by Katie George
Chapter Twenty-Five
SEPTEMBER PASSED AWAY like a squashed bug. It was a quick month, probably because I devoted so much time to work-related issues. The rest of my life was either spent at the grocery store or at Baylee’s house, where we’d cook gnocchi and sauté things she’d learned from the cooking channel, but I had no idea what they were. I ate like a subservient pup.
In the third week of September, Baylee set a bowl of crème catalana on the counter and stared at me, her big eyes like a wolf’s. She breathed and hastily began, “I have something to tell you. Something I am unsure about.”
“You’re unsure about something?” I asked as I popped a deviled egg infused with Worcestershire sauce into the back of my throat. “Has hell frozen over?”
She threw the apron off her slim figure and lifted her t-shirt, revealing a little lump growing in her stomach. “No, just heaven.” Then she plopped down on the barstool beside me, splaying her French-manicured fingertips onto the granite countertops. “Richard and I went to church this past weekend.”
“Excuse me?” I croaked through a mouthful of pasta. “You did what?”
“We have no other option through this web of lies we’ve both spun. He’s going to raise this baby with me, he finally decided, but we have to work our relationship to the best shape it can be. ‘Whip it,’ he said. So, I suggested we try out the nearby church. Just a few Sundays, see how it goes for us.”
“Like, a Buddhist temple?”
Baylee rolled her eyes. “You are a disbeliever in me.”
“No, just a shocked believer that Baylee Feta is seeking God.”
“Baylee Braitley,” she corrected, “is nowhere near ready to meet God, but she’s open to the idea of it.”
“That’s better than last week.”
“I would say so.”
WE NOTICED A change in the Braitley dynamic at work. It was soft, unpronounced, but a change just the same. Richard began communicating directly with his employees, asking about themselves and listening with a good ear. Baylee ceased her open dissection of the women around the place, but continued to gossip, such as her nature. However, the two did not seem as charged with lust as before; instead, there was the sense of hope in their healing relationship.
They seemed awkward around each other most of the time, but it was a symptom of their unified front to fix the broken aspects of their marriage model. Yet the fact they tried gave us all hope at work that the dramatic-filled days of the Braitleys were coming to a close, leaving enough drama from actual actors (and even more from agents).
As for me, I continued casting mainly with Megg, who was steadily at it with John, who sent her purple orchids every two weeks. It was a romantic gesture, one most women would appreciate, giving Megg—for the first time—pride in her relationship endeavors. She and I began a trusted friendship, one made in steady endurance rather than superficial dealings as my friendship with Baylee had started. These feminine work relationships kept me sane on the job, which I continued to, well, work at, while reminding myself that communication between Jamie and me was sparse. We were growing apart because of distance, I decided, a symptom not of a unified front, but of a natural barrier: distance. The word filled me with sadness, but I had something else to look forward to: Sena’s October wedding in Phoenix.
So in the daily shuffle, I found myself in group texts with Sena’s wedding party, while keeping up-to-date with the other married women I’d seen off into the world (somewhat), learning the details of Lacey’s Napa honeymoon, which I honestly would rather not know about. Then Chelsea was in the heat of her first year at film school, which combined work stress with newlywed bliss, while Annabel and her man had returned to Los Angeles in a torpor of love and philanthropic charity ideas. Jerry and Monica had invited me over for dinner, filling me in on wedding secrets I also did not want to know. As for Sena, she’d kept a level head as her nuptials approached, the calmest bride-to-be I’d seen. It was like she was simply hosting a tea party, not a desert wedding which would merge Asia, America, and football.
So as the wedding date approached, I prepared for the long weekend in Phoenix and avoided the present issue of living in a lonely apartment. I was going stir-crazy on a Sunday in early October when outside was finally quite cool and an abnormal rainy day. So when a knock on the door rapped, I shot up like a rocket, almost knocking over Felix/Fiona, who was curled into a ball at my feet. I jumped over her, surprised that any human wanted to connect with me, and blissfully called out, “Who’s callin’?” A bit of Southern drawl had emanated from my vocal chords.
When no one answered, I looked through the peephole, but quickly found my heart retching, the pound of distress like a baby volcano seeping out lava. There was a loud throbbing in my ears, but in horror, I found my hand reaching for the door, opening the knob, allowing myself to come face-to-face with my mother, the venerable Mrs. Eileen Swann, whose dark auburn tresses hung in wetness. The tip of her nose was what I noticed first, due to the rain falling from it; her body was skinny, though her age was apparent. She was now in her fifties, and it was starting to show, especially since I hadn’t seen her in years. She stared at me, clutching her purse in soaked clothes with bright eyes. “Emmaline?” She had always called me this, though my birth certificate read Emma. She even said it as Emma-leen, rather than the standard pronunciation.
“Mom?”
“I know, this is weird. I found your apartment listing through the young man called Jamie. But I’m here, and I am surprised I’m here, just as you’re surprised to see me.”
“Why are you here?”
She looked at her feet, droplets hanging from the tips of her hair. “I’ve missed you, my dear. I haven’t been a great mother; you know this. But I live only a few hours from you, and I felt it was time to see you. Maybe the bias from your dad is gone now that you’ve been on your own. Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry. Don’t take that the wrong way.”
“Word vomit, apparently. Mom, don’t come here and expect me to just allow you to diss my dad here. He’s the one who took care of me while you went away to New York.”
“Em, I’m sorry.”
“And I forgive you. But I didn’t invite you here.”
She nodded and then reached for something in her purse. She retrieved a book, The Fountainhead, and placed the first-edition copy in my hands. “When I left, you were obsessed with Ayn Rand. Victor and I searched high and low for it, but I felt…”
“Thank you,” I interrupted, but then I closed my eyes. “Mom, I need time to process this. It is nice seeing you, but if you would allow me to close the door, I promise, I’ll love you even more.”
She nodded, before whispering, “I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too.” Then I shut the door behind me, unable to take the weirdness of the afternoon.
By the time I’d calmed down, I departed the apartment and headed to Baylee’s, where I knew refuge was not possible. Yet she was not home, and so I found myself in the car, driving under the drizzle, the California night heading in, but for once void of sunset. Depressed, I drove to the only place that made any sense right now: Sam’s apartment.
IT WAS STUPID, even obnoxious, and somewhat pretentious. Yet it felt like the right thing to do, especially when I drove by the building. Knowing I had to call him to get in, I dialed his number, feeling a bit of frustration at my lack of endurance in not seeing him since August.
“Emma?” he answered on the third ring. “What’s the issue?”
“Well, I’m kind of lonely, and I just…”
“Thought you’d drop by my apartment?”
“Do you see me right now or something?”
“Yes, I do. I was just about to leave myself, and then here you come. I’ll alert security that I want you here.”
“If you’re leaving, why…”
He sighed into the phone. “I was about to head out for cheap pizza in Chinatown. I know the best shop run by a guy who is the epitome of awesome. I wa
s going stag, but going with you would put me in an even better mood.”
We met under a blanket of rain a minute later, once I parked my car. He pulled me into a hug, which seemed familiar. “So, you’ve changed your mind? Since you literally left me in your dust at that party.”
“And you left me at the restaurant. Do I have to explain myself? I thought we were just going out for some greasy pizza.”
“Yes, you have to explain yourself, because guess what? I’m your chauffer, and the person who has forgiven your stubborn red hair.”
“I didn’t know hair could be forgiven.”
“It’s very possible, my friend.”
Minutes later, the car cruised down the highway, lights buzzing past our heads through the drizzle of a lonely SoCal night. We did not talk much, not because there was nothing to say; rather, there was everything to say, and we did not know how to begin. I realized that I desired his friendship, the communication between us in general. The absence of Jamie had brought something to my attention: I missed Sam, too.
So when we were finally in Chinatown, past the conglomerates of flashy lights and the stream of cars littering the roads, I began, “Sam, you know you’re my friend, right?”
“Of course I know that. We’re very friendly.” He whipped the car into an alley, dodging a speeding car headed west.
“And you haven’t really judged my ways around you.”
“That’s okay. You think I get to spend my days with many Texans? It’s just not true. You remind me that there is more to America than Los Angeles, especially with that shock of red hair.”
I blushed, jumping out of the car, wishing I’d brought an umbrella. The phone in my pocket buzzed, but I ignored it, taking Sam’s arm in the midst of the hazy, gray air. We walked in the direction of a pizza parlor, allowing the scent to invade our defenses, weakening us. Before we entered, Sam whispered into my ear, “I know you like people, and the fact you’re so forgiving is truly kind.”
Before I could pursue the comment further, we were inside the Americanized shop, eighties music blaring in the background. The walls were chipped red, the tabletops retro and sixties-like. The display cases held various pizzas, thin-crust and hand-tossed, Hawaiian and pepperoni. As we ogled each piece, a plump Asian man appeared cradling a Diet Coke bottle. “If it isn’t my man Sam!” He hurried behind the counter, pulling his friend into a deadlock hug, grabbing around the neck. From my position, I saw Sam wince, but still he smiled goodheartedly.
“If it isn’t my man Cola!”
“Cola?” I asked, not realizing the word had popped out from the crevice called my mouth. Yet it had.
“Sam, who’s this lady you brought to me?”
Sam pulled back, though he still was in a hug with his friend. “This, Cola, is Emma Richmond. I thought she might need some good old traditional pizza, especially in this weather.”
“You’ve never brought a girl to me before.”
“Because none can handle you.”
“True,” Cola said, reaching out a meaty hand. “Hi, there, Emma.”
“How’d you get the moniker?”
He lifted up the can to his lips, gulping. When he had a tank of air, he said, “My affinity for the Coke brand. Coca Cola is my American name, my friend. So, what can I get for y’all? Sam here’s always for the biggest, meatiest pizza.”
“Make it a large pep, okay?”
“What a slacker this time, Sam,” Cola said, hurrying back to where he’d come from. “It’ll be ten minutes, but I can go ahead and get started now. Slow day.”
“You’re not paying?” I asked in confusion when Sam led me to a table in the corner of the small room. We had a vantage point of the rainy street, where a sweet couple held each other as they moved like little figures in a snow globe.
He shook his head before plopping into a chair. “You see, Cola’s got an issue with my paying for anything at his shop, so I’ll stuff a wad of bills up front before we skedaddle out of here. It’s just a game we play.”
“How do you even know Cola?”
“We grew up together, out in Encino. We’re buddies. It was him, this kid named Asustado, and me. We had this trio of love, I’d say.”
“A trio of love?” I asked in disbelief, rolling my eyes. “A trio of love. I just can’t get over it.”
“So, what wedding are you on now, Red?”
“Don’t call me that, bud.” I shook out a tendril of wet hair sticking to my skin. “Well, Sena’s next. Two weekends actually, out in Phoenix.”
“Arizona—I love that state,” he professed, leaning over the table so that his face was mere inches from mine. “Do you need a date?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, the whole date thing? I’d be obliged to accompany you.”
“No way. Listen to me, you’d be miserable.”
“You know what, it’s sick that I even said that. I’m going to be in New York City filming anyway.”
“New York, huh?”
He nodded, his eyes bright. “New movie, all about a struggling musician played by yours truly.”
“Whatever happened to Luke Cho’s movie?”
“Who? Oh, that guy. We start filming next April, in time for all the requirements to be met. Plus, it worked best with my schedule.”
“A Hollywood film star is hard to come by, I find.”
“And a Hollywood film star has to worry about the pap.”
“Pap?”
“Paparazzi.” He stood up, whisking me across the room, past the counter, away from the flash of cameras that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. Knowing what he meant—the gossip rag photojournalists—I ran with him, not looking back, hearing the buzz behind us like livid mother bees.
Cola appeared in the kitchen, where a skinny white man was kneading dough. Sam’s friend looked frightened, confused even, until he nodded. “Oh, the life of Samuel Darn Woodshaw. I’ll get them out. You guys can use my personal office for food.” He hurried up front where a slew of Mandarin syllables rifled the air.
Sam waved at the other employee before taking me into Cola’s office, which was a tiny, old room that had a little makeshift tabletop. We sat down underneath dying light bulbs beside a vase of wilting flowers. Across the table from me, Sam’s eyes glinted. “You’ve never seen my followers, have you?”
“They better not have gotten any photos. If anyone finds out about this…”
“Emma, darling, can I tell you something?” He leaned in again, which turned me to a form of stone, immoveable, focused on the curvature of his nose, the dip of his chin, the blue of the eyes.
“Yes?” It came out like a rodent’s squeak.
His mouth opened a sliver, and then the words spilled. “I’d be jealous if anyone got your picture.”
“Why is that, Samuel Woodshaw?”
“Because I’d want you all for myself. Selfish, right?”
“You’re a complete egomaniac.”
The smile in his eyes was infectious. “I know this—it’s Hollywood, baby.”
I slapped his arm playfully. “No, I just think it is your personality.”
“You came back, didn’t you?”
“I came for the pizza. I never said I came back for you.”
He rolled his eyes, and then our food was placed on the table, sizzling and beautiful—manna from heaven. Cola plopped in a chair, his beady eyes bright. “So, tell me y’all’s story.”
“We have a story?” I questioned.
“Everyone has a story. And there’s always a story between two people, so of course you have a story.” Cola hunched in, the stink of aftershave near my nostrils.
“We were introduced by a mutual friend,” I began.
Sam interrupted with, “But Emma refuses to date me. It’s against her religion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A Catholic with a Protestant? Isn’t that against all codes?”
“You’re Catholic?” I asked quickly, a little t
hrum of excitement beating me down. I’d never heard him utter anything about a profession of faith.
“Well, I go to mass on Christmas. Does that count?”
Cola rolled his eyes. “Don’t even begin with that, Sam. You’re as unchurched as they come.”
“Like you’re any better,” Sam huffed, biting into a cheesy glop of pizza. “I’d convert to be with the right person.”
“Sentimental now, eh?” Cola took a piece from the plate he’d brought. “You see, I consider myself a spiritual person, but I’m not sure I believe the man-in-the-sky way of thinking, with all due respect, Miss Emma.”
“Trust me, He knows what you think. That’s okay, as long as you’re open to talking about it,” I offered, the pizza sliding down my throat, warm like a summer day.
“Thanks for taking care of the pap, man,” Sam said, patting his friend on the back. “You’re the one I should run off with.”
“Hate to tell you, but I’m happily married. Got a wife, Miss Emma, and she’s the best girl I know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alissia. I’m so in love. I can only hope for the best for this clown.”
Sam did not blush or anything soppy like that; instead, he forced a slice down his throat and continued to munch away. “You know, Cole, not everybody’s as great as you. It’s not easy finding a girl in Los Angeles—that’s why you go to Glendora.”
“Oh, gag,” I said, turning my head away from the compliment. “Okay, stud, don’t get on my bad side.”
“She’s as stubborn as that hair.” Cola acted like his words were winds of whispers, but of course it did not come out that way. He stood up, brushing off his pants, and winked. “You see, the pap will be here all night now. This is their stomping ground. The good thing is that I have a secret back door, one that is hidden by a bunch of vines and a garbage can, something I haven’t opened since before I was born. So here’s the plan: You two sneak out while I create a distraction.”
“A distraction?”
“Free pizza. Think of it as my socialist gift for the year, possibly for my entire life.”
“You’re crazy, Edwin Brewster,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. Without looking at me, he nodded, “Yes, that is truly Cola’s name.”
Cola beat on his chest like King Kong, and Sam and I stood, the first leaving a wad of bills hidden underneath a rubble of paperwork on his friend’s desk. We followed Cola into the kitchen, where an alcove loomed, an old, sullen door waiting for our chance to escape. Cola placed us together in a team huddle. “Okay, when I say go, I want y’all to run like the world’s about to end. Got it? No stopping for anything. I’ve seen the way these fools drive—and run. It ain’t pretty.”
Sam pulled him into a quick hug of thanksgiving. “Bro, your place’ll be infested for a good time.”
“Business is lucrative if one knows a movie star. Get out of here, kids.” He ran as fast as he could out of our sight.
Sam rolled his eyes. “I wonder who the real actor is here.”
“Cola’s a fun guy.”
“An even funnier cook. Ready? Who knows if this door will even open. It looks rusty.”
“I’ll kick it open if need be.”
“You’re going to kick it open?”
“Don’t stand there in disbelief. I can do it.”
“Okay, Kung-Fu Emma.”
“Go!” Cola screamed at the top of his lungs.
Sam’s hands curled around the knob, but the door would not budge. He thrusted his body against the frame, but nothing gave way, so I pushed him and kicked, which did nothing in itself. My leg ached in pain, and Sam laughed before breathing, “Let us kick together.”
“Are you serious?”
I found myself following his lead, and we kicked the door down together, breaking into the chilly alley. We burst out into a furious run, the screech of the pap behind us, some distracted by free pizza (and us no doubt inside) and others waiting by the two scouted doors (not including our secret vine-covered exit).
Sam grabbed onto my hand, our lungs burning from the night air, the sound of camera lights flashing, little stars behind. We ran with abandon, the passion firing between each cell inside, the energy pounding our legs faster, faster. Is there anything worse than a paparazzo? Of course. But to us—in that sliver of a moment—escape was the goal.
We broke down the alley that led to his parking spot, finding the car where a group of cameramen stood ready to hound us. Momentarily blinded, I covered my face as I ran to the car door, whisking it open in a sudden moment. There were cries of, “Tell us who the mystery woman is, Sam!”
Sam revved the engine and deftly pulled out, the tires screeching at the speed he forced on the road. A motorcycle holding a woman reporter matched our speed, but like a movie, Sam whipped the car left, and the woman tried to follow, though a man—whom we recognized as the pizza-maker at Cola’s—pulled a golf cart across the road, blocking her.
“This has happened before,” Sam said for reaffirmation. “Even Rick’s in on it. He doesn’t mind, especially if I leave a thousand bucks to split between Cola and him.”
When we were on the highway, I turned to him and said, “That was lively, don’t you think?”
“I don’t want to go home,” he admitted, though the clock read eight. Usually, by then, I had snuggled up to the cat who watched stupid reality TV with me. Then again, I acted more like an old maid than a young woman at times. So I nodded in agreement, partly because Sam offered excitement, and partly because I felt like I had something to live up to.
