I swallowed, suddenly hot. “Anyway, fifteen isn’t much better. But it could have been a lot worse. I did have to kind of drop out of traditional school. I still graduated high school,” I said hurriedly, because I was suddenly nervous standing in front of someone who was clearly brilliant. “I’m not like…that dumb,” I said, something I was used to joking about.
Cal tilted his head. “You don’t seem even a little bit dumb to me,” he said and I smiled.
I leaned a little closer, the wine and the trees and Cal’s sudden penchant for eye contact making me a bit woozy. I looked around, confirming we were out of earshot. “I actually was on track to be our school’s valedictorian.”
Cal visibly brightened. He reached forward, like he wanted to touch me, but then pulled back. “I uh…well, me too actually. I mean, I was our school’s valedictorian.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, throwing my head back and laughing. Hurt crossed his face but he hid it. “No, I’m sorry,” I said, laying my hand on his arm. “I meant that as a compliment. I actually think you might be the smartest person I ever met.”
“Don’t let the glasses fool you,” he said, lips half-quirking up.
“Not a lot of people can do computer programming and run a small business. It’s impressive.” I sipped my wine. “Very impressive, actually.”
We were silent for a moment before Cal said, “Wait…but you weren’t valedictorian? In the end?”
“Oh, god no,” I said. “I ended up having to get my GED instead. I missed graduation, I missed prom, I missed…well, a lot of things.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, sympathy lacing his voice. But actual sympathy.
I shook it off. “Don’t be,” I said. “I grew up in a privileged world and my life has been nothing but. Being a model at a young age was sometimes…difficult,” I said, blocking a handful of memories before I went too deep, “But I basically get paid a tremendous amount of money to look pretty.” I shrugged. “Much worse things happening in this world.”
Cal looked thoughtful for a second, almost like he wanted to ask another question. But stopped. “We’re so different,” he said, finally. “I’m not super into celebrity culture or anything, but like all people, especially growing up in California, I’m aware of it and that it exists. I have no concept of what that would be like. You know, before coming up here my work days were like, I don’t know…” he blushed, thinking. “Something like: hit the snooze alarm. Get dressed in my tiny, cramped apartment, sit in traffic, totally zoned out. Um…be at my desk for nine hours staring at numbers on a screen. Meetings, annoying coworkers. A kind of constant, unending sense of bleakness,” he deadpanned.
I half-spit my wine out, laughing. “Calvin,” I said, squeezing his arm and for a second I couldn’t tell if I was fake flirting or real flirting. “It couldn’t have been that bad. This is going to sound like such a stereotype, but usually on my tenth straight hour of holding some ridiculous pose, half-naked and with, like, a lion cub in my lap or something,” I said, delighted when Cal grinned, “I’d wonder: what would it be like to just work in an office? You know, gather around the water cooler and talk about HBO shows. Sit in staff meetings. Say things like thank god it’s hump day to my coworkers.”
We were leaning closer and closer together, the night sky and the smell of the forest doing strange things to my sense of balance.
“Question,” he started. “Why the fuck are you always holding a lion cub?” Cal was relaxing, some of his natural shyness dissipating. I liked the way he said the word fuck. I liked his body heat.
“Oh, who the hell knows,” I said. “Creative directors love sticking wild, deadly animals with models. Something about ferocity and taming beasts and a little bit of the scare factor. I’ve modeled with cobras, pythons…once a tarantula.”
“Dear god, why?”
“It was for leg waxing.” I said and Cal burst into laughter. Deep and joyous.
“Have you laughed much since your grandfather died?” I asked, the wine totally going to my head now.
Cal looked briefly startled, and then thoughtful. “I mean, yes, definitely. But I don’t have a ton of company up here. Gabe is hilarious and I spend a couple nights a week at the bar with him, hanging out with some locals. And my grandfather had a real wry sense of humor and he filled his journals with that. I’ll definitely burst out laughing while reading them. Which is nice…for a second he feels very alive again.”
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry he died. I didn’t know him…also I don’t really know you but, still. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t quite make out his expression. “Thank you, I…well, um, I miss him. A whole hell of a lot actually. It’s hard living here because he’s everywhere. And he died suddenly so there was so much regular life stuff still around when I moved in. Like, on his nightstand was the book he was in the middle of reading.”
“Which was?”
“On the Road. Again. His annual re-read. Jack Kerouac meant a lot to him. I mean, Kerouac’s life mirrored my grandfather’s in that Kerouac didn’t give a fuck about following the rules, or living within society’s random pressures. Obviously, they were different too.”
“Kerouac lived life way harder than your grandfather. Your grandfather also didn’t, you know, help his friend bury a dead body. Or drink himself to death.”
A small smile from Calvin. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. How do you…”
“The ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn burn burn like fabulous yellow roman candles, exploding like spiders across the stars.’” I shrugged. “That’s the rest of the quote, from the other day. You couldn’t remember the end.”
Cal’s eyes bored into mine, and I thought about the woods. That look on his face.
I held his gaze, my thoughts drifting to his lips. Did he take his glasses off when he kissed someone?
“You read a lot, don’t you?” he finally asked.
Yes, I wanted to say, desperately. Although the real answer was I used to.
I started to say more—what was in this wine? —but Cal’s friend Gabe showed up, and it was clear it was time for me to go. I waved goodbye to Cal, whose expression was completely unreadable.
◊
I couldn’t stop thinking about the fucking woods.
And I’d drunk too much. Not, like, too-too much, but I felt lighter and sillier and more honest than usual. And something about that patio…it had worked some kind of magic on me.
I’d shared a lot with Calvin—except for Josie, no one in my current life knew about my desire to stay in school, or my failed attempt at becoming our school’s valedictorian. LA, in its image-obsessed glory, could give a fuck about a high school diploma. And it could give a fuck if you were the smartest kid in your school, the hardest worker, the most intellectual.
I had a role to play and a reputation to keep. Sure, I sometimes got snarkier and more sarcastic than my handlers would like. But in general, I’d spent the last decade being the goddamn best at my job. Holding poses the longest, wearing the most outrageous outfits, the tallest heels, working the most bizarre shoots with fucking ease.
I never purposefully played the role of dumb, vapid, model. It didn’t suit me.
And yet, when I was younger, I found it a lot easier to not actively fight against that label. I got the impression that my millions of fans followed me for a glimpse into the glamorous life of a supermodel. Not because I offered some interesting perspective on the world. Or because two-thirds of the time I just wanted to post photos of the books I wanted to read.
Or the poems I felt desperate to write.
But tonight, with Calvin, I was compelled to show him a different side of myself. I didn’t know him well but he seemed so incredibly smart. Worldly and knowledgeable—writing code while simultaneously reading Margaret Atwood.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the fucking woods.
Calvin had been watching me…leaning up against that tree like a ner
dier James Dean. The look on his face was so intensely sexual I wondered if he was even aware of it. It lit me up inside. I performed for it. Was greedy for it. Wanted to spend the entire day being photographed while Calvin watched.
It was unsettling.
And unexpected. I’d been chalking it up to boredom, hormones, and the fact that I was probably just a little horny.
But…he had left me a poem.
A poem.
Blame it on the alcohol, but between the moment in the woods, and this party, and our run-in in the hallway, Calvin was becoming more and more intriguing.
Maybe I was developing a crush.
Which was crazy since I was Lucia Fucking Bell. I could literally have any man on the planet, and I was (lightly) crushing on someone who spent most of his time ignoring me. And was definitely smarter than me.
But the alcohol had made me brave. So after the party died down and I’d tried, and failed, to fall asleep, I snuck into the bookstore. Cal had told me he left it unlocked a lot of the time, and tonight was no exception.
I’d had a poem in mind as I walked through the path in the forest, spellbound by the trees at night, that intoxicating sound of wilderness in the dark. I felt everything—the brush of branches against my skin. The slight squish of mud beneath my shoes. The full moon, lighting my way: pale and enchanting. The entire walk was one long, glorious poem and my notebook was still packed away, unopened and not here for me to capture it.
When I snuck inside, I found the poetry room, my heart expanding at the presence of so many of my favorite poems. And this one, the one I would leave for Calvin, was one of the best.
I pulled the collection out, finding it quickly. I grabbed a post-it note from behind the desk and pen.
Your grandfather’s campsite had a profound effect on me. The entire time I kept thinking about this poem. Do you know it? -Lu
P.S. Diane di Prima is a goddess. Thank you for the gift of her words.
I grabbed a pencil and circled my favorite lines:
To live in this world/you must be able to do three things:/to love what is mortal/to hold it/against your bones knowing/your own life depends on it/and, when the times comes to let it go/to let it go.
I crept down the hallway towards his bedroom, alive with the knowledge he was sleeping behind that door. I loved men in bed, sleep making them sexy and vulnerable. I wondered what he wore, if anything. I wondered what he’d do if I crept in, crawled into bed, the covers warm from his body heat, the sheets smelling like him: woodsy and masculine.
I was turned on. A little drunk. And holding a poem for a computer programmer who, after tomorrow, I would never see again.
I felt more alive than I had in months. I left it, propped up against his bedroom door.
And as I walked home, grinning uncontrollably, my phone buzzed with an international text: an odd time for me to get a smattering of cell service. I stopped, holding my cell up, attempting to keep the signal.
It was Sabine, “just checking in.” She’d seen the first photos of the shoot and was thrilled about it. There is so much good buzz around you right now, it’s ridiculous, she’d written. I didn’t think Lucia Bell could become even more famous, but between Shay Miller and this new contract, you’re going to be unstoppable, ma cheri. Do you have time for a phone call in a couple days? I have mock-ups for you.
I stopped, sighing. Yanked back down to Earth.
I read the message again, re-read it, until the attention-seeking beast that lived inside me roared back to life.
I didn’t think Lucia Bell could become even more famous.
Which is what I wanted, desperately. Because 26-year old models had a short shelf life. I’d be lucky to book shoots like this much longer, and Paris offered a new world of fame.
My wifi icon winked open—I had about a half a bar, suddenly, and I used it to open Instagram. My notifications flared up instantly, but I only cared about one thing.
894 new followers. Not bad for a few days where I’d posted basically nothing. Those 22 Instagram followers could suck it!
I did a little, semi-drunk dance in the woods, grateful that no one could see me. I lost my internet and cell connection as soon as I’d gained it, but it had given me a glimmer of hope.
Fuck Big Sur. Fuck the wilderness.
I was back on top.
◊
CALVIN
Lucia left me a poem outside my bedroom door last night. It was Mary Oliver’s ‘In Blackwater Woods,’ a favorite of my grandfather’s. She’d circled her favorite lines, which, curiously, are also my favorites.
I looked back at the page Lucia had left for me, her curling handwriting on the post-it note. I lived for the stanza she’d circled:
To live in this world/you must be able to do three things:/to love what is mortal/to hold it/against your bones knowing/your own life depends on it/and, when the times comes to let it go/to let it go.
I’d almost tripped over the book when I woke this morning, figuring it was something I’d left out and forgotten about. When I discovered Lu’s note, I almost fell over again. Who was this woman? And was this actually happening? Was I currently sweetly flirting with a supermodel via our favorite poems?
I’ve never met someone like her before, I wrote. And I don’t quite know what to do about it.
I was more ashamed about what happened next. I had been delightfully surprised by the discovery, awash in that feeling you have when you think the girl you have a crush on might have a crush on you. Which was still incredibly unlikely—given my track record and the fact that I wasn’t a model, wasn’t famous and didn’t have a six-pack—but Lucia seemed intrigued by me.
Hell, I’d take it.
But the happiness dimmed when I realized what she must have done: was in the bookstore at night, while I was asleep. Stood outside my door. Did she press her ear up against it, listening for my breathing? Did she contemplate slipping inside?
Because I sure as shit did. Before I could stop myself, I was back in bed, masturbating, an image of Lucia waking me up floating in my mind. Crawling over my body the way she did with Taylor at the shoot in the woods, her blonde hair brushing my chest. In my thoughts, I thread my fingers through those waves and pulled as hard as I could, sitting up to press my chest against hers as she straddled me.
I came quickly—again. And hard, again. So hard I had to close my eyes for a minute, slightly dizzy.
I don’t know what to do about it…and I don’t know what is happening to me, I finally wrote. I might be a little obsessed.
I stared at it, my handwriting on a mostly blank page. It was almost too honest, and if I’d written it in pencil, I would have erased it. Embarrassed that I wasn’t strong enough to withstand Lucia’s charm. That I was joining legions of men across the world who jerked off to her. I didn’t want to be the computer nerd lusting after the model—it was too John Hughes.
But…she’d left me a poem.
I glanced at my watch, sighing when I noticed the time. Ray was doing another shoot in the bookstore today and they were due in an hour. Plus, I was meeting with investors this evening—I had hours of tedious work ahead of me to prepare for it.
I think these investors will be the ones I sell to, I wrote. They’re offering a good price and they plan to build a spa on the property—use the cabins for private massage suites. I’m not sure if they’re going to tear down the actual building or not. But they seemed the least nefarious of all the other investors I’ve been meeting with.
Sitting on this patio, staring at this fucking view, every bone in my body screamed don’t sell. I’d felt it a bit the day of my grandfather’s funeral, receiving the news I was now the owner. I’d been so surprised, astounded really, when the lawyer suggested I sell off the property immediately. With the reputation it had, how could The Mad Ones not be thriving?
With the memories I’d made here as a child, with the memories my grandparents had made here, how could I just tear it down? There was so much history
here—the landscape of literature and poetry was irrevocably changed by the existence of this store. Authors and poets traveled from miles away—flew from other countries—to read here. To speak here. To just be here.
And yet…there was also so much debt. I’d never owned a business before, and certainly didn’t know what the hell I was doing. The few advisers I’d met with took one look at the numbers and all said the same thing: sell it.
A mercy kill—demolishing this beautiful piece of history while it was still on top, at least from the public’s perspective. Maybe they’d put a plaque here or something, honoring my grandfather’s legacy.
I quieted the voice that popped up—a voice that sounded surprisingly like my grandfather’s. A voice laced with disappointment.
The first month I’d lived here I couldn’t wait to leave. Same with the second month. But now, during my final weeks here, that voice was growing louder and louder. Pushing back against every rational thought that I had. I needed to go home. I needed my orderly, quiet, respectable life back. And one day, I’d look back on these wild times in my life with fondness. For six months I lived the bohemian life in Big Sur. Not for me, but it was nice for a little while.
Let it go, I wrote in my journal. Love it and let it go.
◊
This morning Taylor and Lucia breezed past me like I wasn’t even there. Which, to be honest, was the kind of treatment I’d originally expected. Instead, they’d surprised me from day one with how friendly they seemed to be; different lives, for sure, but they hadn’t been outrageously snooty.
Today Lucia didn’t glance my way once. No flirty winks or sarcastic remarks.
She certainly didn’t say anything to me about leaving an emotionally-charged poem outside my bedroom door. After spending an evening charming me with her honesty, her sense of humor. Her beautiful mind.
So I swallowed the familiar taste of disappointment and instead yanked out boxes and boxes of my grandfather’s financial files, beginning the arduous process of making sense of everything for investor meeting. Eventually, the sounds of the shoot became an almost comforting blur, my only breaks to help the occasional customer who stopped in.
Bohemian Page 10
