by Lila Monroe
Ah. “That’s a great place to start, actually,” I say, sitting back in my chair and folding my hands in my lap. Normally I like to ease into the part where I encourage my clients to list each other’s flaws and explore the ways they’re each unfulfilled in their relationship, but after yesterday it seems safer to skip directly to the big guns. “Do you feel like Ryder does that a lot, putting his own agenda over the things that are important to you?” I raise an eyebrow. “And leaving you to defend him?”
Selena takes a sip of her green tea, considering. “Well . . . yes, actually,” she admits. “Like the time we were supposed to meet at that Game of Thrones-themed pool party at Leo’s place and instead he spent the day in Vegas getting lap dances—and who knows what else—with Ben.”
“I made it to that party,” Ryder protests, shuffling bleary-eyed out onto the porch. He’s barefoot, in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a white tee with a V-neck so deep you can basically see his navel. “I was just running a little late, that’s all.”
“Try four hours,” Selena says. “And you showed up totally naked.”
“I was protesting the show’s objectification of the female form!”
“Uh-huh?” Selena asks, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “And what were you protesting when you got so stoned you passed out and fell into the pool?”
“I hadn’t eaten,” Ryder defends himself. “I was having a low blood sugar episode.”
Selena sighs noisily. “It wasn’t just Leo’s party,” she says, sitting back on the sofa and crossing her legs. “I’ve never felt like you were really supporting me. Like when they printed that picture in Us Weekly of me wearing the same mesh jumpsuit as Rihanna and 57% of people said she wore it better, and only 43% said I did? It was like you didn’t care at all.”
“Of course I cared!” Ryder promises. “You definitely wore it better.”
“And when Billie Eilish outbid me on that villa in Calabasas,” she continues. “I was picturing that house as our forever home, but all you could talk about was buying a stupid tiny house and living off the grid.”
“I was trying to reduce our carbon footprint, baby,” Ryder protests. “I was doing it for the environment.”
“Then how about getting rid of all your sports cars?”
Ryder’s face falls. “Those are vintage,” he protests weakly.
“This is good,” I put in, smiling encouragingly. “Opening up the lines of communication is an important part of the breakup process.” I shift in my seat. “What about you, Ryder?” I ask. “Do you have anything you want to say? Ways you haven’t felt as fulfilled as you could have while you’ve been with Selena?”
Ryder shakes his head. “There’s nothing,” he tells Selena. “You don’t have any faults. Or if you do, I’ve never been able to see them.” His voice wavers. “I know I don’t deserve you. I know I never have. I think maybe that’s why I kept sabotaging our relationship, you know? Deep down, I just never really felt like I deserved you.”
I blink. I have to admit, it’s a good performance—almost too good, actually. It feels like he’s delivering a set of well-rehearsed lines. It’s working on Selena though, that much is obvious: her bottom lip is trembling, and her green eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “Ryder . . .”
I’m opening my mouth to try to get us back on track when all at once I notice soft music piping through the hidden speakers in the ceiling—by the time I recognize it as the love theme from Forever Your Treat, Selena and Ryder’s first movie, she’s reaching out across the sofa for his hand. “Did you tell Suzie to put this on?” she asks.
Ryder shakes his head. “I wish I could say I had,” he admits. “But it’s like the house has a mind of its own. And it wants us to be together.”
“Just like the vending machine in the movie,” she says.
Ryder nods solemnly. “Just like the vending machine in the movie.”
I try not to snort. “I don’t know about that,” I say, redirecting. “Selena, can you tell me a bit about the life you picture for yourself once you and Ryder have separated? Things you’ve been wanting to do that you’ve felt like you missed?”
“Well,” she says thoughtfully. “I guess I’ll stop waxing his initials into my—”
“Who’s hungry?” Brooke interrupts, coming into the room with a tray of tiny tapas. I’m actually grateful for the interruption, if only to be spared the details of Selena’s personal grooming routine. But Ryder and Selena are both looking wide-eyed at the platter of food.
“Doesn’t this remind you of—” Ryder begins, and Selena nods.
“That night on the beach in Spain,” she says, and to my surprise both of them immediately start squawking like chickens, then burst into hysterical laughter.
“You had to be there,” Ryder informs me, and I nod.
“That was a great trip,” Selena says softly, reaching out and squeezing Ryder’s denim-covered knee. He rests his hand on top of hers, squeezing gently.
“I can bring you back there,” he promises. “Just give me another chance.”
I narrow my eyes. First the music, now the snacks? This can’t be a coincidence. I smell a rat.
A tall, tanned rat with surprising muscle definition.
“Would you two excuse me for a moment?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. “Why don’t we pick up again after you’ve both eaten?”
Ryder nods enthusiastically. “Blood sugar,” he says again.
I stalk out of the house and across the grounds to the pool deck, where I find Wes relaxing on a lounge chair in sunglasses and a pair of swim trunks. Water beads on his muscled chest, and he looks annoyingly lickable.
Hypothetically speaking, I mean. “Don’t you have a job?” I demand, hands on my hips.
Wes peers at me over the tops of his Wayfarers. “This is it, baby,” he says cheerfully, gesturing around at the lush green landscape. “Don’t let anybody tell you law school isn’t worth it.”
I’m not amused. “Quit screwing around, Wes,” I tell him. “I told you to stay away from my sessions.”
Wes tilts his head to the side. “Do you see me anywhere near your sessions?” he asks magnanimously.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” He shrugs cheerfully, an impish half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I was just about to jump into the pool,” he suggests. “Why don’t you join me?”
Even in spite of everything else going on, I have to admit there’s a part of me that’s tempted—I’m hot, I’m tired, and frankly it’s not like the scenery is bad. Still, I shake my head. “I need to get back to work,” I insist.
“Really?” Wes asks with a frown. “Now? Because I’m pretty sure Selena is heading to LA for an event tonight, which knowing her will mean roughly three hours of hair and makeup beforehand. So I think it’s safe to say you’ll have some time to kill.”
I know what else I’d like to kill. How does this keep happening to me? At this rate, I’m going to be hanging out in Ojai all year, trying desperately to get a full session in with these two. “I’ll kill it alone, thanks.” I turn on my heels and stalk back across the pool deck; I’m almost to the gate when he calls my name.
I turn around, raise my eyebrows. “What?”
Wes hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. “Don’t forget to wear sunscreen,” is all he says.
7
Katie
I was hoping Wes was just yanking my chain, but it turns out Selena really does have an event tonight, a 21st birthday party for some avant-garde pop star who’s constantly blowing up the media with crazy stunts like conducting interviews entirely in Pig Latin. By the time I get back to the house she’s surrounded by half a dozen hair and makeup people, one of them applying false lashes with a pair of tweezers while another pushes her cuticles back and a third goes to town with a curling iron. “I totally forgot,” she says, pushing out her plush, glossy bottom lip and looking sincerely sorry. “But tomorrow morning first thing, back to w
ork!”
“Sounds good,” I say brightly, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the smell of burning hair.
The last thing I want to do is hang around the pool with Wes—or, more accurately, I do want to hang around the pool with Wes, just the tiniest bit, which seems like a pretty good argument for why I shouldn’t—so I borrow a bike from the rack near the stable and cycle into town for the afternoon.
I want to relax and enjoy myself. After all, how often does the universe drop an obligation-free day in paradise into your lap? But the truth is, my nerves feel raw and jangly. Eliza is counting on me to pull off the perfect marketing stunt here—for both our sakes—plus I’m more convinced than ever that Selena actually does need my help to break things off with Ryder, unless she wants to be fishing him out of other celebrities’ pools for the rest of her life.
But what if I can’t get it done?
I shake off my doubts. Ojai’s downtown is gorgeous, full of cute streets lined with organic juice shops and yoga studios and hippie boutiques selling linen dresses and beeswax candles. The sun is warm but not oppressively steamy. I pop into a sweet little coffee shop crowded with mismatched sofas and order an iced latte—“Decaf, thanks,” I tell the barista, who proceeds to offer me a slew of non-dairy milk options—and am just searching for a table when someone calls my name.
I look up and spy Brooke settled at a table by the window, dirty chai in one hand and a fat paperback in the other. “You’re off this afternoon too, huh?” I ask.
“That’s the job,” she says with a friendly smile. “Sometimes there’s nothing to do for weeks at a time but chase caterpillars out of the garden, and sometimes I’ve got to wake up and find foie gras at two a.m. with zero notice. At least it’s never dull.”
She gestures for me to join her at the table and offers half her cookie. It would be plain rude to refuse. “Did you always want to be a personal chef?” I ask, curious. “It seems like a fun gig.”
“Sometimes,” Brooke says. “I couldn’t afford culinary school, and I worked in divey kitchens for years. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m a damn good cook, but it’s hard to move up as a woman, especially if you don’t have a degree or connections.” She takes a sip of her chai. “A few years back, I was working in this little Italian place in LA with terrible hours and a boss who liked to play grab-ass. One night Selena and Ryder came in for dinner, so we’re all tripping all over ourselves to cater to the VIPs, making sure everything is perfect, but then halfway through her meal Selena gets up and charges back into the kitchen, demanding to know who’d made the pasta sauce.”
Brooke shakes her head at the memory. “You hear all these stories about Hollywood starlets and how entitled they are, right? So I take a deep breath and tell her I did, fully expecting her to pitch a fit about the amount of butter or some nonsense. Fully expecting to get fired. But then she gives me a hug, tells me she’s just wrapped a movie, it’s her first night off her diet in months and that’s it’s the best pasta sauce she’s ever had. She asked me to come work with her right there.” Brooke shrugs. “I’ve been at the ranch ever since.”
“Really? That’s so cool.” All at once I feel fonder of Selena, and it must show on my face, because Brooke smiles.
“Selena can be a handful,” she says affectionately. “But she’s got a pure heart. I’m protective of her, you know?”
I nod. “I can understand why.”
“Ryder, on the other hand, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.” She sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a monster. He’s just . . .”
“Kind of what you’d expect from a guy who’s spent the last ten years drowning in money while everyone around him kisses his ass?”
“Exactly.” Brooke smirks. “Anyway, all of that is to say that I appreciate you trying to help them both get out of this thing with a minimal amount of collateral damage.”
“My pleasure,” I say sincerely. “It’s definitely the most gorgeous place I’ve ever worked, that’s for sure.”
“Ojai is amazing,” Brooke says, the enthusiasm clear in her voice. “I love it here. If you’re ever looking for recommendations—restaurants, stuff to do— just let me know. Actually, a friend of mine is teaching an incredible sunrise yoga class tomorrow morning, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“I’m not, really,” I admit. The truth is that the last time I tried to hold any pose more complicated than downward dog I nearly sent not just myself but also both of the Lululemons on either side of me directly to the emergency room. “But thanks.”
Brooke waves a hand like, No problem. “So, can I ask you something?” she says, sitting back in her chair. “What’s the deal with Wes?”
I gulp. Is our history that obvious? “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“It just seems weird that the studio would send some sharky lawyer all the way out here to . . . what? Handle any legal issues around the breakup?”
I let out a sigh of relief. She doesn’t know anything. And neither do I. “I don’t know what they’re up to, honestly,” I admit. “I don’t even know if they know what they’re up to. I think they’re just scrambling to keep a lid on everything until the movie comes out.”
Brooke nods. “And Selena was saying you guys know each other from back in New York?”
I pause. “Something like that,” I admit. Brooke raises an eyebrow. I sigh. I have the worst poker face. “OK, OK. We used to date.”
Brooke gasps. “I knew it! There’s totally a vibe.”
“For like five minutes,” I say quickly. “It’s ancient history now. I had no idea he was going to be in Ojai when I took the job.”
“But you’re not upset that he’s here,” Brooke says, and it’s a statement, not a question.
“I mean, I wouldn’t be. Lord knows the man is a whole snack.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, running my thumb around the edge of my coffee cup to avoid looking at her. “I mean, he’s aged like a fine freakin’ wine, I’m not saying he hasn’t, but there’s all this history between us. Even if I was interested—and for the record, I’m definitely not—people break up for a reason, you know? Better just to keep moving forward.”
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Brooke smiles. “I had a boyfriend like that once,” she says. “We dated, we broke up, and years later we ran into each other in a bar.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask. “What happened?”
She holds her left hand up, where a diamond ring sparkles on her fourth finger. “I married him.”
Eventually Brooke needs to get back to the ranch—“Got some bread to punch down,” she says cheerfully, hugging me goodbye—and I spend the rest of the afternoon ambling through town. It feels like a cruel trick from the universe that I’m out here, in a beautiful place, with the professional opportunity of a lifetime . . .
And all I can think about is my ex.
But Wes has a way of taking over my brain, even back when we were dating before. I was crazy about him—so crazy, I tied myself up in knots trying to make it look like I wasn’t totally head-over-heels for him. He was so cool and casual, I was scared that if he knew the way I really felt, he’d go running, so I tried my best to be the ultimate cool girl. Easy, breezy, undemanding . . . I would pretend to have plans if he called last minute, I never texted him back right away. To be honest, it was kind of exhausting, keeping up the act, but I was determined to be the perfect girlfriend and not do anything that might drive him away.
Yeah, irony, it’s a bitch.
Of course, I know now not to tie myself in knots like that. It actually taught me a lesson, that there’s no point pretending to be someone I’m not, if they can just up and dump you either way. Better to be yourself, I tell all my clients, and find someone right for you.
But all the learning and growing in the world doesn’t take away the fact that Wes stomped all over my heart.
And he would look damn fine doing it all over again.
/> It’s getting dark out by the time I hop back onto my borrowed bike and head back in the direction of Selena’s ranch. I’ve got my headphones in, the latest Taylor Swift crooning in my ears, and with the golden light and the bougainvillea-scented wind in my hair, this whole place is like a movie set. Just for a moment it feels like maybe I’m the movie star—like this is a part of a montage in one of my favorite rom-coms, all lens flares and flattering angles.
That’s when I hit a pothole and go flying off my bike onto the road.
I let out a yelp as I hit the ground. Ouch! I lay flat on my back for a moment, before sitting up and taking shaky inventory. I wasn’t going very fast, thank God, and by some miracle I’m not actually hurt very much at all—which is more than I can say for the bike. As I get to my feet and pull it upright, I see that the body is badly dented, and the front tire is completely flat.
“Well,” I say out loud, addressing no one in particular, “crapwaffle.”
I look up and down the street, but I’m halfway back to the ranch by now, and this stretch of road is quiet and deserted. I consider my options. I could call Brooke for help, but as we were saying goodbye, she mentioned something about a date with her hunky husband tonight. I could try an Uber, but when I open the app, the closest driver is more than an hour away. Finally, I just decide to walk the busted bike back to the ranch. “You’re a big girl,” I tell myself, needing the pep talk. “It isn’t too far.”
At least, it didn’t seem too far on the ride out here, but walking it—alone, with a busted bike—is a different story. It’s way more humid than it was earlier this afternoon, and I’m sticky with sweat. My palms sting where they broke my fall. It’s almost completely dark now, and I find myself glancing uncomfortably at the giant succulents along the side of the road. Are there snakes out here? Do snakes come out at night?
Would I even see a snake coming in the dark?
I’m about to have a minor meltdown when I hear a car engine approach. Yes! Headlights are cutting through the night, so I turn and start waving to flag it down. I mean, sure, I might get axe murdered, but between that and the snakes . . .
