Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

“Casual would be good.”

  After a few stoplights, Alexa pulls up to a restaurant called Jody Maroni’s Sausage Kingdom. Sausage I can do, though I can’t imagine the lean beauty queen inhaling a link of meat.

  The restaurant is . . . well, it’s sort of tacky—bright, sunlight-yellow tile with red, white, and black accents. But I’m thinking a girl can get a decent meal here— none of those California portions they call dinner. I feel myself exhale, knowing our conversation will look better after a full stomach.

  “You have to try the Venetian chicken with sun-dried tomatoes.”

  Complete word salad. “What?” I try to mask my ignorance, but the truth is Californians can’t even eat a sausage normally. Sausage is pork parts and things you really don’t discuss in mixed company. Sun-dried tomatoes? Come on.

  “The Venetian chicken is to die for, and not bad in calories. Jody’s is my guilty pleasure.”

  Did they drag my chicken in the canals of Venice? If so, that might be acceptable sausage.

  We park her car in the lot with other luxury vehicles. Apparently sausage is big doings here in Century City. (I only know where I am because there was a city sign announcing our departure from Beverly Hills and West Hollywood.)

  “Or they have this new one with pomegranates!” Alexa is very enthusiastic about her food. “I might try that one.”

  As she says this, I hear Dane’s voice telling me Iran is the number one importer of pomegranates. He has facts like that all the time, and I think he’s rubbing off on me.

  Alexa slams the door, locks it with a beep, and steps quickly along the sidewalk. “This is my favorite place to eat. Scott likes being seen in all the right restaurants, but this is way more fun, and I’m actually full when I finish. I suppose when it comes to eating, I’m a country bumpkin too.” She looks at me again. “No offense.”

  “You can say ‘country bumpkin,’ ‘hick,’ or ‘cowgirl’ without apologizing. I don’t take it personally.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Why should I? Wyoming is beautiful country.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Scott’s from there,” I say, the slightest edge in my voice.

  “That’s right,” she remembers.

  “How long have you two—”

  “Been estranged?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About a month. He told me there was someone else, and I suppose that was my clue, but I thought he just needed a break, you know? He asked me to get a few things out of his apartment that I’d left there, but he didn’t tell me the engagement was off, or ask for the ring back. I thought he needed some space, but I haven’t heard from him since. Dane moved in, and that was the end of it.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want the ring back,” I say brightly. Although I’m sure we both know my cousin may be a lot of things, but generous with his cash is not one of them. I believe the word skinflint applies here.

  She shrugs. “I keep hoping, but he’s changed his cell phone, and Dane picks up all my calls to the house. I still have hope. I guess that’s why I’m following him, but it’s bordering on pathetic.”

  “Yeah, but men make women do crazy things.”

  “I should know better.” She heaves a desperate sigh. “But I didn’t bring you all the way to dinner to whine at you. I want your opinion.”

  “My opinion?”

  “If Scott isn’t coming back, why won’t he ask me for the ring?”

  “You’re asking me to make sense of that? Oh, Alexa, I couldn’t tell you why he can’t face you in the first place. He’s usually so confrontational. If there’s anyone who enjoys confrontation—”

  “See? I know, that’s why I still have hope that he’s coming back.”

  “Maybe you need to play hard to get.” I lift up my finger. “I know. Maybe you should put the engagement ring on eBay and forward him the URL? If he thinks you’re getting the money for it—”

  She starts to laugh so hard that she throws back her head. “I like your way of thinking, Sarah.” She shakes her head, “But no, I can’t do that.”

  “And I wouldn’t suggest it.” I clear my throat. “You know, as anything more than a joke.”

  Meeting her earlier on the street that night, I was convinced Alexa was psychotic. Now I wonder if she’s saner than I am. Which doesn’t really speak well of my Christian walk, but there it is. Getting dissed without closure is the ultimate female bonding issue.

  “You were going to marry him, and he’s not returning your calls?” I say this mostly for myself—unable to believe that my cousin would be capable of something I thought reserved for the likes of Bud Simmons.

  She shrugs. “I can’t force him to get married, can I?”

  I’m taken aback at this answer. It seems so reasonable, and yet she is stalking the man. “So why are you following him again?”

  “I only want closure. I only want him to tell me to my face what I’ve done is unforgivable. I want to hear him say it.”

  Unless he’s the blackness in your universe, not sure that’s going to happen. “I don’t know what to say. He hasn’t told me anything, Alexa.”

  She opens the door to the sausage king and all eyes go to her. She’s still pretty in the greenish-hue of florescent lights. So wrong. Just for one day, I’d like to possess her kind of beauty. I’d go back to Cindy Simmons and give her an earful about true inner beauty.

  We walk up to the counter, waiting our turn to shout at the guy behind the cash register.

  “I thought Scott liked the flashy types, but maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe he craves hometown girls since he’s been here. Maybe homemade mashed potatoes are what he craved all along.” She pauses while I stare at her.

  “I said I was okay with the ‘cowgirl’ and ‘bumpkin,’ but ‘mashed potatoes’? Not so much.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant Scott grew up with you. Maybe he craves hometown-clean beautiful. Not made up.”

  I brighten at her words. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  “And wholesome. That’s all I meant. My mouth gets ahead of me sometimes.”

  I like her. When I think about Mrs. Simmon’s reaction to me, the venom in her eyes toward a little girl, and then Alexa’s reaction when she thought I was sleeping with her fiancé, I have to give her props. She’s too good for Scott.

  I start to muse about my new life in Hollywood. “Isn't it funny we women all think it’s about who’s the prettiest? Has there ever been a supermodel that hung on to a man, ever? Yet we all think the prettiest girl wins.”

  “That eighties model is still married to Ric Ocasek from the Cars.”

  “Yeah.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not a great example.”

  “Heidi Klum!”

  “She kissed a few frogs first. Had a baby with at least one.”

  “Right.” Alexa puts a finger to her chin in deep thought. “I’m sure there’s someone who has been monogamous with Prince Charming.”

  “I’m sure there is, but maybe our odds aren’t any worse. Our’ meaning ‘mine,’ of course.” I look at her. “You don’t count, as you could be a supermodel.”

  “Ah, that is so sweet.” Alexa’s voice softens and sighs.“I suppose you can cook too.”

  “I make the best mashed potatoes ever,” I tell her. “The secret is they have to be terrible for you. If they’re healthy, they don’t taste good.”

  “You’ll have to teach me.”

  Alexa walks in her stilettos to get a few napkins. She does so with grace. Like a wild cat in the zoo, it’s hypnotic and disconcerting, and everyone’s eyes follow her, like at a tennis match.

  “I can cook other things,” I say, looking for something to feel good about as she walks back. “I learned early because my mother worked nights.”

  “You seem very sweet, Sarah, but very different than me, and if Scott is craving familiarity, I can’t be that. My analyst says people want what they want and you have to accept that. Seeing you, I can accept that Scott was n
ot looking for me as a life commitment. I’m in the process of accepting that.” She tosses her chestnut hair and blinks those ice-blue eyes to wash away the sudden tears.

  Her analyst. How Hollywood is that? She could have any man she wanted. The question remains why she wanted my cousin in the first place—this man who clearly has a little to learn in the chivalry department.

  “Do you know what you want for dinner?” she asks me.

  “Just order two of what you’re getting.”

  She shouts the order at the guy behind the counter, and I shove money at her, which she pushes back at me. “My treat. I figure if I’m going to whine at you, it’s the least I can do.”

  “Alexa, I don’t know what happened between you and Scott, but I’m truly sorry. I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

  She waves the comment off. “But you are in the middle of it.” It’s not said with any malice, but I suppose there’s plenty of truth in that statement. “You’re living in our apartment. You know his new phone number. I just want an answer, Sarah. That’s all I want. Can you tell him that much for me?”

  “I’ll do what I can. I promise. You seem pretty calm, and that’s a good thing. I once saw my mother throw a guy’s belongings out of a convertible along the highway when he broke up with her. His stuff was strewn there for ages until the snow came—and come summer, there were still remnants of the breakup. Not pretty.”

  Alexa laughs. “Really? I should have thought of that. But it’s so white trash . . . no offense.”

  “In our small town, everyone knew the story after that. Someone put the guy’s underwear over the signs along the highway, like those old Burma Shave signs.”

  She starts to giggle. “I do wish I’d thought of that, but I’d never have the guts to follow through, and this town’s too big to have any lasting effect with something fun like that.”

  “Actually, it was more humiliating than fun. The whole town knew it was my mother.”

  I never liked any of the women Scott dated. They were always hard chicks who could throw back liquor to rival our parents and who dressed in low-cut t-shirts and pointy-toed boots. Alexa is about as far from that image as I can picture.

  “Just tell Scott I’d like to see him to give the ring back. I’m not keeping it. It’s not a gift; it symbolizes something that isn’t. We both made our mistakes, but let’s not make all our years together a sham.”

  I just nod. Her pain is palpable.

  “Thanks for coming to dinner,” she says. “This is good for closure. I wanted to hate you, but I don’t. But you’ll always be second to the work. Just be aware of that.”

  “Did you see me get tossed out on the street?” I ask with a laugh.

  “I’m sure his excuse was some ditzy starlet who got kicked out of a restaurant, couldn’t get into a restaurant, they didn’t have the right colored M&Ms in her green room, blah, blah, blah. All stuff an agent does, not a stylist. But they call him instead. They love him. If he was smart, he would become an agent as well and double his fees.”

  “I don’t think I could stand by for that. You’re a stronger woman than me.”

  “You are standing by for that,” Alexa reminds me. “Scott needs to be needed. Are you needy, Sarah?”

  “I’m breaking free of a lot of baggage at home.”

  Her eyebrows lift. They are the perfect shape, and I can’t help but wonder if she sees Anastasia, the eyebrow woman. “You’re only trading the luggage if you’re here with Scott.” She hikes a Gucci bag over her shoulder as we walk toward the table. “I want Scott to be happy.”

  “Why?” Is she a walking doormat or what?

  She laughs. “Because I love him. I don’t think he wanted to get engaged to begin with. Maybe I forced the issue.”

  I shake my head. I can’t stand it. “Women always blame themselves. What is it you love about him?”

  I remember my cousin when he was as bright as the sky. Magic to be around. He was always selfish and a tad narcissistic. Ever the charmer, he was the fire that drew you closer. He made you feel special even when it was all about him. Now he’s one giant ball of nerves, bundled tightly and ready to explode.

  Alexa smiles, her scarlet lips parting slightly into a mysterious grin. “We both started out with nothing, Scott and me. Back then, he was dressing soap stars on salary at the studio, giving them big hair and greasy lip gloss.” She shakes her head. “Hideous. He worked for this old lady who made him dress the women like a eighties bad nighttime soap opera. I was getting my real estate broker’s license studying late. We had nothing but a goal. Even that was shaky at times.” At this, tears fill her eyes, and I watch them melt into a paler shade.

  “Memories are strong motivators, but they’re not always filled with truth.” Meaning that in all my phone conversations with Scott, I never heard Alexa’s name spoken. Not once. Here, she’s reliving all these warm memories, and I, his closing living relative, never knew about her. “Did you know Scott’s family?”

  “He said his father was dead from liver disease and there was no one else except one cousin.”

  I look down at the table rather than meet her eyes. May Alexa fare better than the Winowski women, anyway.

  “Food’s up. I’m starving.” She clicks her heels toward the counter, where weird ingredients like artichokes, cranberries, chicken, and turkey are called out. If sausage was meant to be healthy . . . well, never mind. Californians do what they can to overcome the air.

  I settle into the hard plastic chair across from Miss America and dig in. Alexa makes Cindy Simmons look small-time, and that in itself makes me smile. If I can befriend a striking auburn beauty who thought I was sleeping with her fiancé, maybe there’s hope for me here after all.

  As Alexa bites into her sandwich, all eyes in the restaurant watch her. She has all the power in the world; yet she’s kryptonite to the one thing she wants. Well, we have that much in common.

  chapter 12

  As an unmarried woman,

  was thought to be a danger.

  ~ Grace Kelly

  Yoshi didn’t fire me. At least not yet. In fact, he hasn’t mentioned the mishap and Alfalfa style from yesterday. Kreata walked out of the salon on lanky colt legs, her hair plastered down on top with an abundance of styling paste. She will wait ages for that to grow out, and I did that to her. I made her something to be mocked.

  And I’m still orange.

  I feel like death. Well, what I think it feels like to almost be lifeless, anyway. My legs are actually shaking, as if I’d spent the day hiking to the top of the Tetons just from walking on that stupid bamboo floor all day. Get this Sarah. Wash that, Sarah. Clean up that mess, Sarah. Extra foam, Sarah. Clean the scissors for the students, Sarah.

  Being a student of Yoshi seems to entitle you to treat Sarah Claire Winowski as your personal slave. That would never happen if I’d been born in Newport Beach! “Curse you, Sable, Wyoming.”

  I shake my head as I see someone look at me like I’m talking to myself and press fingers to my ear as if to readjust one of those Borg-like cell phones. Everyone else is talking to themselves, why shouldn’t I? It’s cultural, for crying out loud.

  I should just call a cab and call it a day, but I want to walk Rodeo Drive. I’m orange, and if there’s ever a night to walk, it’s when I’m wearing my own headlight. If this all ends tomorrow, I’m not going home without a little sight-seeing. Nearly three weeks here and I haven’t seen the ocean, and I haven’t cut hair. With the exception of Kreata, who I unintentionally maimed.

  Ann—long, lanky, blonde Ann—comes up beside me on the sidewalk. “Don’t worry, we all looked like you in the beginning, Sarah. Just use extra concealer under your eyes with a little Preparation H for swelling until you’re past this. The first month is the hardest. If you’re not going to make it, Yoshi wants to know before he’s invested too much.”

  “I’ve invested too much already. I can barely walk.”

  “Yoshi can teach anyone to cut ha
ir. He can’t give people a personality, so make sure he sees that!” A black Mercedes pulls up onto the street, and Ann waves at the driver, who remains cloaked in a mystery of darkly tinted windows. “You need a ride?” she asks.

  I do, naturally, but I’m too proud to take one, and right now I want to be around my coworkers (read: slave drivers) about as much as I want to invite Isabella to dinner, and she made me orange. Even a limo doesn’t look the least bit inviting if filled with Yoshi employees. “No, thanks. I thought I’d check out the Golden Triangle and get my bearings. Thanks, though.”

  “All right. Well, don’t forget tomorrow night is mentoring group. I left an open invitation on the employee board; we can always use more people. We’re having a securities broker speak on investing. Maybe you can teach us something you learned growing up. Besides, we want you to see our apartment. We could use another roommate; it's to-die-for beautiful.”

  “Sure, it sounds great. I’ll be there.” I summon up the strength for one more plastered smile.

  Ann and Jaime, another stylist apparently joined at the hip, hop into the waiting car and speed away. I exhale deeply. It’s over. I am finally alone.

  As I walk toward Rodeo Drive, I realize cleanliness gives a sense of false security. This may explain my mother’s penchant for bleach, but I notice it works in the middle of a city as well. The brightly lit, clean streets of Beverly Hills give me the sense of being in an adult amusement park. I’ve read that a police officer will respond to any call here in less than a minute, so I start up the street. Not taking into account that I have no cell phone to actually call a police officer, but I’m living dangerously.

  “Sarah?”

  I sigh. “What!” I’m expecting to see Yoshi barking anthor order at me. Instead, when I turn around I spy Dane Weston approaching me. The Dane Weston. I blink several times before looking behind me to see if there’s another Sarah standing about. Nope. I turn back, knowing I'm probably gawking.

  Dane is dressed impeccably. I hate to admit how the sight of him makes me crumble. Like I said,my legs are weak from working, so I’m sure it’s just exhaustion. But there’s quiet strength to him that makes me somehow believe he holds the key to my future in his squared, assured fingers. Of course, with the way I feel right now, Orville Redenbacher could hold that key. I see him and an old movie on DVD.