What for? You said they’re terrible.
Even still.
I’ll watch when she goes pro.
She misses you.
No guilt trips, please. I know.
I put away the phone and look up to find Eli watching me. Even wearing shades I can feel his stare, and when he raises an inquiring eyebrow—What are you doing over there?—I nod pointedly at his mini-harem and shake my head. He smirks, and I know he’s thrilled to have women fighting over him. I’ll grant him his little ego boost, but if they start going at it, I’m not joining the fray. I can’t show up in LA with a black eye.
My phone beeps and I glance at it, expecting a message from Susan. But it’s not her. It’s Eli, from twelve feet away. Who’re you talking to?
My sister.
Is she coming?
No.
Get over here.
Forget it. They’ll pull my hair out.
I’ll get you a hat to cover the bald patch.
I laugh. Good luck tonight.
When he doesn’t write back, I look up, expecting to find him distracted by Winona or Stella or one of the girls. But he’s just watching me, phone in hand, lips slightly twisted, like he doesn’t know how he feels. Which gives us something else in common.
By the third inning, the temperature is still scorching, the poor girls are wilting, and Dorrie approaches to ask me for lip gloss. Layla trails along after her, and I ask where Kent is as I hand Dorrie a tube of Chapstick she applies a little too liberally.
“Home, I guess,” Layla says.
“I thought he watched your games.”
“He used to.”
“Are you having fun out there?”
“Yep.”
“Dorrie, you need half of that. Now your whole chin is shiny.”
“It has SPF. I don’t want to burn.”
I shake my head and take back the gloss. “Try wearing sunscreen.”
They jog back to the field where Winona leads them in a cheer and Stella makes everyone drink water. Their intentions toward Eli might be obvious and nauseating, but they’re genuinely kind to the girls. Stella even wipes off Dorrie’s chin in spite of her protests.
When the game wraps, it’s 21—8, and the team record is a resounding 0—14. Still, they cheer madly and pull off their caps, damp strands of hair clinging to their temples. I watch Dorrie do her standard round of cartwheels in the outfield as the benches clear, then exchange texts with Stephen, extracting a promise that he’ll fix the drip in the bathroom sink while he’s in town. I drop the phone in my purse when Eli approaches, flushed and sweaty. “Is Dorrie going home with Stella?” he asks, familiar with their routine.
“Yep. I even brought her a toothbrush this time.”
“Look at you, Mary Poppins.”
“I’m the best.”
“I think it’s time you showed me your place,” he says. He’s still got his shades on, and though he’s smiling, I know he’s serious. For whatever reason, we’ve always ended up at Eli’s apartment, and his casual inquiries about my home have gotten more frequent. It’s not like I’ve been deliberately keeping him at bay, even though a tiny, practical part of me points out that that would be for the best. Because as much as I care about Eli, I’m leaving at the end of the month, and putting some distance between us would be wise. A more assertive part of my brain—and my anatomy—overrides the pragmatic side, however, arguing that I should make the most of my opportunities with him while I can. And I always win an argument.
“I thought you brought me to your place for the free labor.”
“I’ll give you the night off. With benefits.”
I laugh. “Sounds—”
“Eli. Hey.”
We both look over as Winona limps forward, crutches digging into the grass. There’s no question her cast is real, but her struggles with mobility seem to intensify when she wants Eli’s attention. Tonight she’s wearing her usual too-short denim cutoffs, a white tank top paired with a black lace bra and a White Sox hat.
“Hey, Win. What’s up?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my dad got hot and went home early. Is there any way you could give me a lift? I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, I know where you live. Of course.”
He knows where she lives? It’s not impossible that it might have come up in their time coaching together, but still. He’s never been to my place. Which is for the best, my smug conscience adds. Right?
“Thanks so much.” Winona smiles and starts to make her way to the parking lot, clearly expecting Eli to follow.
He shoots me a meaningful look. “Rain check.”
My insides curdle, disappointed, but I keep a blank face. I should probably start preparing for LA anyway. “Sure. Another time.”
He stops, midstride, and comes back. “I meant, rain check on seeing your place. Follow me home.”
“I don’t want to see where Winona lives.”
“I’ll drop her off on the wrong street. You’ll never have to know.”
Dorrie and Layla zip past after Stella, calling goodbye. I wave and turn back to Eli. “Do you really think her dad left? I bet she sent him home early.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know what happened. But if you want to make out with me at the truck before we go to prove some kind of point, I wouldn’t be offended.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not going to mark my territory like some sort of desperate loser.”
His mouth twitches as he hooks a finger in the waistband of my jeans and tugs me into his chest. “Fine. I’ll do it. You’ll need something to tide you over when you’re gone, anyway.”
“I think I’ll be okay for a weekend.”
He can’t hide a smile as he lowers his mouth to kiss me. “Let’s make sure.”
* * *
“For Christ’s sake, Suze, I’m sure they have food in LA.” I stare, gobsmacked, as she empties an entire grocery aisle worth of snack food onto the check-in desk as she hunts in her purse for her passport.
“It’s for the flight,” she mutters. “Ah. Here it is.” She slides the passport to the check-in agent, who hands her a boarding pass. Susan staunchly refuses to live in the twenty-first century, and will not check in online, insisting on dealing with “real people,” despite the extra hassle.
“Do you have an eating disorder?” I ask as we wheel our carry-ons through the concourse and into the security line. Though I’d cleaned out her car a week earlier, it had been littered again when I drove Dorrie to the game two nights ago.
“I have a sweet tooth.”
“You’re eating your feelings.”
Susan gasps and swats me with her ticket. “How dare you.” But she’s not really mad. In eighth grade the boy she had a massive crush on moved to Alaska, and she’d spent the next year stashing junk food in her room, plotting a move to our forty-ninth state and acting bewildered when her clothes stopped fitting. Her five-foot-five frame ballooned to nearly two hundred pounds before my mother found one of her hidden caches and sent her to a therapist.
“Seriously,” I say, sticking my suitcase on the conveyor belt to be scanned, then dropping my laptop and purse into a separate plastic bin. “What’s going on? I know something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up,” she snaps, unloading her bags. “I’ve got a stressful job, I’m going through a divorce and my sister’s a nag.”
“Your sister’s tired of cleaning out your car.”
We make it through security unscathed and collect our things before continuing along to the gate. “Tell me about Eli,” Susan orders, blithely changing the subject. If it was anyone else I’d continue to grill her, but I know my sister, and when she clams up it’s nearly impossible to pry her open until she’s ready to talk again.
<
br /> “His last name is Grant,” I offer.
“So?”
“As in Grant Properties.”
“Is that a thing I should know?”
“They’re a big real estate family. They’ve developed a huge portion of the city.”
“Is he loaded?”
“Yes. Not that it matters.”
“Then why is he working in IT? Or at all, for that matter?”
“He says it’s possible to love more than one thing.”
Susan actually stops for a second. “What?”
I shrug, like I can’t believe it either, even though I’m starting to see his point. “I asked him the same question, and he says he loves flipping houses. And computers. And coaching softball.”
Susan’s dark eyebrows pull together doubtfully. “That’s bullshit.”
“He swears it’s true.”
She holds up her bare left hand as we resume walking. “It’s not. Take me for example. I love my job. Stephen loves his. We no longer love each other.”
“You love Dorrie.”
“That’s different.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s not a choice, Caitie. Being in love with someone is a choice. It’s a responsibility. A marriage is a choice. Neither Stephen nor I could manage it, and we’re the smartest people we know.”
“I’m the smartest person you know.”
“And what about Mom?” she continues, on a roll. “She thought she loved the law, too. Graduated top of her class when not a lot of women were even thinking about careers. And then she met Dad, and she loved him. And then she wasn’t a lawyer.”
It’s true. Our mother had stayed home to raise two daughters who wanted nothing more than to be exactly like their father. “People do both,” I say, barely convincing myself. “They have careers, they fall in love.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They even have hobbies.”
“Now you’re just messing with me.” Susan’s only halfway serious; we know other people do these things, we just haven’t mastered the skill set.
“It’s like M & M’s and corn chips,” I say, tapping her left hand, in which she holds open packages of both. “How do you choose?”
In response Susan opens her mouth and stuffs in a handful of each. It’s disgusting to watch her chew the nasty concoction, but she looks happy. “I don’t,” she says, pausing as we pass a newsstand, the summer issue of Chicago’s Finest peering out at us, my face splashed across the cover. She looks me over. “And neither do you,” she adds.
* * *
Though we’d traveled a lot as kids, I’ve never been to the West Coast. Growing up in New York and then spending the past five years in Chicago, it never occurred to me that I might actually like California. That the sun-kissed stereotypes may not be as unbearable as I’d imagined. But it’s really not that bad. In fact, it’s kind of nice.
On Saturday I’m scheduled to meet Cole Godley, the hotshot LA lawyer the partners hired as my second-in-command. The plan is to visit the still-under-construction offices at two o’clock, so I get up early to tour the area by myself while Susan attends her first of half a dozen lectures.
It’s been mentioned that I could use a tan, so that’s my inspiration when I slip on a sundress and catch a cab to Venice Beach. It’s still early when I arrive, but the place is crowded with skateboarders and bodybuilders. I buy a smoothie for breakfast and stroll around, unhurried. A small part of me is waiting for something bad to happen so I know my anticipated hatred is justified, but nothing comes. In fact, the longer I walk, the calmer I am, and the stranger I begin to feel. The partners forcing me to take a holiday kicked me out of my comfort zone and I’d spiraled miserably, despite being in familiar surroundings. Yet, somehow, here, in a completely different state with an entirely different atmosphere, I feel...okay.
After lunch I head back to the hotel to change into something more suitable for the office, debating between a fitted, knee-length, white dress or perfectly cut trouser pants and a blouse, eventually opting for the dress, if only to better showcase the red heels I bought for the occasion.
I catch another cab to the address Cole texted me, and a short time later I find myself in a downtown neighborhood with busy streets and gleaming office towers. An extremely handsome man in a well-cut suit waits at the curb, offering me a welcome smile as he shakes my hand.
“You must be Caitlin,” he says. “I’m Cole. Welcome to LA.” He gestures to the building behind us. “Ready to see your new home away from home?” He leads the way into an elegantly appointed lobby, the smooth, white marble walls and floors offset by a bank of shiny black elevators. Cole makes cheerful small talk on the ride up, grinning as he passes me a hard hat before we step onto the forty-fourth floor.
With just over a month before our scheduled opening, there’s a lot of work to be done. Most of the drywall is up, but there are still exposed metal beams and wires, with patches of putty marring every surface. Cole leads the tour like a pro, selling the space as though we haven’t already bought it. He answers questions, makes jokes and manages to walk the fine line between knowing what he’s talking about and not being an ass about it. He may look like the lawyers I know at home, but nothing about him feels the same. He’s suspiciously...nice.
He leads the way past a spacious boardroom, a kitchen area that’s fitted for nonexistent appliances and a slew of smaller offices for junior associates. “Did you have a preference?” he asks, stopping in front of a large corner office with windows on two sides. I can’t help but feel pleased that the offices here have solid walls and windows with blinds, so when we require privacy, we’ll actually have some. “Northeast exposure...” He points down the hall to what I assume is an identical office on the opposite end. “Or northwest?”
The boardroom is closer to this office, and I prefer to be farther away, so I tell him northwest.
“Perfect,” he says, punching something into his phone. “I’ll let the decorators know. You’ve already given them your style choices?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
Another flash of white teeth. “Excellent. Me too.” He tells me a bit about the junior associates that have been hired. I’ve already seen their résumés, but Cole has met with each of them in person and gives me his take on each one, wrapping up as we return to the elevator.
“Big plans for the rest of your visit?” he asks as he presses the call button.
“Not really.” I smooth my hair as I remove the hard hat, thinking maybe the dress and heels are a little much for this environment. “My sister had to come out for a conference, so I tagged along. I’m trying to learn how to relax.”
“Ah.” The car arrives and Cole gestures for me to enter first. “Easier said than done, huh?”
“So I’m learning.”
“You know what might help?” He fishes a business card from his pocket and holds it up to the wall, scribbling something on the back before passing it to me. It’s an address. “Tomorrow night, anytime after nine. It’s an industry party,” he explains. “Film industry. Lots of potential clients. You can meet some new people, enjoy the free drinks and the great view. Bring your sister. Experience the city. Relax.”
I accept the card. “Thank you. I’ll check with Susan.” Even as I say the words, part of me wonders if this is some sort of trick. If I had insider knowledge of a private party with potential clients, I’d never share it with my coworkers. But if Cole is planning to send me to a deserted warehouse to be mugged, it doesn’t show on his face. He’s nothing short of kind as he flags down a cab for me, telling me to enjoy my stay and saying how he’s looking forward to working together soon.
And I think he means it.
* * *
Before coming to LA, I’d planned to visit a museum or check out Rodeo Drive, b
ut when I finish the office tour, all I really want to do is swap my heels for flip-flops and get out of the city.
I head to the hotel, change back into the morning’s comfortable clothing, snag a map from the pile of tourism brochures on the desk and ask the concierge to help me rent a car. An hour later I’m on my way to Malibu, gawking at the stunning coastline, convertible roof down, hair flowing, shoulders tingling with an impending burn. It’s wonderful. The smell of the ocean, its pale blue sprawl, the cloudless sky, the complete and utter lack of responsibility...
I feel a little guilty thinking of Susan sitting in yet another lecture, wearing her staid brown pantsuit, taking notes on her tablet. I know she loves what she does, but this is pretty great, too.
I try to tell myself it’s the shiny appeal of something new that has me feeling so charmed, the way I felt when I got that new Birkin bag last year, the one coveted by women the world over. For a time it had been a source of endless fascination, worth the cost and the stress of tracking one down, the effort easily balanced out by the stares of unbridled envy I received every time I carried it. But then something new had come along, or I’d simply forgotten the bag, or purple didn’t feel as in anymore, and it joined a hundred others in my closet, an overpriced residence for a forgotten tube of lipstick and some spare change.
Try as I might, however, the feeling doesn’t fade. Not when I get to Malibu and have lunch overlooking the ocean, not when I stop to buy Dorrie a T-shirt and tacky bracelet made of seashells and the vendor insists I buy half a pound of fudge. Not even when I get stuck in traffic driving back into the city and the return trip takes twice as long as the one over.
It’s after eight when I reach the hotel, shoulders pleasantly warm, hair so tangled I can barely get my fingers through it. I’ve just opened my door when Susan storms out of her room, hands on her hips. “Where were you?” she demands. “We’re supposed to have dinner.”
“We can,” I reply, heading inside. For some reason she retreats to her room and comes through the adjoining door, sitting on the end of my bed.
In Her Defense Page 18
