One More Time(40)

But goddamn, do I enjoy the view.

Once she’s dressed, I have the pleasure of escorting her downstairs, where we loudly ask the concierge to arrange a car service for us for the day.

People are looking, and not so covertly snapping pics on their phones. Jenna notices, and grins widely as she strikes a very awkward pose next to me, purposely leaning away from me with her upper body so that even the most casual onlooker can see her body language is reading “I don’t like this”.

For a quick second, I feel my insides freeze up. Does she actually not like this? Did I just accidentally orchestrate, not a slow burn seduction, but an “out” for her?

My worries are not entirely relieved when she playfully flashes me on her way into the Town Car, but it does take the edge off. Still, I know this little concern is going to be playing in the back of my mind all day. The trouble with letting the audience in is that now we can’t be real. Or, at least, we can’t know for sure what’s real. I can’t know what part of Jenna’s character she’s flaunting is for the papz and what part is just for me. Maybe none of it. Maybe all of it.

Hey, a guy can hope.





For a—what did Jenna call her? Oh, yes. For a real shit-stirrer, Angela sure threw together an extravagant day out for us on absolutely no notice. I can’t imagine what she’d do for a couple that was actually willing to play her games. Although I suppose as long as she gets what she wants in the end, it may not matter.

Our first stop is Vancouver Lookout at Harper Center, and it’s even more ripper than I remember from shooting Jet. That was back before I knew Jenna, and I remember wishing I had someone to share it with—this crazy, expansive, top-of-the-world vista. Three hundred sixty-degree views from forty flights up, all in a room that feels like it’s enclosed in the clouds.

Angela has rented us an entire section of the observation deck, a little bubble of our own, created of glass walls. Chilled champagne is waiting for us.

Jenna is over the fucking moon.

It’s one of those days where the giant cotton balls in the sky are low and fluffy so they’re actually passing close to the windows of the view deck. We run around snapping selfies that make us look like we’re stuck inside a big cumulus. Jenna slaps a filter on the shots that give us wings like we’re some angels and shoots them off into the world.

“If we want the papz on us we’ll have to leave a trail,” she says.

“Haven’t you noticed yet?”

“What?” she asks, and I nod my head toward what she hasn’t noticed in all her excitement—photographers are on the other side of the glass, snapping away, capturing every selfie and sip of bubbly.

“Angela?” Jenna asks, popping immediately back into her fake mode. She waves at them while doing another weird lean-in.

“Yeah. She’s good.” The light mood from a moment before is gone, but this “us against them” thing is bonding us in a different way. Jenna tells me five times how much fun she’s having while we’re whisked off to our next destination, one I requested specifically, knowing what a nature lover Jenna is.

The mountains have always been her favorite thing about LA, but the San Gabriels have nothing on the Canadian gem that is Grouse Mountain.

The view from the top makes the Vancouver Lookout seem like a joke. It’s acres and acres of lush green pines that aren’t found in southern California. The sky tram drives all the way up to the peak to give an insane view.

“Ooh, are we going to get champagne in this one, too?” she asks as we walk up to the Skyride.

“Not in, exactly…” The look on her face as we’re beckoned up to the rooftop deck to ride up the mountain on the outside of the tram is utterly priceless. The car begins its smooth ascent, and the wind rushes through her gorgeous hair, lifting individual curls to stream out around her head.

She’s perfect.

I move closer to snuggle up to her, but she’s stiff, frozen in place.

The anxiety I felt earlier is suddenly back with more force than it takes to power the tram up this mountain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice catching just a little. Did I misread her? Was she really faking all the fun for the paparazzi?

“I don’t mind heights. And I don’t mind cable cars. But being outside of a cable car, this high in the air, is surely nothing God ever intended.” Her voice is small, and a few words are carried away by the wind, but her white knuckled grip on the bar and the few words I heard were enough to understand.

I’m relieved and about to gather her to me to keep her mind off her nerves, when I glance up and see a couple photographers have beat us to the top and are shooting our ascent.

Even though it makes me feel like a real asshole to leave her panicking, pics where she looks stiff and terrified with me standing a couple of paces away will show the public that all the cuddling has been for show.

The crowd of photographers gives us space when we get to the top, hanging back as though trying to snap a picture covertly. Jenna’s visibly relieved when we disembark, and waiting for her, I have another surprise.

“Have you ever heard of a beavertail?” I ask, nodding toward the media in case she hasn’t seen them yet.

She gives a tight nod in response and takes my hand, holding it stiffly and far from her body.

“Is that…an animal part or a sex thing?” she asks carefully, giving me side-eye.