Chapter Fourteen
IT WAS THE sweltering heat of mid-July that drove most LA residents inside. There would be no jogging up the side of a cliff for many pumped runners, but thousands would flock to pools—whether that be in Beverly Hills, the local YMCA, or like me, a rich friend’s posh mansion. Annabel had returned to Los Angeles from her ritzy Tahitian honeymoon with a perfect suntan, a rich glow on her face, and a thousand stories to tell.
Yet when I wasn’t lounging in her pool, I was dodging work dramatics, like the new documentary we were prepping, along with Baylee’s sporadic new habit of not showing up to work. Since the first day she and Richard had missed their prized possession—the casting firm—I’d wondered what they were doing. Yet when she was at work, she was ultimately crabby, even to me.
Jamie and Ella continued their relationship so that most of the time she crashed at our house or he spent the night at hers. It was a weird changeup to our dynamic, but one that was inevitable. They spent so much time together, and I tried not to be jealous. I thought of the era in which Jamie and Nina had dated, and how they included me in some of their escapades, but not all. This go-around, I was forced to see what it was like to not be included. It was just surreal.
In the meantime, Luke and I had gone out a few times, strictly as friends. He’d made it clear, by not kissing me at all, not even touching me. When we ate, he was lively and energetic, but the romantic part was gone. It was surreal, too, but I’d accepted it. Eventually, our communication dwindled, and by July twenty-first, we’d stopped talking altogether.
Sam, however, was the wild card. He had not talked to me once since the show at my workplace. Not at all. It was careless, made me angry all the way to my nerve endings, and reminded me that I should never fall for a type like him. Undeniable when he was around, but barely around.
In fact, by July 21st, neither of us had made any effort to contact the other. I could have asked about him through Jamie and vice versa, but somehow the wait was necessary. I didn’t want to see him just yet. I had to mentally prepare myself for our next meeting, in which I’d probably want to kiss him and slap his handsome face all in the same maneuver.
It was at the most predictable moment that I saw him next: Jamie’s twenty-third birthday party. Due to the extreme heat, we’d decided to throw a party at the apartment for some close friends, including Ella, Sam, a few friends of his from college, and Monica Granger, whose wedding was promptly in two weeks. Monica was a close friend of Jamie’s, as they’d been in the same acting troupe in college. I’d met Monica through Jamie, who, unfortunately, had already made reservations to head home to Rossville the same weekend Monica’s wedding was to be held.
Monica Granger was the most spontaneous person I’d ever met. She was the kind of human who would jump off a waterfall if a breeze lifted a piece of her hair and hinted that the water would be cool on warm skin. When we first met, she was like a Labrador retriever, bouncy, needing lots of attention. She was stunning, like a cover model, but all attempts in modeling usually ended up in her getting fired. She had warm, tawny colored skin, eyes of the finest verdigris, and an impenetrable heart-shaped face. She looked like a china doll only when she was quiet and still, which was almost none of the time.
Monica had met Giri “Jerry” Bobal at a fundraiser for a political candidate in Eureka. It might have been the weirdest love story I’d ever heard, but I expected nothing less from Monica, with her personality as vibrant as the jade fire in her irises.
Only five months before, in the dead of March, spring break arose for the sleepy college students who had just experienced another dormant winter. Some kids went to Florida, others to Baja, some back home to Irvine. People like me just floated around or hung out with their psychedelic best friends. Monica, however, headed home to Eureka, California, where her mother worked as a huge political powerhouse for the district. It was at a fundraiser for a woman named Jeanine Striker that Monica Granger ran into Jerry Bobal, who was supporting his own sister, an intern for Ms. Striker.
Independent as always, Monica had met Jerry when their family members had disappeared to gain more connections in a growing diagram of political networking. Monica stood to the side of the crowd, holding a wine glass—only sipping it gently, knowing her own limit was a few sips—and watched intently, one of the only moments of this kind in her entire life (say I). However, Monica had always been a watcher who garnered information from others. She spent so much time analyzing that it carried over to the bubbly personality she’d grown into.
Jerry was bored out of his mind. He had flown in from New York City to visit his family. His father was the best physician in the county—maybe even in Northern California—and his mother was a doting, loving woman, who, somehow, had become a Christian and decided to enter seminary. Jerry’s father gently prodded him into the science field, but when he got to college, his life changed. He began doing stand-up comedy, worked as a writer for some TV programs, and eventually cemented his career at Tisch. By his twenty-fifth birthday, he began work on his own comedy sketch show. Life in New York was tough, so he took a trip to Eureka that March for a much-needed break.
His sister invited him to the fundraiser, and he accepted, wanting to show his support for his blood. Jerry wasn’t surprised when she abandoned him within ten minutes once she’d stopped introducing him to folks. He was okay with it, and he went to the side of the foyer. He stood on the marble of a rich person’s house—a type of house whose foundation was constructed in greedy capitalism, as Monica told the story.
As Jerry assessed the crowd, his eyes landed on the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. In his travels, he’d seen women of all ethnicities and personalities, but this woman had her own kind of spell. He was cast by her glow when she locked eyes with him in the midst of the mongering crowd. Then he was beside her, and she was beside him; they made a promise to make the entire fundraiser without getting drunk.
Monica and Jerry Bobal eventually became inseparable. His entire holiday was spent with her. He introduced her to his mother two days after he met her with a breathy, “This is the lady I will marry, Mama.”
The kind old woman brought her to her chest. “You are one beautiful girl. My Giri knows a beautiful woman when he sees one.”
Eventually, Jerry moved to Los Angeles, began doing film, and did his show in the same studio theater where Sam had worked on a few of his past movies. He and Monica got engaged in May, and then they set their wedding date for July 29th, exactly five months after they’d first met. The wedding was to take place in an au naturel Big Sur ceremony, where Jerry’s mother would preside.
As I stood in the apartment watching a line of people stream in with little gift bags for Jamie, I wondered if I would ever get my Prince Jerry. I decided I’d settle for a frog.
The steady influx of people continued to grow until the apartment was unbearable. Monica came twenty minutes late, with a bowl of handmade salsa, and she kissed my forehead quickly. “Hi, babe. Where’s the birthday boy?” She ran off to find him, and in desperate need of quiet, I hurried into the hall.
A lessee down the way was standing outside giving me the eye. He stared at me and I explained, “Sorry. Jamie’s birthday.” The guy’s eyes lit up, and I cringed. Everyone preferred Jamie to me.
I went downstairs, needing to feel the air on my skin. Some of Jamie’s friends stank to high heaven, as they probably did not know how to buy soap from the store. It was that bad.
There was a park bench to the left of the stairs I climbed every day to the apartment, so I hurried over so I could stretch out. Bugs could have crawled into my hair, nesting little eggs, I know; but I didn’t care. Jamie was surrounded by his closest friends, and I was sitting outside like an antisocial pessimist. Oh well.
“What are you doing?” His voice surprised me, like when someone tickles you unexpectedly.
I jumped with the fire of a professional dancer. My heart felt like it was going to rip from my chest, be
cause I didn’t have my can of Raid. “What the…!”
A face appeared in the dim radiance of the nightlights. Of course it was Sam, clean-shaven now, his hair short. It was probably the summer heatwave, the abundance of sun and lack of water. One hand lazily was in the depths of a pocket, the other held a wrapped box. “Em, it’s me.”
“Oh, you. The guy who kisses me at work, and then who doesn’t have the decency to call for weeks. Yeah. Hi, Sam! It’s so nice to see you.”
We stood a few feet away from each other, but with the Los Angeles temperature and the heat emanating from our bodies, I was smothered. If I could see myself, I’d be stunned by the sweaty sheen hanging from my cheeks like a sheet.
“Em,” he said, lifting his hand near me, a white flag.
“Don’t you even try. I’m mad at you.”
It hurt that he was so nonchalant. But it hurt in a good way, like an antidote slowly seeping into one’s veins. Eventually—and I’m not sure how it happened—but his lips were on my own, and we were in a precarious position. We hung over a ledge, hanging by the thread of a tree branch, waiting to fall.
Leave space for Jesus…
“Not now!” I shouted, though I immediately made a sign of the cross in repentance. Maybe Chelsea’s attempts at converting me to Catholicism were starting to work.
“What in the world?” Sam asked, his timbre taunting.
“Dear Aunt Eunice,” I screamed, stomping my foot. “Okay, well, maybe this is what you deserve. Our time here is over.”
“Would you like to tell me why?”
“I had a memory. Of my Aunt Eunice lecturing me on young adult sexuality. As a young practicing Methodist, I was convicted…”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes! Don’t mock me. It’ll guarantee whatever we have is absolutely zilch.”
He raised his eyebrows like he was dealing with a child. He leaned in slowly, tantalizingly slow, and his lips caressed the tip of my eyebrow. He stepped backward, raising his one free hand into the air, a white flag. “Maybe we should go inside, check on James.”
“He doesn’t need to be checked on. He’s Mr. Popularity right now.”
“Oooh, someone’s jealous,” he taunted as he began up the stairs. “Jealousy isn’t a good shade on you, Miss Emma.”
“What does that mean?” I followed him, each step a reminder of how far Sam and I had to go.
“I don’t want my girl to be jealous about somebody else.”
“Give me a break. It’s Jamie.” I hoped I didn’t act as bad as I felt. I was jealous, but not now. I was furious at Sam. At how he made me feel like I wasn’t in control of my own feelings and actions. How he would impulsively grab me and press me to his body, seemingly without my own consent—though I know I agreed. “Plus, I’m not your girl. If I were your girl, hypothetically, you’d at least call me sometimes. Also, we wouldn’t fight as much. In addition, I wouldn’t see your romantic endeavors plastered all over the gossip rags.”
“Checking up on me?” he asked, knocking on our apartment door. He winked as soon as the door opened, no other explanations. It was official: I wanted to strangle him.
MONICA AND I sat on the couch, her rock—even a simplistic emerald stone glittering like a million little diamonds—was grating on my nerves. She was reciting a childhood story I’d already heard sixty times, but I pretended I was none the wiser. To tell the honest truth, I was primarily distracted by Sam’s boisterous energy around Jamie and our friends. He acted like he’d been part of their inner circle for years instead of one lazy summer night. That grated on my nerves.
“So,” I said, eventually shimmying up the length of the couch. “You’re getting married. In eight days. How does that feel?”
Monica shrugged as she examined a stray hangnail. “Well, it’s pretty nonchalant right now. Jerry and I are letting our parents take care of the big details.” It was true—Monica was the least-involved bride I had ever seen. When we went bridesmaid dress shopping, she played Minecraft on her phone while her mother selected our attire. It was a bizarre experience to say the least. Sometimes I wondered if it was just Monica’s apparent immaturity or her lack of devotion to her own wedding. Sometimes, I saw the look of spite in her eyes—like her disinterest in her own wedding was a dagger to her mother’s involvement. However hard Monica tried to disrupt the balance, her mom never relented. She played the dutiful role of mother-of-the-bride and not once said anything to Monica about her rudeness.
“Seriously, Monica,” I said, feeling a feistiness overcome my spirit when I caught Sam staring at our bookshelf. As he glazed his hand over each spine, my body tensed. Books were very personal to me, especially since some of those had been purchased by Eileen, my mother, for birthdays or Christmases when she was not present. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Monica’s eyes widened a sliver like a broadening moon. For a second—if that—she had an aura of naïveté, of innocent girl. Then her tough personality was back, like a scratched lottery ticket suddenly covered in silver again. “I’m really not that pumped, Emma. It’s just a stepping stone to being a grown-up.”
“A lot of grown-up people don’t get married,” I pointed out, feeling defensive of my own status in that realm. Although at twenty-two, I barely felt like a grown-up. In a lot of respects, I was still a little girl in transition.
She shook her head. “For me it is. My own personal guidebook to life. All the regular things people do, like get married, pop out a kid, have the white-picket fence. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” The lie trickled down her tongue like a snake.
“Monica, don’t do this because you feel you have to. Do this because you’re sure you love Jerry—that you would die if you couldn’t be with him.”
Monica nodded, a stray tear forming at the base of one eye. It was small enough that I did not notice it at first, but then it was sizzling down her cheek like an egg on a skillet. “Thanks, Emma. I am in love with Jerry.”
That was as open as Monica would ever become with me.
THERE WAS STILL a stray littering of people, maybe three or four interesting souls. who lounged on the couch with Jamie. My best friend sat with a crown on his head, an arm draped around his girlfriend in a casual but protective manner, and a cat on his foot. Somehow, even the cat liked Jamie more than he/she liked me.
“Hey.”
I turned to see Sam, who sipped a coke. “Hi.”
“Well, what’d you think of this little get-together?”
“It’s Jamie’s favorite thing to do. Not mine.”
“So you’re not much of a partier?”
“No.” There was a sudden pause, sharp like a knife. Before I could resist, I heard my lips open. “But your rendezvouses are often publicized, so.”
“Oh, give me a break, Emma.” He gently swirled a piece of my hair around his finger like he was twirling a piece of cotton candy.
“Excuse me?” I said, pushing his hand away.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t been the commitment type for you. I like to think we enjoy each other…”
“Sam, let me interrupt you there.” With a quick sweep, I noted the peace from the partygoers as they watched an episode of Mythbusters on the TV. A man snored. “I’m not going to keep asking you this question. So you need to answer it—honestly.”
“Okay.”
Now or never, I decided. Somehow it was tough when it didn’t need to be. “Are you into me—or not?”
He laughed like the question was as flimsy as it sounded. “You’re serious, Em? It’s like asking if the Earth is round—or flat. Of course I’m into you.”
“Then why aren’t we actually dating? Like normal people?”
“Because we’re not normal people.”
“That’s an excuse.”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Half the year, I’m off in Australia, or Dubai, or Meridian, Mississippi, shooting films. It’s quite a challenge attempting a relationship when…”
<
br /> “Excuse.”
He stared at me, the glint in his eyes a spark of thought. “I’ve never been a relationship kind of guy, Emma. What makes you think you’ll change me, hmm?” He reached out to touch my hair again, but I took a step back.
“Oh, just another excuse,” I said, ripping our contact quickly. I hurried to my bedroom, slamming the door—gently enough not to disturb the others, hopefully. Not caring if he was there or not, I dug out my cell phone from my pillow, feeling the object carefully in my hands. I tapped the number carefully, making sure I did not misdial.
A few moments later, the chipper voice announced, “This is Eileen Swann. I’m so sorry I haven’t answered, but leave a message, and I’ll get right back to you.”
I hung up the phone, lying on the bed, staring up into the ceiling, imagining a place where I would never care about the people who comprised my life. I decided that I would care in all nooks and crannies of the entire universe.