Chapter Eight
Vish next saw Troy on Sunday at her tea party, which was held at her place in Hermosa Beach. Troy and her roommate shared the bottom level of a two-story condo. Their sliding patio doors opened directly onto the Strand, the snaking concrete path that ran along the coastline for much of the South Bay. Just beyond the path lay a satiny ribbon of sand and then the ocean, white-blue and boundless.
Apart from the view, Troy’s place was a disappointment. An enormous flat-screen television taking up one corner of the living room, a white suede couch and matching armchair, a glass coffee table on a white wicker frame. White walls adorned with a framed Breakfast At Tiffany’s poster, one that probably hung in the dorm rooms of cute young theater majors nationwide. No bookcases, no books. A short stack of Interstellar Boys scripts on the floor beside the sofa, a gossip magazine on the coffee table.
She shared the place with another woman. Maybe it was just the effect of having a roommate that made their communal living space so bland. Vish had shuffled through a succession of amiable-yet-distant roommates in his post-college years, and in each case their decor ended up with a similar generic quality. Something to do with compromise, not wishing to assert his own tastes too much, suppressing his personality for the sake of roommate bonhomie. Maybe Troy was the same.
Or maybe Troy just liked Audrey Hepburn and frothy magazines, and maybe she had better things to do with her time than decorate, and maybe he should stop being so damn judgmental.
Troy seemed delighted to see him. He’d worried about this a little. He was in his work garb, the black pants and the silly red vest that marked him as a member of the service industry, whereas she was the party’s hostess and star attraction. Maybe the dichotomy would make her re-evaluate her interest in him. But she met him at the door with a hug and a quick kiss on his cheek, as though this was the most natural situation in the world. Today she smelled like tangerines.
“I was hoping it’d be you,” she said. “I almost called your boss—Jamie, right?—to ask for you specifically, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was summoning you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay about this. I was hoping you wouldn’t find it weird,” he said.
“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled,” she said. She took him by the hand and led him over to the couch, where a gaunt, gangly young woman with straight black hair and an excess of dark eyeliner lounged against the cushions. “I want you to meet my roommate. Lola, this is Vish. You remember me telling you about him.”
“Sure.” Lola lifted a thin white arm in the air and languidly waved it, flashing chipped cobalt nails in his direction. “Hey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Vish said. Lola half-smiled, pale lips twitching. She gave him a slow once-over, head to toe, and seemed amused by whatever she saw.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she said. Her voice was a low drawl, her tone a whisper away from sarcasm. “Troy says you’re going to serve us?”
“That’s the idea, yes,” Vish said.
“Fabulous.” Lola’s half-smile deepened into a smirk and she glanced over at Troy as though expecting her to share in some private joke, but Troy’s attention was focused on Vish.
“Let me show you where to set up,” Troy said. She led him over to the attached kitchen. “Stove, sink, refrigerator. Is there anything else you need?”
“I think I’m good. Thanks.” Vish glanced in the fridge, which was shiny stainless steel, industrial and cavernous. It held half a head of cabbage, a lonely Styrofoam takeout container splattered with marinara, and twelve bottles of Cristal, chilling before the party.
Setting up was easy. No fussing with chafing dishes and butane burners, just a matter of arranging dainty cakes and pastries on decorative trays and brewing teas—rose Darjeeling and blackberry-ginger—in heavy silver urns. He’d transported the food and equipment in the company van, putting his long-neglected driver’s license to use for once.
Guests arrived in twos and threes, maybe two dozen all total. All female, all sporting the glossy, well-groomed prettiness of working actresses, though for all Vish knew, they could be screenwriters, or mechanics, or gastroenterologists like Kate. Shiny hair, white teeth, flawless skin, slim figures. Invisible in his service-industry trappings, Vish watched as they murmured over the trays of pastries, or perched on the sofa and sipped at flutes of champagne, or sat on the floor, long legs pulled close to their bodies. They ate very little and laughed a great deal.
After the last bottle of champagne had been poured out and Troy had shooed away the last guest amidst a flurry of giggles and hugs, he found himself alone with her. Lola had excused herself as well, leaving with one of the partygoers on a shopping excursion to nearby Santa Monica.
“Do you want to keep the leftovers?” he asked.
“Sure, why not? I can bring them to work tomorrow,” Troy said. “It’ll give us something to snack on during the read-through.”
She stepped in to help with the cleanup, unasked. While Vish scrubbed out the silver urns in the sink, Troy loaded the tiny china plates and champagne flutes into the dishwasher. And when everything was clean and he was preparing to say his goodbyes, she placed a hand on either side of his face, stood on her toes, and kissed him.
It was strong, and vigorous, and surprisingly rough, like she was sucking all the breath, the strength, the life right out of him. Vish had an almost physical sensation of barriers falling down beneath the force of her kiss. After a moment of hesitation, he returned it.
So strange, this physical connection, this sensation of another body—a warm, firm body—against his, of another pair of arms sliding up and around him, of small hands gripping his shoulders and pulling him close. And then the arms were moving, sliding again, down his back and around his waist to the button of his cheap black slacks, and then one of those warm, nimble hands slipped inside his underwear and cupped him. He hardened at her touch.
Troy broke the kiss long enough to press her cheek against his. “The counter. Lift me up on the counter,” she said, her words little more than a gasp. Small teeth nipped at his earlobe.
Vish moved his hands to her waist, so slender beneath her loose sweatshirt, then hesitated. “Wait. Are we going to…?”
Troy laughed, breathless and laced with irritation. “Why do you think I hustled everyone out of here?” she asked. “Lola knows. She’ll be gone for hours. We’ve got the place to ourselves for as long as we want it.” She slid a hand up his neck and fanned her fingers along his jawbone. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t want to.”
“I do. I do.” Vish swallowed hard. “But I wasn’t planning… I don’t have—”
“Bathroom,” Troy said. “The one off of my bedroom, down the hall to the right. There’s a box in the medicine cabinet.” She winked and released him, then boosted herself up onto the kitchen counter. She crossed her legs, tanned and smooth under her white shorts. “I’ll wait here for you.”
“I’ll be right back,” Vish said. His pants were unbuttoned and on the verge of falling off his hips. He fastened them again, fingers thick and clumsy. He felt awkward and panicked, like he was on the verge of ruining an unreal, mind-crushingly great moment that would never come again.
He found Troy’s bedroom. White walls, white dresser, white carpet. A framed poster of Van Gogh’s Irises from LACMA hung above the bed, which was queen-sized and topped with a peach flowered coverlet and an assortment of ruffled pillows.
He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror and winced. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, collar askew, one flap of his dumb vest tucked into his waistband. He straightened himself out as best he could, then went hunting in the medicine cabinet for Troy’s stash of condoms.
Prescription bottles. Lots of them, a dozen or more, stored in an open plastic caddy in the medicine cabinet. The first medicine was for anxiety, the second for depression, and then he stopped reading the labels. This wasn’t his business. It was a surprise that there were so many, but still, he had
no right to snoop.
He found the condoms, extracted one from the box, and replaced the contents of the cabinet as best he could, feeling guilty.
Back to the kitchen, back to Troy, who was still perched on the counter, waiting for him. She smiled. “Found what you need?”
He held up the condom. “All good.” He glanced around the kitchen, at the living room just beyond it, and beyond that the sliding doors and the Strand and all of Hermosa Beach. “Ah… we’re kind of exposed here.”
Troy shrugged. “We’re not, not really. It’s darker in here than it is outside. No one can see us unless they plaster their faces against the glass. It’s fine.”
“I suppose so.” Vish looked outside again, uncertain. “We could always move to your bedroom.”
“Or we could stay here.” Troy’s tone was light, but there was a trace of something beneath it. Impatience, or irritation. Fair enough. He was, in fact, dithering. She extended both arms toward him. “Don’t ruin this.”
He stepped forward and let his arms slide up around her ribcage, almost of their own accord. Her mouth closed on his once again.
Drowning in her, losing himself in the scent of tangerines, her heartbeat like the pounding of the ocean, her mouth sour with the taste of champagne. And when it was over, and they were sticky with sweat and bodily fluids, arm and thigh muscles twitching from their participation in this most ancient of sports, Troy wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his chest. “Let’s walk on the beach,” she said.
His time wasn’t his own. He was on the clock, technically, and he still had to return to the shop and unload the equipment and help Jamie fix sandwiches and brew tea for customers. But it would be ungentlemanly to leave Troy now, so he nodded. “Sure.”
They walked on the Strand, Troy’s hand in his. The air was damp and the sky was whitish gray, the pale and feeble sun unable to burn away the marine layer. The South Bay was different than the beaches around Vish’s apartment. Preppier than ratty Venice, less crowded than tourist-jammed Santa Monica. White-haired boys with shiny brown torsos played volleyball on the sand, wetsuited surfers paddled out into the waves, bronze-skinned girls in tiny bikinis reclined in folding beach chairs.
“You’re quiet,” Troy said at last. “Are you okay with this? Did I push you into this too quickly?”
He glanced down. She looked concerned, almost worried. “No, it’s fantastic. Thank you very much. It just… I’m a little surprised, that’s all.”
Troy smiled. “I’m not usually like that,” she said. “I mean, I’m always pretty forward, you know that about me, but I’m not usually that direct, if you know what I’m saying. But I really like being around you, Vish.”
“I’m glad. Me too,” Vish said. He took a deep breath. “I’d like to see more of you, Troy. A whole lot more.”
It was hard to say. His stomach seemed to constrict, as though by exposing his neediness to Troy, he expected to be punched in the gut.
Laughter exploded out of her, a blast of unfettered amusement that instantly made him feel better. “I should hope so,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done that if I thought you didn’t want this to be a regular thing. You and me, I mean.” She gripped his hand tighter. “I’m not seeing anyone else right now. I want you to know that.”
“Me either. I haven’t seen anyone since moving to Los Angeles.” He shrugged. “For a long time before that, actually.”
She was quiet for a moment, her small features pensive. “Have you ever been in a serious relationship?” she asked.
Vish wanted to lie, because he didn’t want her to think he was abnormal, but he wasn’t sure how to be anything less than wholly honest with Troy. “Not really. I’ve dated before, but… No. Nothing anyone would consider serious. Nothing lasting.”
She nodded, mulling this over. “Any particular reason why not?”
“People aren’t drawn to me, I guess. The people I like never like me in return. Or if they do, they don’t tell me about it.”
“That might explain a few things,” Troy said. “You never having a steady girlfriend, I mean.”
“Oh?”
She shook her head. “The way you’ve been so ridiculously skittish about me thus far, I figured you either weren’t interested, or you weren’t sure how to proceed. Guess it’s the second option.” She turned to look at him. “I thought you’d call me, or email after we last met. We had a good time, a really good time, but you didn’t follow up. If you didn’t show up at my party today, I was going to give up on you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I’m awkward with people a lot of the time, and I thought if I called, you’d think I was pushy or clingy, because…”
“Because?”
“Because I don’t know what you’re getting out of this relationship,” Vish said. “You’re beautiful and famous, and you’re so nice to me it’s almost unreal, and I don’t know what you see in me. The whole thing seems, I don’t know, weird.”
He regretted the word “weird” as soon as it was out of his mouth. She stared at him for a moment, not amused. “Holy crap, Vish,” she said at last. “Is that the way your brain works? I like you, and I want to spend time with you and help you out any way I can. Can’t you accept that without thinking there’s something funny going on?”
Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth was set in a grim line, and she was clearly pissed off. “I’m sorry,” Vish said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I like you,” she said again. “That’s all there is to it. Just relax and let this play out as it will, okay?”
She smiled her nice smile at him, and Vish felt a sense of relief at being forgiven so easily. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Let’s just walk,” she said. She squinted up at the overcast sky. “Not that it’s the best day for it.”
They continued down the Strand until it ended near Redondo, then they walked on the sand until they reached the pier, which is where they first saw the surfers. Or at least Vish mentally categorized them as surfers, even though they weren’t carrying boards or wearing wetsuits. They had on ratty Hawaiian shirts with wild flower prints, open to the waist and paired with baggy board shorts and battered sandals. They looked like surfers from a 1970s television show.
Correction: They looked like villainous surfers from a 1970s television show, the kind who’d antagonize the hero and make uncouth gestures toward the heroine. There were five of them, hanging out in a pack, passing around a hand-rolled cigarette. Longish tangled hair, shell necklaces against deeply tanned skin, their hairy legs and dirty feet incongruous amongst the white-bread affluence of the South Bay.
As Vish and Troy approached, their conversation stilled. Vish tried not to pay any attention to them, but he could feel hostile eyes on him.
A muttered statement: “Dead man walking.”
Vish didn’t turn to see which one had said it. Troy stopped and stared at them. Vish wanted to keep walking, but she squeezed his hand once and pulled him to a stop. “What did you say?” she asked. Her tone was curious, nothing more.
The one who appeared to be their leader smiled. He was good-looking, almost classically handsome, with thick dark hair that reached his collarbone and a strong, patrician nose. He took a long, slow drag on the cigarette, then cocked his head to the side and stared at Troy through the amber lenses of his wraparound sunglasses. “Ah, that’s where you’ve been keeping yourself, huh? You pop up in the damnedest places.”
Vish looked at Troy in surprise. She seemed unconcerned. “Did you say something to my friend?”
The leader tossed his cigarette butt down and ground it out under the heel of his sandal. “I said he’s a dead man walking.”
“As threats go, that’s not very good, is it?” Troy asked. She sounded as unflappable and friendly as ever. Vish thought he should jump in at some point, or lead Troy away from there, but he couldn’t find any easy way to enter the conversation, and besides, she looked like she
wouldn’t appreciate his assistance. “I mean, that applies to everyone, doesn’t it?”
The surfer smiled. “You do have a point there, friend.” He gestured with his chin at Vish. “His day’s coming quicker than most, though. Bad hoodoo surrounding that one. Not that you’d know anything about it.”
Troy smiled, and for once it didn’t look either friendly or pleasant. “Nice chatting with you boys,” she said. She gripped Vish’s hand tighter. “Let’s go, Vish.”
Vish let Troy lead him away from the group. “See you soon, Vish,” the surfer called after him.
Vish’s face felt hot. “What was that all about?” he asked Troy as soon as they were out of earshot. “Friends of yours?”
She shook her head. “No idea. I’ve never seen them before. Just a bunch of stoners, I guess.” She smiled. It still looked a little tight. “Do kids say ‘stoners’ these days? I’m not up on my drug lingo.”
“That one guy acted like he knew you. He said you pop up in the damnedest places,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe he’s a huge Interstellar Boys fan. I don’t really know.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry if they weirded you out, but they were just a bunch of drugged-up assholes saying shit that probably makes sense when you’re high. Anybody who happened to walk past them would’ve gotten the same treatment. It doesn’t have anything to do with me, or with you.” It was a little snappish.
“I’m sorry,” Vish said. “I didn’t mean to grill you.”
“You weren’t. Don’t worry about it.” She snorted. “They were kind of creepy, weren’t they?”
It was good to hear her admit it, because something about the surfers had unsettled him. “Should we turn around? I have to get back to the shop soon,” he said.
“Sure.” Troy smiled, carefree and natural. She leaned up and kissed his cheek, and everything was okay again.
They walked back to Troy’s place along the edge of the water. Troy dangled her sandals from one hand and padded barefoot on packed sand, letting the incoming waves splash over her feet. They detoured around kelp patches and the abandoned ruins of sand castles. Vish resisted the urge to glance back at the pier, where the surfers might still be lurking.
Troy helped him carry his supplies to the van and kissed him again before he climbed behind the wheel. “So…” Vish said.
“So Freddie still wants to talk to you about the show, but last week got crazy for us, and he didn’t have time to get in touch with you. This week, for sure,” Troy said. “I’ll call when I know more and let you know what’s up.”
“Thank you,” Vish said. “Thank you so much.”
“I’ll call,” Troy said again. She stepped back and waved from the curb. He backed out of the parking space, then headed up to Sepulveda, back toward Venice, away from Troy and the surfers.