by Monica James
But the boy I once knew had transformed into a man. His hair was cut short, emphasizing the warmth of his deep brown eyes. Unlike when we were in high school, he had a permanent five o’clock shadow, which just added to his rugged look. He was still big, and he still played football, but I guess we just both grew into who we were supposed to be.
One morning when I was cleaning the tables, he came over and actually spoke to me. It may just have been him informing me that someone had spilled their coffee by the front door, but those words and that spilled coffee changed our lives forever.
We began talking, baby steps at first, but after a while, the pull which we felt, the one which originally drew us together, sparked brightly, and we became friends. Friends then turned into lovers, then turned into boyfriend and girlfriend, then turned into affianced.
It wasn’t easy sailing, and early on, we learned that for us to survive we had to discuss what happened once and for all, and then leave it to the breeze. Lincoln mentioned them once, and once only. He told me he didn’t speak to either after what happened, but Hollywood being Hollywood and the inability to keep a secret, he heard it through the grapevine that Belle and London were together.
Saying his name aloud or even thinking it is like my Voldemort, so I decided then and there to save myself the pain and forget the sins of my past for good. I accepted that I was a revenge fuck for what Belle and Lincoln did to him. Collateral damage, I suppose you could say. He used me for his personal gain, but instead of crying myself to sleep at night ever again…I lived and learned.
His mother’s comment also paved the truth. I would always be a Brooks-Ferris, and he, well, he would always be an asshole.
In a moment of weakness, however, after speaking to Lincoln about Belle, I called my mom and asked if she had ever come around asking for me. My mom told me what I already knew, but I needed to hear it from her to move on for good.
Belle didn’t call, write, she didn’t visit; it was like she and I didn’t exist, and although I would never forget her, I’ve forgotten the me I was when I was with her because I grew up.
But regardless, not a day went by that I didn’t think of her and what I did. The long hours I put in at work and school, the sleep-deprived days and nights were all punishment for the sins I’d committed. It was always at the back of my mind, and I’d hoped that maybe one day I would no longer look at my reflection with disappointment, guilt, and regret for what I did. That day is still not in sight.
Lincoln and I never spoke of them ever again, and because of that we started our new life together. Two years into our relationship, we moved in together. It was a tiny one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat, but it was ours. Even though Lincoln could buy the whole block, we decided we were going to build our lives together and spend only what we saved.
We studied hard, we worked until we passed out on our laptops, but by the end of our time at Stanford, I graduated top of my class with a double masters in law while Lincoln graduated with an MBA. He was going to take over the business world and be the youngest—not to mention richest—CEO Los Angeles had seen in years.
But the thought of staying in California wasn’t what I wanted; it wasn’t where I wanted to practice law. There was only one place I wanted to be, and that was New York City.
We moved right after graduation and both found jobs we loved. We bought a home in Brooklyn, much to the disgust of Lincoln’s mom, but we were different people now. New York brought out a side to us that Los Angeles had kept under lock and key.
Something is truly magical about living in New York. The hustle and bustle keep a constant thrum of excitement pumping through your veins. There is never a dull moment, but opposed to the star-kissed drama the Los Angeles life offers, living in New York makes you feel alive. You step off that subway and everything has its own pulse. The vivacious energy jumpstarts your engine and you’re ready to tackle whatever is thrown your way. Someone once told me you move to LA to make movies, and you live in New York to make money, and money we made.
We loved Brooklyn, and we made it our home. But we moved to the Upper East Side about a year ago when I was made partner at one of the biggest law firms in Manhattan. I represent the underdogs because I know what it feels like to be at the bottom of the food chain.
I was doing okay for myself, but a promotion gave my bank balance way too many zeros.
My parents refused until they were black and blue, but they finally allowed me to buy them a home in Beverly Hills. They were back at their old stomping ground, but they never forgot their roots. They may be welcomed back into the land of the rich and famous, but they won’t be having a happy reunion any time soon.
Life couldn’t get any better—I had the dream job, perfect home, but most of all, I had Lincoln dropping to one knee in our favorite Chinese restaurant asking me to marry him. I choked on my pork bun, but once it was dislodged and I realized he was serious, my amazing life was complete.
I called my parents, who couldn’t be happier. They loved Lincoln. He was everything every parent wanted for their only daughter.
Not seeing the point in having a long engagement, we decided to get married right away. If it were up to us, we’d be riding the 6 a.m. subway to city hall, but my mom begged me not to take this rite of passage away from her and asked if we’d consider getting married back home.
Alas, that’s what has us driving along the I-10 in this rental, pepped up on pre-wedding cheer.
My life is somewhat picture perfect; I have everything I could ever want, but nothing is ever perfect—I should know that by now. My handbag sits innocently by my five-inch pumps, but what’s inside is anything but innocent. It’s been a thorn in my side for the past six months, and honestly, it was part of the reason I agreed to come back to LA. I need five minutes alone because lately, I’ve been looking over my shoulder once again.
“Babe, are you all right?” Lincoln keeps one hand on the wheel while he reaches the other over to still my bouncing knee.
I jerk at the contact, lost in the past. “I’m fine. I just…I don’t like coming back here.” Enough said.
“Pre-wedding jitters?” he asks, tongue in cheek, but I know a small part of him wonders if it’s true. We have jumped into the deep end without a life vest, but love isn’t supposed to make sense, right?
Although I haven’t seen Londemort for ten years, three months, and fourteen days—not that I’m counting—coming back here feels like it was only yesterday, only yesterday he broke my heart and hung it out to dry.
Edging forward, I keep my cheek pressed to the chair; I look at Lincoln and shake my head once, putting his doubt and mine to rest. “No. I want to marry you. If I had my way, I’d already be your wife.” He rewards me with a small smile, but his clenching of the wheel reveals something else is on his mind. “But seeing as my parents are set on watching me walk down the aisle in white on my father’s arm, we’re stuck here for the next three weeks. But it’ll be kind of nice.”
He peers over with a frown, not following. I clarify, creeping closer. “We get to spend the next three weeks together. I can’t remember the last time we did that.” What with the grueling hours both our jobs demand of us, it’s a miracle if we’re in the same room at the same time sometimes.
It’s been so long since we’ve been intimate—there just never is any time. However, a voice deep down, a voice which rears its ugly head time and time again, says these are just excuses in disguise.
We ride the rest of the car trip in silence, the low hum of the talk radio background noise for us both.
Everything looks so foreign, yet it looks exactly the same. The plume of smog still clouds my vision, and the gridlock of crazy Californian drivers still has me cringing and covering my eyes, but as the Hollywood sign grows bigger and taller, I know that some things do change.
The moment we turn off the highway and navigate through the chaotic streets of Beverly Hills, the gravity of what we’re doing, that we’re actually back here
hits home, and I’m suddenly clawing at my seat belt, as it’s cutting off my air supply.
I need to breathe.
So what if I bump into people I once knew? I’m a grown woman now. I’m twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine years old. I’m one of New York’s finest lawyers. I have a fiancé who adores me. I need to remind myself of that fact when houses, mansions, freaking fortresses come into view because I suddenly feel like the awkward outsider I once was.
Taking three deep breaths draws attention to my mini meltdown, but Lincoln simply squeezes my knee. He knows not to smother me. I’m a big girl, and he’s learned the hard way that I can take care of myself.
The notorious palm trees line the streets’ edges like regimented soldiers, standing tall and guarding the elite who call this neighborhood their home. Seeing these houses through different eyes has me appreciating the wealth that this part of L.A. is known for, but I still think the towering white mansions and expensive Euro trash cars are superficially lavish and emit a sense of desperation of wanting to fit in and belong.
That’s the difference between the architecture and lifestyle of New York and L.A. New York is engrossed in history and beauty, New Yorkers too preoccupied in their own state of affairs to care what others are doing, while L.A.’s mentality is anything you can do, I can do better.
It’s funny driving through these streets as an adult. Even though I could afford to live here now, my apartment on the Upper East Side feels more like home than this city ever did. It just confirms I’m where I’m supposed to be.
“It’s just up here on the right,” Lincoln says as he turns down a narrow, hilly street.
I’ve never seen my parents’ house in the flesh before. It looked amazing online, and Lincoln’s realtor friend assured us it was everything the listing said it was. I know what house it is before Lincoln points it out because although it may be the smallest and least extravagant of the lot, it’s the most beautiful and well-loved of the bunch.
The French villa-inspired home sits on a hill, shadowed by two mansions on either side of the modest home. Lincoln stops at the gold gates and whistles. “I heard Jackie Chan lives there,” he says, pointing at the glass dome to the left.
“I hope he doesn’t make a habit of practicing his martial arts in the nude,” I reply, making Lincoln chuckle. He drives up to the intercom and presses the button.
We wait, and wait, but to no avail. I know they’re home, so I have no doubt my technology illiterate parents are still attempting to work out what each button does. Yes, my father grew up in such wealth and my mother had a taste for a short while, but that was a lifetime ago, and things have changed dramatically since then.
Unsnapping my seat belt, I slide across the middle console and lean my arm out the driver’s window to press the intercom. “Hello, it’s your only daughter.”
“Holland?” my mother’s frazzled voice squeaks out from the intercom speaker.
I can’t help but smile. It’s so good to hear her voice. “Yes, Mom, it’s me. Do you have another daughter I don’t know about?”
She playfully scoffs lightly. “Bobby, Holland is here. How do I—” The line goes dead, and I cover my face, laughing.
“Mom, you have to keep holding the button to speak. I can’t hear you.”
“At this rate, we should be married by Christmas,” Lincoln says, looking at his Rolex. I ignore his sharpness. Something is suddenly bugging him, and I can’t help but wonder what.
“Holland, how do we open the gate?” My father’s serious tone has me remembering how I once broke his heart. But I focus on the task at hand.
“There should be a button near the intercom.”
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know…open sesame, maybe.” He laughs deeply, and it’s good to be home. Well, home away from home.
Moments later, the gates swing open with a groan. “Did that work?”
“Yes, Dad. What did you do these past few months? Turn your visitors away?” I ask, jokingly.
“We haven’t had anyone visit, so it’s the first time we’ve used this intercom thing.”
His reply turns the mood, and I slide back inside the car, sitting in my seat. Lincoln clears his throat, sensing the change in my disposition. This is so typical of this city—so judgmental and shallow. Even though my parents’ zip code has changed, it doesn’t change the fact my mom’s surname will always be Brooks. Although my father is a Ferris, it’s guilt by association. And the Ferris name has had its fair share of scandal over the years.
My grandfather’s fall from grace, and my mother’s apparent cheap ways and having a child at sixteen will never be forgotten or forgiven. She was seen as a gold digger, coming from nothing and working her way to the top, but what they all seem to forget is that both my parents experienced highs and lows, yet their love for one another never faded.
And that’s quite a milestone for living in a place such as L.A.
“If it makes you feel more comfortable, we could rent a room close to your old home.”
I turn with a measured pace, narrowing my eyes. I understand why he would suggest that, seeing as I did make some happy memories in the “hood,” but being anywhere near my old neighborhood will just bring back old memories hours of therapy helped me forget. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
But I cut him off. “It’s fine. I know what you meant.” The car fills with an uncomfortable silence and feelings of being that awkward seventeen-year-old return.
We haven’t even been here an hour and I already want to leave. The City of Angels can go to hell.
Lincoln pulls the car up, parking it near a rounded courtyard where the centerpiece is a cherub fountain sitting in a tiled mosaic circle. Water falls from the vase the angel holds, and although it’s truly beautiful, it saddens me that I’m probably the first one to see its elegance.
On cue, I break out in a rash and begin scratching under my chin.
“Babe, you need to relax. We came here to get away and already you’re breaking out in hives.” Lincoln kills the engine and turns to look at me. “We can always leave. It was your idea to come here.”
Nothing but concern reflects in his gentle eyes, but it never leaves, especially since…thoughts are quickly and thankfully detoured when my parents step out onto their white marbled terrace, waving happily.
Just seeing them puts my woes on the backburner, and I unsnap my belt. “Sweetie!” Mom bounces on the spot with my father behind her, a hand placed lovingly on her shoulder.
They look great. Both in their mid-40’s, life has been kind to them, as they’re still as youthful and vibrant as I remember them. I saw them about nine months ago, or maybe it’s been longer. Sometimes, my life is like a time warp, and five minutes may actually be five months. But that’s how I like to live—if I slow down, my mind tends to wander.
“Ready?” I smile, turning to look at Lincoln, who nods.
“Let the crazy begin.”
I step from the car, hating that a voice I buried years ago states that the crazy never ended—I was just running away from the inevitable.
My heels click on the pavement as I quicken my step to meet my parents. I didn’t realize how much I missed them. No matter your age, your parents have the ability to make you feel like a child again. If only I could forget the responsibilities that come with being an adult. “Miss me?”
My mom runs down the steps and hugs me so tightly, I almost lose my balance, but as far as reunions go, it’s the best one I’ve had in forever. “Oh, Sweetie, we missed—” sniff “—you.”
“Hey, no tears,” I whisper in her ear, rubbing her back. If she starts, I’m afraid she’ll set off a chain reaction which won’t stop.
“I know, I know, but they’re the happy kind,” she replies, squeezing me tighter.
“I missed you too.” For a mere second, I let down my guard and am vulnerable to the only person who won’t judge me. For so long, I’ve erected my walls ten feet high because my jo
b, my life doesn’t allow weakness. But in my mother’s arms, I can let go.
“I hope there’s some room in there for me,” my father teases, which sets off my mother’s happy tears.
She lets go, but my dad takes her place, and they both embrace me in a human sandwich, which has me laughing.
“It’s so good to have you home,” Dad says, pulling me out at arm’s length to look at me. “You look just like your mother. My two beautiful girls.” His comment has my mom bursting into tears once again.
“C’mon, show me around this beautiful house of yours,” I say, needing to change the subject as I wipe the tears from the corner of my eyes.
“How was the flight?” Dad asks, offering to take a suitcase from Lincoln, who gratefully accepts, as I may have overpacked a smidge. I know there are another two suitcases in the trunk.
Mom loops her arm through mine, leading me up the stairs. “The place is beautiful, Holland. Thank you so much. Your father and I—”
But I intercept, as I don’t want her thinking that way. She doesn’t owe me anything. I wanted to do this for them because they’ve done so much for me. “Sshh, none of that. Now show me where my room is.”
As we step into the grand foyer, I stop, needing to take a moment to absorb its opulence. “Wow, the pictures did not do this place justice.”
Turning in a circle, I raise my eyes and appreciate the arched window which sits high above the front door, allowing bursts of sunlight to light up the polished limestone flooring. Dual staircases lead to the second floor, each step decorated with Tiffany glass.
Once I’m done gawking at the decorative gold touches on the walls and ceilings, Mom leads me off to the right, where the formal living room is an elaborate setting flaunting inlaid hardwood flooring, a fireplace, and intricate ceiling moldings. A crystal chandelier is suspended from the soaring ceiling, setting off the magnificence. White leather couches and a huge glass coffee table complement the room nicely.
“Wait until you see the kitchen,” she says, guiding me past the family room, which has a gorgeous Persian rug nestled on the white carpeting.
