Birds of California(59)
“I wouldn’t blame you,” she admits quietly, her voice muffled against his button-down. “I mean, that’s not true, I’d blame you until the day I died, I’d find someone to put a hex on you and I’d start a rumor that you’re terrible in bed, but it’s not like I wouldn’t understand.” She shrugs inside his grip. “I know I’m too much.”
Sam shakes his head. “You’re . . . the perfect amount, actually.”
That makes her laugh for how ridiculous it is. “I’m sorry I called you a striving little pissant,” she says.
“I am a striving little pissant,” Sam says easily, “for all the good it’s doing me right now.” He ducks his head to kiss her—just once, so quick and light she almost doesn’t feel it. She can’t tell if she’s imagining that he looks around to make sure no one saw. “Want to go make up?”
Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Didn’t we just do that?”
Sam laces his fingers through hers, tugging her in the direction of the Tesla. “Not yet.”
He takes her home to his apartment and kisses her backward into his bed, then flips her onto her stomach and goes down on her until she’s keening quiet sounds into his pillows, her fingers tensing and relaxing in the sheets. Afterward they eat leftover takeout from cereal bowls, sitting cross-legged on the rumpled covers while the neighbors play a rowdy game of Celebrity across the courtyard. “How did you get started acting?” Sam wants to know.
“Oh my god, don’t ask.” Fiona smiles, clapping an embarrassed hand over her face. “I got discovered,” she admits, peeking out from between two fingers.
“Shut up.” Sam laughs. “You did not.”
Fiona nods. “I did. I was like, what, thirteen? I was hanging around at the print shop being a fucking ham when Caroline came in to pick up some bridal shower invitations—she was still an assistant at LGP back then, she was probably younger than I am now. She asked my parents if she could take a video of me on her phone, and here I am.”
“Here you are,” Sam says, trailing a finger over the thin, sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. “Did you want to do it?”
“What, acting? I mean, sure,” Fiona says with a shrug. “Or . . . I guess I kind of didn’t think about it as a choice at the time, more like. And then by the time I got it together enough to have an opinion . . .” She trails off. “Anyway. What about you?” she asks, spearing the last of the broccoli from her picked-over noodles and setting the bowl aside. “Did you come out of the womb, immediately hand over your headshot, and deliver a monologue from an Aaron Sorkin movie?”
“Pretty much,” Sam says, flopping down beside her. “I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, but I liked the attention.”
“You?” she asks, feeling her lips quirk. There’s a little bit of stubble on his chest and she strokes it absently with one finger—liking the soft porcupine-y bristle of it, how weirdly intimate it is. She tries not to think about the look on his face at the club earlier tonight, that cold flash of panic in his eyes like he’d suddenly realized he was in over his head and needed to get away from her as soon as humanly possible. She can feel his heart tapping away underneath his skin. “I’d never have guessed.”
Sam looks down, watching her. “I go to a Hungarian woman named Renate,” he confesses, covering her hand with his. “The first couple of times I screamed like that scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, but now I’m very stoic about the whole thing.”
Fiona props herself on one elbow. “Does Renate give you a lollipop at the end and tell you what a brave young man you’ve been?”
“That is the kind of positive reinforcement I require, yes.”
“I thought so,” Fiona says with a smile, and climbs on top of him one more time.
“Did you know that Eartha Kitt had a threesome with Marlon Brando and James Dean?” Claudia asks on Saturday morning. They’re sitting on Estelle’s screened-in patio doing foot masks, which Estelle bought on Amazon and which promise to slough layers of dead skin off and leave their heels as soft as a baby’s.
Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Where did you hear that?” she asks, at the same time as Estelle says, “She wasn’t the only one.”
Fiona and Claudia look at her, then at each other. “Say more about that,” Claudia instructs Estelle, as Fiona ducks her head back over the thank-you card she’s writing. Across the yard and inside her house a beautiful orchid is sitting on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, alongside a note from Thandie that says she hopes Fiona is taking good care of herself. She didn’t mention the video—Thandie wouldn’t—but still Fiona has been working on her reply for the better part of an hour, trying to strike the right balance of gratitude and actually this was completely unnecessary, as I’m extremely fine and sane. The whole thing is mortifying, even though she knows Thandie meant it sincerely. It’s mortifying, even though she knows Thandie’s just being a good friend.
“Okay,” Fiona says finally, bending down and sliding the disposable cotton booties off her feet, which are slimy with some kind of gel. She actually has no idea what’s in this mask, though the package had a bold-print warning against using it if she was pregnant or nursing. “On that note, I’ve gotta get ready for rehearsal.”