The Comeback(77)
“I think that’s great, and I’m so happy you’re feel—”
“I don’t even necessarily just have to stick to acting, if that’s what you’re worried about. What are those people called that do a bit of everything? Maybe I’ll write a book on mindfulness or something,” I say, grinning as I swirl my straw around in my glass. “Or a vegan cookbook. I really should have kept it up, but did I tell you what my dad made me the first night I was home?”
“The salad with cheese and bacon bits,” Laurel says, and I think for a second that she’s bored or maybe just miserable.
“And ranch dressing! I couldn’t—”
“Grace,” Laurel interrupts at this point, basically shouting. I look at her, surprised.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been trying to tell you that I have to go for fucking ages,” Laurel says, sounding sheepish. “I didn’t tell Lana I was with you, and I’m kind of freaking out that she’s going to see that I’m with you before I have a chance to explain, because of all these fucking cameras. You’re not her favorite person after our night in Coyote Sumac. I hadn’t done coke in six months until I saw you.”
“I’m sorry, who?” I ask, not understanding.
“Lana. My partner.”
I can feel my shock register on my face. I don’t even try to keep my features neutral for the photographers this time. “Your what now?”
“We’ve been together two years, Grace. You’ve met her. What the fuck.”
“I didn’t even know you were gay,” I say, and then there’s a moment where I think Laurel might smash a plate of blackened eggplant over my head, but instead she starts to laugh, her eyes filling with glossy tears as she reaches across the table to take my hand.
“Never change, Grace,” she says, and even though I think I can hear genuine affection in her voice, I’m still embarrassed.
“I’m the pits,” I say, and Laurel nods.
“Can I meet her?” I ask. “Again, I mean?”
“Sure. But not right now. Like I said, she hates you.”
I look down at our setup, the table for two filled with sharing plates piled with vegan food, and matching matcha smoothies, surrounded by photographers calling out my name.
“What the fuck are you still doing here then?” I ask, smiling and putting my sunglasses over my eyes. “Go home.”
* * *
? ? ?
I climb into my car, pulling my baseball cap over my head once I’m inside. One of the photographers taps on my window, and I open it two inches so that I can hear what he’s saying. He is older than the rest and is smartly dressed in a sky-blue linen shirt. He drops something through the window that lands on my passenger seat. It’s a business card. I turn it over in my hand. Mario Gomez—Professional Photographer.
“Call or text me whenever you need me, okay? I’ll be there,” he says through the window as I reverse away from him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I leave three messages for Emilia over the next few days, but she doesn’t return any of my calls. Even when I tell myself that she must be busy getting everything ready for Christmas without Marla, I still check my phone a few times an hour to see if she’s been in touch. I want to tell her how I think I finally understand what she meant about sifting through the shit life deals you and holding on to the good stuff with everything you have. Maybe I’ll even find the words to tell her how much more grounded I’ve been feeling since I started spending time with her, like she might be the kind of person I could grow up to be like, if I can just stay on track.
The late December sun is blazing hot, hotter than I can ever remember it, and the beach below my house is filled with tourists shaded under bright umbrellas and mismatched towels bought on Venice Beach. I collect the binoculars from the kitchen drawer, and point them toward the peach house. The house is dark, with no movement, but Emilia’s car is still parked in the driveway. I consider walking up the back to surprise her, but instead I settle into the beige lawn chair and wait.
After an hour or so, I see her blond head bobbing across the driveway, and then her car starts to move. I race to my own car. The drive down to PCH from Emilia’s takes longer than from mine, so I drive up the hill and wait at the opening until I see her Porsche turn onto the highway. I follow her car, keeping at least three car lengths between us as she drives south on PCH for about twenty minutes. She turns off just before we reach Venice, and I follow her, telling myself I just want to share the story of my audition with her, since she was the one who got it for me. I turn the radio up loud to drown out everything except the golden sun, the song and the white Porsche in front of me.
Emilia parks on one of the side roads behind Abbot Kinney but I drive on, opting for the paid parking just off the main street instead so that I have a head start on her. I can’t figure out how to use the payment machine so I just leave my car and hope that I don’t get another ticket.
Abbot Kinney is buzzing with Christmas tourists and local girls gripping iced coffees along with their car keys and sparkly phones. Christmas lights are strung over the storefronts, and trees glitter in the windows. I duck into Le Labo when I see Emilia ordering something from a juice truck parked in front of the Butcher’s Daughter across the street. I make a big thing about smelling the different perfumes in case she’s coming in here, but then I find one that is actually familiar—the one Emilia wears. Thé Noir 29. I spray it on my neck, turning my back on the pretentious man behind the huge oak counter. I clocked the exact moment he recognized me, his face softening disingenuously.