomach groans.
One of the hotel staff is setting out newspapers and the morning’s gourmet breakfast fare for the Club Level guests, mainly creative types and their executives in crisp suits, producers in designer jeans and blazers, and the occasional A-list actor.
The high-top tables—empty, except for a couple of men in suits—reflect the daylight from the tall east-facing windows.
I turn my back to them as I reach the breakfast buffet and grab a couple of muffins with a napkin and shove them into my purse.
Down on the mezzanine in the single room that is the Reservations Department, Nubia is manning the phones. She glances up and nods to me silently, her fingers flying over the keys. “Great, you’re all confirmed. Thank you for choosing the Whitmore Hotel Beverly Hills. Goodbye!”
As my butt hits the chair, she swivels to face me. “You look like shit.”
“Rough morning. Teenager. Dog.”
“Tell me!” She picks a nail file out of her desk organizer and starts filing one long, purple nail. “I was here at 7:30. Phones started at 7:32. I didn’t have no time to eat, to check the email, nothing. They haven’t stopped ringing since. The next call is yours.”
Shannon, our resident college student, breezes in and throws down her white, monogrammed tote bag right onto the keyboard. She sighs and turns, then flips her head over and gathers up her long, blonde hair into a ponytail. “Morning!”
Nubia glares at her. “You see the time? You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up.”
“Where? On TikTok?”
I smirk.
Shannon takes her seat and fishes a Starbucks sandwich out of her bag. Nubia’s eyes narrow. “You know we dock your pay each time you’re late, right? You lose money. That’s why you have a job, right? To make money?”
Shannon’s eyes get big. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, but listen, you’re never going to believe who is staying here.”
Nubia turns away and rolls her eyes like she’s seen a million Shannons in the last ten years since she’s been here, each one the same, like the job is only a suggestion from their parents who clearly pay for everything anyway.
“I told you a hundred times, don’t worry about who is staying here,” Nubia says and puts her headset back on. “Just do your job.”
I can hear Shannon chewing. “Trust me, you’re going to want to know about this one,” she calls back. “He’s a big name.”
“Ay, Dios mío,” Nubia mutters. She swivels. “You know this is LA, right? There are going to be celebrities around. Okay, mija?”
Shannon turns halfway. “Celebrities like Jason Redfern?”
Nubia turns back to her. “Oh yeah? The hot one with the blonde wife? The model?”
Shannon smiles. “Yep. Amber at the front desk told me. Says he’s filming The Hurting Game with Lauren LaMonte. Apparently, he checked in last night. And he wasn’t alone.”
“I didn’t see his name on the reservations list,” I say.
When I look down, my purse is open, and the muffins are staring at me, smushed through the napkin against my wallet, flat as pancakes. My stomach groans.
“They never book under their own names,” Nubia answers. “Not the really big ones like Jason Redfern.”
“And he wouldn’t, would he? Not after what happened last week.”
I look from Shannon to Nubia. “Why, what happened?”
Shannon turns to me. “His co-star LaMonte put out a tweet that has everyone freaking out. Something about how art mirrors real life, and the sex scenes in the film weren’t choreographed. They were real.”
“And?” Nubia asks. “So what if they are? All actors have sex with each other. Everyone knows that.”
Shannon shakes her head. “Yeah, but they say the sex scenes are really violent.”
“Violent how?” I ask as a call comes in and the little red light on my desk phone starts blinking. I clear my throat and put on my headset. “Thank you for calling the Whitmore Beverly Hills. How can I make your day?”
I spend the morning entering reservations into the system from budget websites.
After a while, my brain starts tracking backward, away from this hotel, away from Shannon and Nubia, and away from the small, dim office with jaundice-yellow light and no windows, where the three of us sit all day long.
Some part of me can’t quite get here, like I’m still in my high-rise office, with stock options, a 401K, a six-figure salary, and an actual title that I’m proud to have on my LinkedIn.
Like we’re still living in our big, gorgeous house.
Like our family is still whole. But that’s not me now. That was before …
My throat tightens, and suddenly my entire body feels constricted.
The palms of my hands turn clammy, and I clutch the edges of my chair, trying to prevent the panic rising within me, as if my entire world is spinning, spinning, spinning out of control.
I’m falling into a dark place, ruminating on the day of the accident, and getting stuck there. I see the details, one by one …
White body …
Don’t think about it.
Screeching tires …
Don’t go back there.
The blood-coated asphalt …
Breathe. Breathe.
The terrible sound of Emmy screaming …
My right temple thumps, and I know I have only a few minutes until I’ll need an Imitrex.
I try to imagine the blue sky and palm trees overhead, like Dr. Constance tells me to, but today it doesn’t work.
Instead, the images of the accident play over and over like a reel in my mind.
My chest constricts. Things start to blur.
“Nubia, can I borrow your key card?”
She gives me a once-over. “It’s only ten. Are you okay?”
I nod and give a weak smile. She’s starting to catch on. Usually, I can make it through the morning and wait until lunchtime before a panic attack sets in, but not today. “I just need some air,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
She silently hands me her key card. We have an understanding now. She knows I’ll return in a few minutes, and I won’t do anything stupid. Shannon glances my way, taking notice, but says nothing.
Back in the elevator, I swipe the key card for the eleventh floor and hold my breath, heart racing. My feet feel like liquid in my shoes, and the back of my neck is cold with sweat.
Breathe.
Breathe.
The elevator stops abruptly at the ninth floor. My nerves prickle, and I inhale a tight breath as the doors slide open. I flatten myself against the wall, unable to speak.
I feel him before I see him. His presence. Sunglasses and a tight jean jacket. The scent of musk and peppermint. He’s shorter in person and not quite as attractive as he is on the screen. A sandy waft of hair, a clean jawline covered in dark stubble, a glimpse of a wedding ring. Jason Redfern.
He stands squarely in the center of the elevator and pulls out his phone. I realize I’m part of the background to him and invisible for now.
The elevator pauses, waiting for him to swipe his room card for the eleventh floor. “Going up?” I ask, the burn of panic taking hold, the key card slippery in my fingers.
He looks up and around with surprise. “Yeah. Eleven.”
I re-swipe my key card and push the button once more. The doors close, eerily slow, and the elevator ascends. He finishes typing something into his phone and re-pockets it, suddenly aware of me, the other person in the narrow, little box.
“You’re going to the Garden?” he asks, a note of confusion in his voice that I could possibly be headed to the exclusive rooftop membership club on our Club Level floor. It has the best views in the city and is frequented by a wealthy and famous clientele.
“Yeah,” I answer, my heart racing.
I need air. Fresh air. And sky. Natural light. In the tiny space of the elevator, all I can feel is an inner darkness taking hold.
He takes me in then. “You work here?”
Two quick breaths. It’s as though the air is gone from the elevator entirely. “Yes. Reservations.”
He turns to me, and for a reason I cannot place, the slow burn of my panic starts to rise.
I wipe my palms on my trousers and stare at the floor. “I really need to get out.”
The elevator jolts to a stop, but the doors don’t open.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just—I can’t breathe,” I reply, my mouth going dry, my armpits sticking.
My face flushes hot. I long to escape into the fresh air, the quiet corner of the Garden with the little patch of green that seems to exist nowhere else in the city. I long to breathe …
The panic attacks got worse when I started working in the windowless room of the Reservations Department. Dr. Constance says it presented too much of a contrast with my prior role at Regency PR, as if my entire life wasn’t one big ball of contrast now.
My second day, it was so bad that Nubia grabbed my hand and led me up to the eleventh floor herself.
She stood with me against the cool glass railing that overlooked the Beverly Hills Triangle and Wilshire, with views of the entire city.
“It’s okay,” she calmed me. “My sister gets these sometimes.” Then she showed me her white key card.
“You can have this when you need it,” she told me, her voice low. “All you have to do is ask.”
I feel my legs buckle and give out. In seconds, I’m on the floor of the elevator. Jason Redfern mutters something under his breath that sounds like a string of curses and starts hitting various buttons on the elevator panel. Nothing happens.
That’s when I clock it.
Shoes. Black and heavy.
The scent of his cologne—strong and freshly applied.
It’s almost as if the hot asphalt is beneath me once again.
Calm down, I tell myself. Breathe.
My chest is heavy, burdened. I can’t seem to move. Hot tears run down my cheeks. I can’t quite connect to my body, as if I’m outside of myself. Jason hovers over me and, to my surprise, offers me a hand. As I take it, something on his skin catches my eye.
The elevator jolts and begins to move. In moments, it dings as we arrive at the Club Level.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Don’t sweat it,” he says and walks straight past me to the check- in desk that leads to the Garden, the hostesses nodding shyly, enamored.
A brunette woman in sunglasses wearing a long, silken dress and shawl waits beneath an ivy canopy.
From a distance, I can see her long, slender frame, her perfectly put-together outfit, the poise of someone used to attention.
I watch him go to her, expecting a polite embrace, the standard Hollywood air kiss.
Instead, he grabs her hand, a strange familiarity in the gesture, and leads her toward one of the cabanas, where they both disappear behind its white awning.
And that’s when it lands for me. The recognition sends a slow chill along my shoulders and neck. It wasn’t just the clip of his shoes, perfectly new, perfectly polished. Expensive. Black and heavy.
I could be wrong.
I might be imagining it.
My mind isn’t what it used to be.
But then again, my gut hums with knowing.
The thing I saw on his hand. It was a tattoo across his middle finger, like a black wedding band. Just like the driver had that day.