The Comeback(80)

I look at Dylan and then shrug apologetically. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you this. But, honestly, what the fuck?”

Dylan frowns slightly, probably trying to work out what I’m really asking, which is already a nonstarter because I don’t even know.

“Do you think she’d still be around?” I ask, pulling a face when I remember the bruises on her arms and legs, as if she was already decaying.

Dylan shrugs because he will never be someone to assume the worst. “I mean, I don’t know. You could try to find her. Or, do you think it’s not actually about her?”

“If you’re going to tell me that I’m the little girl, I’ll kill you,” I say, and he grins. “I’ve had a compassionate thought about someone else for the first time in five years, so let me have this moment.”

“That’s bullshit, you’re one of the most compassionate people I know,” Dylan says, shaking his head. “If anything, you just overthink everything to the point of paralysis.”

“I’m so relieved that we’re talking about me again,” I say, and he laughs.

“I’m just saying, it’s a good thing you haven’t forgotten about her. I wouldn’t question your own motives too much,” he says. “It’s good to feel strongly about something, so you know what you want to change.”

“I’ve been spending some time with Esme,” I say then, and Dylan looks surprised. “She’s going through some stuff. I’ve been trying to help her.”

“She’s a good kid. She’s lucky to have you,” Dylan says, and as he smiles at me, I experience the rare feeling that, for the first time in a long while, things might actually be working out for me.

“Do you want to get dinner tomorrow night?” I ask him suddenly, and Dylan nods, his eyes creasing slightly.

“Sure.”





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE





I open an email from Laurel with a link to the John Hamilton photos once I’m back in my car. In the photos I am walking out of his house wearing the white jeans and white sweater that Xtina picked out for me, John’s fleshy hand pulling the back of my head toward him as he whispers a secret in my ear. My lips are curved in a hint of a smile, my eyes hidden underneath lemon-yellow Kurt Cobain–style sunglasses. For a moment, I consider going back into the glass house to mention the photos to Dylan, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to explain myself, because we’ve both been in this business for a while now.

On my way back to Malibu, I stop by the English shop in Santa Monica to pick up the Marmite, as well as some orange squash and Jammie Dodgers for the twins. While I’m paying at the checkout, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull out my phone, but it’s just Laurel.

    Are you okay? Are you still coming over for Christmas? Lana is almost looking forward to it LOL.



I click my phone off and put it back in my pocket without replying.



* * *



? ? ?

When I get home, Emilia is sitting on the steps of my front porch, smoking a cigarette. I tuck the Marmite into the glove compartment before I get out, steeling myself for her to reveal whatever it is she’s been hiding from me.

“Why do you have binoculars?” Emilia asks, holding up the pair I left lying on the lawn chair in my haste to follow her to Venice.

“I like to watch the dolphins,” I say calmly. I reach out to take the binoculars from her, but Emilia moves them out of my reach. She holds them up to her eyes and stares out at the ocean, pivoting at the last minute so that she’s looking up at the peach house through them.

“I’m not stalking you,” I say. “You’re the one who’s always on my porch.”

The joke hangs between us until, after a long silence, Emilia drops the binoculars back onto the seat. She looks different, her eyes unfocused and oil collecting on either side of her nostrils. This is it, I think. This is when it ends.

“It turns out Able isn’t going to be home for Christmas,” Emilia says before I can say anything. “All flights out of Salt Lake City have been canceled. The runways aren’t safe.”

I don’t trust myself to speak, so I stay silent.

“The good news is that there’s no fucking danger of any storm happening here, because it’s the happiest place on earth.”

“I’m sorry,” I say carefully.

Emilia stubs her cigarette out on the ground. “And who even knows who he’s with this time?” she asks. I stand very still, keeping my face neutral as Emilia walks to the edge of my porch and leans against it. Her eyes never quite land on my face as she talks. “I never have any idea what he’s doing at any given moment and I’m not allowed to ask, because that would break the code.”

“The code?” I ask, my voice steady.

“The code that says he can do what he wants because he makes all the money. The code that says I’m not allowed to feel like shit because my life is so fucking great.”

She shakes her head, looking embarrassed for a moment, and I realize that I rarely hear her swear. I wonder if it’s something she has to make an effort not to do.

“So I’m stuck by myself with the kids in this soulless, make-believe place where everyone pretends to be happy all the time, just because the sun won’t stop shining long enough for them to realize they’re not,” Emilia says, each word soaked with contempt. “Why can’t it at least rain here?”