From the Jump(42)

“Let’s just take a beat.” Despite the casualness of his tone, there’s something about Deiss that makes it clear he’s not to be argued with. “We’ll call the police. Then, we can figure the rest out afterward.”

I meet his eyes for a moment, my jaw squaring with resolve. But to my surprise, my hand drops down to my side. Finally, I nod.





CHAPTER 13


I move silently through Deiss’s loft, trying to figure out how I’ve ended up here. I blame the jet lag. It has merged with the shock of everything that’s happened, leaving me blunted and dull. Everything feels fast and frantic after the slow days in South Africa. Even the Los Angeles air, dry and thick with exhaust fumes, is working against me, making it difficult to breathe.

The space is stuffy from ten days with closed windows and the air turned off. It’s not a bad place to end up, obviously—Phoebe and Simone and I have speculated more than once about how Deiss managed to afford a two-bedroom loft in one of the most expensive cities in the world. (It was a question we knew better than to ask, and one I alone now know the answer to.) It’s actually surprisingly clean.

The furniture is mismatched and well-worn but tasteful. Granted, Deiss clearly hasn’t read Chez Chic. The walls are as far from white as it gets; every area is a different color, although they all go together in a unique way. It’s like they’re from the same family, but one where some of its members were forgotten before they found themselves at a reunion filled with vaguely similar facial features.

“Did you do that yourself?” I gesture toward the mossy green color in the living area. If I’d seen it on a color wheel, I wouldn’t have even considered painting it onto a graphic background, much less on physical walls. I would’ve assumed it would resemble mold. But in person, it turns out to be soothing, like I’ve hiked through a forest and found myself in a shaded spot beside a burbling stream.

“I did.” Deiss puts down the remote, abandoning his effort to explain how to access streaming on his TV.

“I like it.” And I do. But the claim doesn’t sound authentic when I hear the words hit the air. I cringe at the sound of them because I am so very grateful for his generosity. It’s just a bit unsettling.

Matching vibes to colors is something I excel at. I’ve built an entire career out of it. Deiss is dark gray with something unexpected like a pop of cherry mixed in. Maybe a deep midnight blue with a streak of yellow. Finding out he’s opted for earthy hues makes me feel like I’ve missed something crucial about his personality.

“I like to paint,” Deiss says, reading my uncertainty. “Not in an artistic way. Just walls. I like the monotony of it, the way I end up zoning out, caught up in the satisfaction of watching the old color disappear stripe by stripe. I also like how exhausting it is, how tight my back is by the end and how my arms ache, and how I can’t wait to collapse after that last stroke and just take in this environment that’s entirely new.”

“You do it frequently?”

He nods.

“Do you do it when you’re stressed?”

Something flickers across his face. I could swear it’s reluctance, but it must not be, because he answers my question.

“I guess,” he says, leaning against the wall. His arms cross loosely over his chest. “But not always. Sometimes, I’m trying to think through something, and the only way to get to the answer is to distract my brain long enough for the mess to untangle on its own. But sometimes, I guess, I just want a change.”

“I didn’t know that.” I look toward the leather couch, so worn in it’s spidered with creases. He probably chose the light brown color so it would go with any wall shade he wanted to paint.

With quick steps, I move to the kitchen, then onward, surveying his home with new understanding. A patternless bedspread. Photos on the wall instead of art. All of it deliberately noncommittal to a color scheme.

I stop in the doorway to what’s supposed to be my room, taking in the aggressively red walls (some shade between maroon and the color of video game blood) and the sofa bed. A desk sits in front of a window, a record player on top. The wall beside it is lined with stacks of records. In the corner, there’s a bass guitar. I didn’t know Deiss played music.

“I love it,” I say. This time, the honesty in my words is clear. While my home was a kind of museum, his is like a living extension of himself, shifting according to his moods. What’s not to like? “But I can’t stay.”

“Sure you can,” he says simply.

I shake my head. “I need to be close to my office.”

“You have an entire month before they expect you back.”

“I can’t wait that long, Deiss.” I sigh, reluctant to explain myself. “My savings are gone.”

“They’ll be back after the bank does an investigation.”

“I need to make money to live on until that happens.”

“You’re going to. If you needed motivation to hustle as a freelancer, here it is.”

“How does a graphic designer make money without a laptop?” It comes out snappier than I’ve intended. But I’ve never known Deiss to be such an optimist, and this does not feel like the ideal time for the emergence of the trait. “Mine was stolen. Remember? That’s how he got into my bank account.”