I’m so tired. And hungry. And cranky. Someone cook me a good meal, brew me some coffee and tuck me in for a nap.
“Alright, we’re going,” Clara says, rubbing her palms together to spark the heat that her truck won’t, at least not yet. “And where am I headed?”
In the thirty-minute break between meeting Clara and leaving LAX, I booked myself a little cozy studio home in the heart of Hollywood. Thanks Airbnb. The description of the place explained that it was a two-bedroom (this way I can offer Clara a place to stay, if she doesn’t have anywhere else to go or if the weather turns sour) with two baths, a living room, kitchen and just about anything you want. Apparently the owner spends much of his time running a tech company in Utah, and only visits the condo during the summer months when he’s meeting for business in Los Angeles. Otherwise, it’s a home away from home for many. Surprised it’s available so close to the holiday. Then again, who’s really trying to visit Hollywood during the holidays?
Thank you, rich tech guy.
We drive through the airport at a tortoise’s pace, carefully and methodically. We leave tread marks in the snow, the Tacoma’s tires indenting their mark on the white powder. The highway spits us out onto the actual highway, which is similarly blanketed in snow. There are thankfully two flat lines on the road made by cars that have already tried this journey. Thankfully we are not alone.
“So you’re trying to go home for the holidays?” Clara asks.
“Yeah. It wasn’t my first choice, but I ended up doing it last minute. I was traveling with my friend who had an extra ticket. Her boyfriend didn’t want to go home with her.”
“Wow. Well, don’t expect that relationship to last much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“The holidays are always a good test for people’s relationships. Especially things like Christmas and Thanksgiving,” she says. We lock eyes for a moment and she sees the astonishment on my face. “What? Think about it. If you’re in a relationship and you choose not to visit your special person’s family, is it really a relationship worth having?”
“You don’t think couples can spend the holidays apart?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I mean, if it’s a new relationship, I can let it slide. But if you’ve been together for more than six months, and neither of you wants to make that leap, it doesn’t seem like a good relationship to me. Me and my husband didn’t want to visit each other’s families in the beginning. Too much pressure. But the following year, we tried it out, and it worked. Maybe trying it doesn’t work out. Maybe you have a horrible time. But if you’re not even willing to try, what’s the point?”
Six months? That’s your limit? How about two years. That’s how long Derek and I have been together.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks.
“Yeah. His name is Derek.”
“How long have you been together?”
Blushing, I admit, “Two years.”
The car fills with awkward silence as thick as the snow clumps outside. She clears her throat and rests her hands upon the wheel.
“Well, I hope it works out for you.”
“Yeah.”
I already know she doesn’t think it will. Am I just ignoring the signs? Is this really the end of our relationship as I know it? Clearly there’s nothing holding us together. We’re not even visiting each other’s families for the holidays.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Sorry?”
“How did you know he was the right guy to marry?”
She smiles. “I wanted someone who would sweep me off my feet for Christmas, not someone who will be sweeping up the glitter and the wrapping paper. You know? Someone who could make the holiday special. My husband did that.”
I kind of see what she means. Someone who will spend all the time romancing her rather than playing your traditional father or grown-up role. That makes sense. She can’t be much older than me. You have your whole life to be parents and boring and stale. It’s probably a good time to be hopeless romantics.
“Plus, he always stocks my stuffing.”
I burst out laughing. We drive on into the darkness of the wintry storm.
7.
The roads are large white pillows, beautiful clouds on a clear day. It’s odd to see them so low to the ground, and it’s weird we’re driving through them. But there’s also something remarkably beautiful about all of this.
Los Angeles isn’t a city that sees snow that often. You’re more likely to run into a celebrity than you are to see a snowstorm. Let that sink in. To someone from Connecticut, that means everything. The few times I’ve seen a celebrity back home was when a movie was being filmed in town. The director apparently wanted that real, small-town New England feel.
Clara and I chat back and forth about our various dating experiences and escapades. And because she opens up, she expects me to answer more questions about Derek. He’s probably the last person I want to think about right now. There’s a good chance we shouldn’t even be together, if Clare’s dating advice has any significance.
As I tell Clare, there’s nothing really exciting about me and Derek that you haven’t read before in romance novels or seen in the movies. He and I met at a bar one night, The Rusted Horn.
Here’s how it went down. Charity and I caught Moscow mules after we spent the entire day hearing about the president and his alleged ties to Russia. There was something exciting about accepting the enemy into our lives.
Derek had been standing at the bar, leaning forward, his eyes glued to one of the bar’s TVs, watching whatever sport was on. I don’t really remember if it was football or baseball. I wish I did. It would have helped me understand him more from the beginning.
Small chat turns into laughs, which turns into flirty touching and handholding. Soon we’ve made plans for a dinner date. The dinner date turns into kissing, which turns into plans for another date, and then soon we’ve been dating for one month, two months, six months.
Two years later, here we are. He’s off visiting his parents in North Carolina, and I am here, stuck in Los Angeles, in a car with a stranger on my way to a rented condo.
There’s so much to love about Derek. He’s a tax accountant, so he makes bank every year around tax season. That doesn’t improve our bank accounts during the holidays, but there are some high-earning clients who pay him a pretty penny to make their taxes legal in the eye of the IRS. Sometimes I question if he’s squeaky clean, but I turn a blind eye to that stuff. Girl’s gotta eat.
He’s lovable and handsome. Luscious black hair, gleaming blue eyes, smooth skin, a five o’clock shadow. There’s so much to love. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy with him.
Or would I? Funny how one person can ask you a question about your significant other and it can bring unanswered questions to the forefront. Maybe he’s not happy either. Maybe we were never happy.
I’ll answer these questions after the holidays are over. That’s a better time.
Clara’s Tacoma rolls to a complete stop outside the gorgeous apartment building. A high-rise that stretches from these pillowy snow clouds all the way to the gray-orange winter sky. A few of the darkened windows are glowing with light. Guess not everyone is home. I read on the Airbnb description that the building is home to celebrity getaways. Is this tech mogul a celeb?
“Can I convince you to stay with me?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I’ve already made plans elsewhere. Plus, there’s no way I could afford this.”
I wave off. “Please! It’s on me. And it’s on the airline. They gave me a check for refunding my flight, so, I’m spending it here. Come on! Celebs live here. We could run into some hunk actors and convince them to spend time with us until Christmas Eve.”
“Real celebrities are already flying their private jets out of here,” she says with a smile. “The only people here are B-listers. Trust me.”
“Fine. Whatever,” I say, faking that I’m annoyed when I
’m really not.
“But listen, I’m only a few blocks away. If you need anything from me, or if you get so bored and the snow clears up, we can hang out before you go home. How does that sound?”
It sounds really good. Always nice to have another friend in the area in case things are overladen with boredom. We exchange numbers and contact info. I send her a text to confirm her number. The text bubble is blue, which brings instant relief. Nothing worse than a friend’s bubble popping up green. Might as well not even have a phone when that’s the case.
I step out of her truck into the cool night, nearly slipping while standing on the lip of the door. I’m out in the slush and snow with my suitcase as she pulls away, honking once more as a goodbye. My guardian angel, gone already.
A wave of tiredness crashes into me. My eyes burn with exhaustion. Time to head upstairs and fall asleep. Maybe I’ll dream of a paradise.
I step into the high-rise building. It’s gorgeous. The lobby shines a pale yellow from the shining glow of the large and glorious chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Each light bulb gleams through a crystal, shining a sparkling winter light down into the room. All the way to the right is a couch and leather chair. So clean you probably won’t even think about sitting there. A flat screen TV displays the breaking news over the snowstorm. On the left side of the lobby, sits a black desk with a marble counter top. An auburn light glows from the lamp on the corner. All the way in the back of the lobby sits a trio of elevators. Nothing but open space in-between the door and the elevators.
A lone figure sits at the desk. He’s an older gentleman with a curling, slate gray mustache. He’s dressed in a finely-pressed black suit. A gold smart watch shines on his wrist.
“Hello there, madam,” he says as I reach the desk. “Home for the holidays?”
“Renting a place.”
“Ah, a traveler then.”
“Sort of. I got stuck at the airport and had to make a last minute reservation somewhere.”
He scoffs, like he’s offended or something. “I hardly imagine this is a last-minute place.”
“When the airport gives you a check for a hotel and a missed flight, it certainly is.”
“Well then,” he says, smiling again. “The more the merrier. May I ask the room number?”
“1125.” I say.
He types furiously into the computer.
“Ah yes. That one gets a lot of play.”
“I hear some tech mogul lives there?”
“He’s usually away on business, yes. Good man. Just saw him a few hours back. He was headed home for the holidays. He must have opened his place up this week.”
Good for him and good for me. His bank account glows a little greener, and I get to live in some rich guy’s hotel for the weekend.
“Alright. You’ll take the elevator to floor 11. Room 25 will be your place.”
He slides a pair of skeleton keys across the desk.
“Enjoy your stay.”
I smile and take the keys. This is going to be a fun break. I can already sense the astonishment I’ll face up in the room boiling out of me. It sucks getting stuck in a snow-covered Los Angeles. But it also won me the luxury of spending time in a rich dude’s apartment. Can’t get much better than that.
Right?
8.
This place is a dream.
The elevator smells of fine furniture and clean clothes. A light harmonic tune of a Christmas song whispers out of the speakers. I bop my head and tap my foot to the song. The beauty of Christmas songs is that the tunes themselves are recognizable. There’s no need for lyrics or the chorus or a prelude to introduce the song. You can recognize them with ease.
The elevator dings like a bell (did Clara get her wings?) and the door slides open. A long hall stretches almost in every direction. The walls are a cream white, almost like a homestyle vanilla ice cream. Each of the doors sits about twenty feet between each other. Clearly these condos are wide. Maybe they have high-vaulted ceilings. I wonder how the architects imagined this building.
That’s the weirdest thing to me about high-rise buildings full of condo apartments. Your brain confuses it with a hotel. Suddenly you think you’re staying in the Ramada, when in reality you’re living in an entire home. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stuck in a Holiday Inn.
I walk down the hall until I reach the twenty-fifth apartment. As the desk clerk said, it’s apartment 1125. I pull out my skeleton key, slide it into the slot and hear the hinge unlock. Here we go. Time to burst into my new rental apartment. I can’t wait to see what’s on the other side.
I open the creaking door and stare right into the face of darkness. And by darkness, I mean a big, round buttocks the size of a full moon.
What the hell am I looking at?
My eyes trace upwards and now I’m looking at the chiseled back of a tall and olive-skinned male figure. He turns his head around, a towel wrapped around his neck and looks at me like I’m crazy.
“What the hell is going on?!” he exclaims.
He goes to turn around.
“Don’t! Don’t turn around!”
The shock of his nakedness arrives and so he shoves his hands onto his crotch. Without another word, he dances and skips out of my field of vision, disappearing to the right of the opening walkway. He struts back toward me wearing a purple robe, showing just his curly chest hair. His eyes are a dark green, his hair a curly brown, his skin nice and olive. He’s dripping with water.
His eyes send daggers my way as he rubs his towel against the back of his neck.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I should ask you the same time!” I exclaim.
“How did you get a key to my place? And why didn’t you knock?!”
“Wait, what?”
“Going to press charges if you don’t leave,” he says, his voice curt. “Leave. Now.”
Excuse me. Wow. That is no way to treat someone you just met, let alone someone who paid good money to stay at your apartment. When I look back up at him, he’s scrolling through his cell phone.
“Um, no. Listen. I signed up to rent this place. So the real question is, why are you here?”
“I live here. Leave. I’ll call the police. Arrested for breaking and entering. Happy holidays.”
“I booked this place for the next three days.”
His eyes widen and lift up from his phone.
“What?”
“I said I rented this place for the next few days.”
He waves me off and returns his attention to his phone. “Impossible.”
“Not impossible. Possible. I have a key, don’t I?”
His eyes leave his phone again. We stare at each for a brief moment. He slaps his forehead and presses it against his palm, shutting his eyes with a grimace. Oh clearly something has gone wrong here. He probably meant to take it off the market.
“I suck.”
“You think?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“I had a last minute change of plans and I had to cancel my flight. You can imagine that the snowstorm didn’t help matters.”
“Yeah, you can say that again. I wouldn’t be staying here if I had another place to go. But I technically paid for this place for the next few days.”
“Yeah, I must have forgotten to take it off of Airbnb.”
“Well. That’s a problem.”
We stare at each other through the silence, measuring each other. I’ve seen that look before from men, women and children. Sizing you up to decide whether you’ll budge or not. It’s the human version of the game chicken. One of us will eventually have to let our hand show, but until then, we’re at a stare down.
“Can you find somewhere else to go?” he asks.
Raising my eyebrow, I cock my hip out to the right and send my best death glare at him. He understands my point.
“How rude of me,” he says. He stretches his arm out like a butler. “Come on in.”
I raise my nose to the sky. In a snotty voice
, I reply, “Thank you.”
I roll my bag into the apartment and close the door behind me. This place is just as majestic as I thought it’d be. On the right side of the entry way sits his living room. A wide black leather couch rests against the far wall, a similarly dark recliner sits kitty-cornered to the left and a widescreen curved television screen hangs on the wall. A coffee table rests in the center with a basket full of TV remote controls and video game controllers. Oh man. He’s got the goods.
On the opposite side of the living room is the kitchen. White cabinets and an island with a marble counter top, where the sink sits at the center. That space opens up to something of a dining room. A cherrywood table sits at the center of that room with four chairs surrounding it. The apartment then curves around to the right side, but I can’t see anymore. I imagine that’s where the bedrooms are.
This is clearly more than I could imagine. I doubt I’ll ever live in a place this fancy. Clearly he’s a rich tech mogul, whoever he is.
“I apologize for the nakedness,” he says, turning toward me and extending his hand. “I’m Ryan Rain.”
“Tech mogul,” I finish for him. I shake his hand, though it only makes me think of his giant buttocks. “Noelle Cole. I live in Montana.”
“Nice to meet you. Can I get you a drink? Coffee? La Croix?”’
“La Croix sounds great.”
“Awesome.”
He disappears into the kitchen as I lean back against his couch. When he comes back, he hands me the freezing cold can. I snap it open to a hiss and take a sip. Perfect temperature for the sparkling water.
“So you got held up in Los Angeles, too?” he asks.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Alright. Well, I got delayed here. I have two bedrooms here. One is sort of an office, but I can make some room if you want.”
Christmas in LA Page 3
