Six, Maybe Seven

by Katie George

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE HAZE SEEMED a little hazier, the sky blue more sepia-toned. Yet the week since Jamie left went by like a silver bullet primed for the next week’s festivities at Lacey’s weekend wedding. To prepare, I’d gotten ahead on the casting calls and brought Megg and Baylee lunch like a subservient sheepdog, but there was still a void in the nooks and crannies of my spirit: Jamie.

  So I went out with Baylee a few nights that week, intent on forgetting his absence, and then I even spent Friday night with Megg, as we went to a mall and ate greasy Chinese food. But it still did not lessen the fact: Jamie was gone.

  He called every other night, checking up on the cat, giving me feedback about the rugged, rural feel of the shoot. He had made friends and loved the cast, but the humidity of the jungle was unbearable. A few people passed out every hour, he said, which made it tough on production. Yet the film was coming along brilliantly, polished at a lenient speed.

  Eventually, by Saturday, I gathered my clothes and headed to Baylee’s posh condominium, one Richard had insisted on moving to after doing the whole house-in-Los-Angeles thing. The door was already unlocked when I found the place, and then I came in to see her splayed out on the couch, her feet up on the chair, her hand over her forehead, the slight poke from her stomach growing like a blip of sunrise on the horizon. Maybe it was my imagination, but I believed there was a little roundness to that belly.

  “Bay?”

  “Em, sit down. So, guess what? Remember the casting parties I gesticulated about?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s one tonight, down in Long Beach, at John Jeffries’s house. We’ve got to go. I don’t want to go, but Richard’s out of the country at some festival thing in Tokyo, and that leaves you and me as his faithful knights in shining armor. Did you bring a dress?”

  “Why on this green Earth would I have brought a dress if I’d assumed I was just spending the night with you?”

  “Every girl always needs a dress.”

  “I’m living proof that ain’t true.”

  “Don’t give me that attitude.” She whipped herself up, the long hair in total disarray. A piece of lentil-lookalike seemed to spin from her front tooth. “I just found out minutes ago. We’re about the same size, right?”

  “Baylee, you’re, like, six inches taller than me.”

  “Something of mine has gotta fit you. Come on, let us visit the closet of mollifying tendencies.”

  I felt the genuine pulse of satisfaction as Baylee led me through the master bedroom to the filled-to-capacity closet where an emporium of clothing awaited us. Golds, blues, valiant violets and rouge reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows gave the rainbow a run for its money. Every shade of the spectrum shined in the glow of the phosphorescent lights. Baylee pulled a fuchsia dress from one pocket of the closet, where she draped it across her skin, illuminating olive tones. “This goes well with me. Let’s see… I think you’d look best in baby blue, or even navy and royal. Let me see what I have.”

  She leafed through her clothes like they were children safe in her hands. She pulled out a few options, the ultramarines and lapis lazuli colors bright against her skin. Then with a swift movement, she pressed each dress to my frame, monitoring it against my skin tone and the effect it would leave.

  Eventually, through the quietness of her ticking fashion sense, she pulled an electric-blue dress from the confines of her closet and her eyes lit up. “This is it. It’ll fit you, no doubt about it—and look how it compliments your frame. Here, throw it on, sashay around a few times for me. I need to verify my competency.”

  Quickly, I draped the dress over my body, allowing it to hang from my curves, feeling the softness of the cotton against skin. I lifted up my arms, intent on checking for pit hair, when Baylee hurriedly adorned a flashy necklace against my decollate. It hung from my clavicles like an icy key until I lifted it to see the diamonds that shone like a magnificent spectacle.

  “I cannot wear this,” I crooned, hearing my own voice break at the touch. Honestly, I’d never felt anything so expensive. “This is too much, Baylee.”

  “It’s my gift to you. You’re not going to keep it, silly. Just for tonight. That thing is worth more than a car, I’d guess, but you deserve to wear it—especially as my dear pet, my dear muse, my dear Emma.”

  The words my dear Emma roared from her lips—a reminder that Jamie was far, far away whipping his acting skills into action.

  “Are you sure? You don’t have a knockoff? I mean…”

  “Emma, stop sweating this out. You’re wearing it, enough said.” She hurriedly changed into the rose-colored dress, letting her smooth waves cascade down her back. As she zipped up, she touched the flat of her stomach. The roundness I’d thought I’d seen earlier had evaporated. “When will I show?”

  “When will you tell everyone?”

  Her hand lay assuredly against her belly, until she finally sighed. “I don’t know.” Her face brightened then, like a phototropic plant whose tendrils extend from sunlight. “Let me do your hair.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a form of feminine bonding, mon ami.”

  “Yo hablo español,” I insisted, before following her like a devoted puppy into the master bathroom, which was as spacious as can be for California standards. In Texas it would be considered the size of a pea. Yet she sat me down on the little stool near her tools, where she pulled out a curling wand and allowed it to heat. Then she brought forth heat serum for hair protection.

  As she lathered the coconut oil into my tresses, I felt my heart beat a little quicker. “What are these parties like?”

  “Well, boring, really. Just a bunch of famous people chilling out with each other. It’s not really that big a deal, I promise. But I knew it would benefit you if you came, and also, selfishly, I need you to be with me.”

  “Yeah, sure. You don’t need anyone, Baylee Feta.”

  “That is absolutely not true, and you know it, Emma Richmond.” She mocked me, but then her hands were moving at light speed twirling the wand, releasing perfect auburn hair in her wake. “You see, red hair is hard to come by.”

  “I dye it.”

  “Well, you’re still a natural redhead. See these roots?”

  “I live with those roots, honey.”

  “What I would give to pull off the look.”

  When she finished, she added a few curls to her own hair, and we set about touching-up our makeup. She informed me the party would be outside, so I enhanced my makeup a little more, and a few minutes later, we were walking down to her Mercedes coupe. Honestly, even with Richard’s salary, I wondered how they afforded the perfect luxury of apartment, sports car(s), and designer everything, but I did not judge.

  So I hopped in the front seat as she stroked the front wheel. “Just get ready, Em. This is nothing you’ve seen before.”

  SHE WAS RIGHT. As soon as we entered the property—heck, as soon as we entered the ritzy subdivision—I knew this would be a party unlike one I’d ever attended. For sanity, I stared at Jamie’s ultramarine gift nestled on my finger.

  Next thing I knew, Baylee parallel parked, and I followed her sashaying form to the entryway, where the sound of thumping music and mirth drifted like dripping sugar. We were inside then, and the surrounding atmosphere astounded me. Humans were everywhere—humans I recognized from the rags, humans who had won Oscars, humans whom most people would never, ever meet—and then, my hand wrapped around Maggie Marigold’s in a shake of greeting.

  Maggie Marigold was a fortysomething actress who’d lived in SoCal all her life. She was an action star primarily but had forayed into the drama scene lately, and she had been one of my dad’s favorite actors due to her looks, of course. “Oh, look at your friend, Baylee.” Those were her first words to me. I smiled.

  “She’s my guardian angel,” Baylee said, hanging off me.

  “I’m Emma.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. You don’t look used to
our type of parties.” Of course she did not need to introduce herself, so I kind of tuned my interest down. She was older-looking in person, and her eyes were not as violet as many photographers portrayed them to be.

  “It’s her first one,” Baylee said, pulling me away. “She’s a drunk, Em. Anyway, let me introduce you to Bob Rogers.”

  The next few minutes were a blur, because I met so many people and the heat from the damp weather and combined body odor stifled me. Eventually, I gave up on the indoors, where Baylee made her rounds, and hurried to the infinity pool outside. There was a hint of star sparkle beyond the clouds.

  Various celebrities hung around outside, along with producers and cinematographers, assistants and friends and families and random humans. So, needing a break from the hustle-and-bustle, I walked to the fence that led to the sandy beach. I remembered Luke Cho then, and our volleyball beach adventure with Lacey—who would soon be a missus.

  Instead of dirtying my feet, I watched the nearby ocean, until a feminine voice dawned beside me.

  “You okay?”

  I turned, startled to see Belle Sealey, a young actress who’d headlined an Oscar-nominated movie the previous year. Her brown hair was shiny in the glow from the party, but her eyes were sad. “Oh, I’m fine.”

  “Most people at least hide their sadness over at the party. I can already tell you’re different.”

  “Oh, that isn’t good, is it?”

  “Belle,” she said, sticking out a hand.

  I hurriedly shook in return, though I did not care who she was. At this point, all I wanted to do was return home, stick my head in a warm bath, and soak. “I’m Emma.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Casting director. I already know who you are.”

  “Ah.” She hesitated before nodding. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “People aren’t like you. They lie. You’re honest.”

  “Why are you complimenting me? It’s weird, Belle.”

  She nodded. “I’m lonely.”

  “There are a million people here. Not one you can trust?”

  She shook her head. “Not that. I just miss my home. I miss the ability to be invisible.”

  A man’s voice called out, “Belle?”

  “Sam, I’m over here.”

  Seconds later—much to my chagrin—a familiar gait appeared before me, the man wearing it the object of my desires and grievances. He was surprised, his eyes unable to hide the fact, and when he finally gained the ability to speak, it was but a squeak in response. “Emma?”

  “Hi, Sam.”

  “You guys know each other?” Belle asked quickly, her eyes sparkling. “Small world, huh? You’ve worked with Emma the casting director?”

  “Casting assistant,” I muttered, ashamed I’d even exaggerated that much.

  “Oh, don’t even try, Em. She’s going to be the head of that company soon enough.”

  “Stop, that is nothing like the truth,” I snapped, aware of the vicious element to my voice. It was an unexpected factor, though, so eventually my lips curved into the hint of an apologetic smile.

  He shrugged, standing on the tips of his toes, the salty air bringing more openness between our makeshift trio. He reached out to steady himself on the fence. “You can’t take compliments, Emma. They’re your enemy, with all due respect.”

  “My enemy?” I asked, stupefied. “Not true.”

  “Sam,” Belle interjected, clearly used to the spotlight, “what time is it?”

  “Ten thirty. Em, let me just say this: You’re so uptight all time, and you don’t even realize your potential at things.”

  “You know this how? We’ve literally known each other a few months.”

  “And how did y’all meet?” Belle’s voice was sharp and squeaky.

  Sam and I continued to stare at each other, deepening the cognizance between us that our togetherness was something. “You see,” he began, “Belle, this is a woman who is a Texan, Republican, Christian. Those are hard to come by.”

  “What?”

  “Be quiet, Sam. Honestly, Belle, we met when he paraded over to my apartment to hang out with my roommate.”

  Belle shrugged, the answer not mattering much, frankly. “So, you guys are a thing, huh?”

  “A thing? How about nothing,” I presented, the tone angry.

  “Not true. She’s whole-heartedly in love with me.”

  I punched him in the gut, feeling the crunch of his stomach pound my knuckles. As he fell backwards, Belle screamed and I stumbled backward, alarmed by what I’d done and quite proud. Sam stood up, gripping his side, until he cocked his head and flashed me an award-worthy smile, glittering teeth like snow between lips of rose petals.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Belle shrieked.

  “I’m fine, Belle,” said Sam, his eyes bright. “You see, Em can toss a punch, but probably not on the man she loves.”

  I fled the scene, gripping my clutch to my chest. A tuft of hair had fallen over my face like a curtain, but in-between the lip-biting and urge to strangle anything that came in my way, I was through the mansion in no time, passing the partygoers sipping their champagne and dancing by the speakers. Baylee was standing near the steps, faux-smizing at a man near her. I hurriedly pulled her away and whispered, “I’m out. I’ll be taking a walk around the houses. See you soon.”

  Instead of asking about my obvious emotions, she assuredly nodded. “Be back around twelve or so. We’ll leave then.”

  I’d assumed that wasn’t even accurate, but it was not a point of any consideration when my feet landed on the asphalt. The desire to jog, to pull my ligaments like licorice, was overwhelming, but there was something that kept me at a steady pace as each gigantic mansion whirled by me, with green, grassy yards and stone water fountains. Maybe the amped-up pressure of everything was crumbling beneath me, venting out my stress like a steaming volcano. Whatever it was, the impulse of freedom dangled before me as I allowed the spray of the sprinklers to tickle my feet, up my calves, to the fringe of my dress.

  Then he was beside me. I knew it intuitively, as one knows the presence of a nearby ghost, but I kept my pace going, ignoring him.

  “Emma, this is ridiculous.”

  “You think?”

  He grabbed my elbow, genuineness painting his eyes blue. “You are a crab, are you not?”

  “Always.”

  “Why did you punch my stomach, huh? Give me one little sliver of honesty.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “No.”

  “C’mon.”

  “I said no!”

  He braked a little before saying, “Was I right?”

  “Honestly, you weren’t. I can frankly tell you that I am not in love with you. But you never gave me the chance to see if I ever would, did you? That’s why I punched you. Also, your tie isn’t even properly tied. Also, if I could continue, I do miss your friendship.”

  He smiled, but it was so playful I wanted to sock him again. Instead, he closed his eyes, lifted his palms into the air, and said, “Emma, dear Emma, you’ve got no clue what you do to me. It’s nothing new between man and woman, but it is something new to me. Why, when one ever looks into the sky—all he or she can see are moon, stars, and the glint of your hair. But that is why—I always will—be at the place of your where.”

  “Was that supposed to be romantic?”

  “I was serenading you underneath a blanket of pollution.”

  “I don’t want to be serenaded. I want a bath.”

  “I have a shower at my house.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “I completely made that all up, by the way. One of my passions is poetry; okay, maybe not.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, wondering if he was just a bit tipsy, but instead of taking his hand and following him back to Baylee’s whereabouts, I launched into a full sprint in the opposite
direction. Leg met ankle which met road, the crunch of my body electrified against the wind-force, my hair cascading in rivulets as the hurricane passed by.

  “Emma!” he screamed out behind me, trying to keep up the pace, knowing he could catch me at any moment, but I was determined.

  The violence of my heartbeat pushed me onward as I careened past Range Rovers idled on the road. My feet crushed against flowers lining the sidewalk. Since when had I become dependent upon what was expected of me? I usually followed the rules; I went through the motions. But I was on the brink of a cataclysmic breakdown based on the fact that God was steering me somewhere I didn’t know—something that wasn’t necessarily of my choosing.

  Eventually, my body gave out and I heaved over, allowing the release of tension to reflect in my fallen posture. In fact, I toppled onto a rich person’s yard, staining the green grass red with my hair. There was a hint of a trade wind stroking my face as my chest heaved upward, downward, a sign of a living lung.

  “Seriously, Em?” He flopped over beside me, his own chest rising up and down, a formidable horizon. He was sweating, but the extra glow on his skin made him glitter.

  “Why did you follow me?”

  He breathed hard, the sound mimicking my own. “Because the chase is worth it.”

  “I don’t want this.”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re only going to break my heart.”

  “I don’t think that is possible; not with Emma Richmond.”

  “You’re scared, and you know it.”

  “Says the person describing himself. Samuel Woodshaw, I went to your apartment. I was the one who asked where we stood. I am not afraid to tell you how I feel.” It wasn’t complete truth, but just enough to convince me that I had a shot here.

  Sam turned onto his side, his blue eyes unwavering before me. He took a piece of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “You should go to law school. Do you believe in coincidence?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you came into my life for a reason?”

  “That isn’t coincidence, my friend.”

  “Words can’t describe how I feel right now.”

  “I won’t let you kiss me, Sam. It’s not going to happen.”

  He pulled away, his dejected look satisfying. “Will you ever stop running?”

  “Running from what?”

  “Who you are, what you want to be.”

  “Probably not, especially when you speak in such riddles, honey.”

  I stood up, brushing the grass clippings from my dress, and then I began the long, wobbly walk back to John Jeffries’ house, intent on pulling Baylee from her social hour so we could make the drive home. This was what my life had become: one giant party. Not a good one, either.

  There was a desire in my core to be near Sam, but I pushed myself forward, surprised when I did not feel his breath down my neck. When I turned onto the neighboring street, I looked back to see him staring intently up at the stars, wondering if he was having a come-to-Jesus moment. I kept walking.

  THE NEXT MONDAY I sat at my desk, a coffee mug to my lips, wondering how I had ever hated caffeine, because now it had replaced Jamie as my best friend. As I debated whether to add more sugar next time, Megg plopped onto the cheap chair we’d salvaged from a grimy closet a few weeks ago. It was the only chair I had for “visitors” who came to my “office.” As she positioned herself on the flimsy thing, I tossed her a packet of M&M’s I had stolen from Baylee’s office, where a hidden assortment of all candies lurked in a cabinet.

  “So, you won’t believe who checked up on me out of the blue.” Her eyes widened, big pools of hazel. Waiting for any sort of response, she sat forward and began, “John.”

  “John?” Suddenly it dawned on me: the guy who had truly captured Megg’s heart during our days working on Luke Cho’s project. Surprised, I whispered, “John? Well, what did he say?”

  “He’s still interested in me. In us, I guess I should say. So we’re going out on Friday night, and basically, I’m totally freaking out. What is going to happen? I mean, I go out on dates and all…”

  “Megg, you’re hyperventilating. First off, calm yourself. Second, trust in God. Actually, flip those, please. Let us just go with this: You will be fine. You’re…”

  She started breathing like a pregnant woman delivering a child, so I hurried over and lent a calm hand on her back. “I can’t breathe,” she huffed.

  “How obvious. Shut up!” Then I was rubbing her back, though I knew this was a weird response to the situation, but unaware of the proper thing to do in this situation, I continued to do so.

  Megg finally turned to a normal shade of human complexion and then she said quickly, “I’ll be okay. I will be okay, I think.”

  “So, what’s the gen?”

  “The gen?”

  “You know, information? What’s going on? The plan?”

  She raised her hands in exasperation. “Well, he said dinner. We’re meeting in Glendora…”

  “Glendora!”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s where I live.”

  “Seriously?” She perked up like a prairie dog emerging from the earth. “So, you wouldn’t mind, you know, spying on us?”

  “What?”

  “I watch horror movies, shows about death and destruction, crime stuff. I have a true abhorrence to dating. Okay, you know…”

  “You just told me you date a lot.”

  “I’m sorry,” she responded again, shaking her head. “It’s not entirely true, honestly. I am too afraid of the what-ifs.”

  “You want me to chaperone.”

  “No, I want you to spy.”

  “Megg.”

  “I will pay for you to sit nearby, you know, just to watch. Make sure he doesn’t spike my drink.”

  “Margaret Holmwood, that may be the weirdest proposition I’ve ever heard.”

  “Please,” she said, folding her hands into a prayer-clasp.

  I sighed, knowing that no one should ever turn down a free meal, while also knowing that helping a friend in a time of need is a crux to human life and appreciation. Understanding the anticipatory fire in Megg’s eyes, I nodded.

  “Seriously? Oh, Emma Richmond, I love you!” She wrapped her arms around her neck, squeezing me to a pinkish hue.

  I’d assigned myself to babysit a grown woman and her date, but it was not an issue. I would invite Baylee maybe, or go by myself. That probably would be best. I could enjoy a candlelit dinner, find my way home after Megg was convinced John was a decent guy, and that would be it. Plus, it would get me out of the dark apartment on a Friday night. A nice restaurant full of humans was better than an empty apartment plus cat.