Page 53 of The Spirit of Love
“I have to get out of this thing,” I gasp. “I have to get out of here.”
Chapter Fourteen
My green-and-yellow-striped canoe sways gentlyin the water. It’s tied to a wooden post on the small dock in front of my house, where I left it eighteen months ago, the first and last time I boarded it. On Friday, just after six o’clock, I climb inside it, use a paddle to push off, and begin to row down Linnie Canal. The sound of the paddle drawing up from the water is soothing as I glide past my narrow three-story bungalow, then the unique and colorful bric-a-brac bungalows that make up my block. Wind ripples the water, tousles my hair. A paddling row of ducklings travel with me as I glide around the corner, then under the bridge with the wire canopy where the children of Venice leave little paper notes with wishes written on them.
Neighbors wave at me, as if this is our nightly ritual. It should be. My hands feel sure of what they need to do, and my eyes can focus on the jacarandas and the bougainvillea and the palms swaying in the warm, end-of-summer breeze. My thoughts go to the last time I was in a canoe, with Sam on Catalina. I try to imagine showing him my neighborhood canals. He would like it here, I think. But the problem is…I can’t quite call up his face in my mind. He’s fading already, the way dreams do. I touch the stone at my neck, trying to bring the memory of him closer. I hold it up to my eye and let myself believe the sky takes on anotherworldly sheen as I look through the hole. I let myself believe the stone is humming with magic no one else can see. I let myself believe Sam’s right here.
But he’s not, and when I let go of the stone, I feel like I’ve lost him for good. Into the place I’d been holding open for him, all my ordinary worries rush back: the work I have to do tonight,afterthe dinner party I don’t want to go to. Packing for theZombie Hospitaltravel shoot in Joshua Tree early Sunday morning, which promises to suck. The fact that in the last three days, Jude and I have been together in the same space on set for at least eighteen hours of shoots and meetings and conference calls and huddles, but we’ve been avoiding one-on-one ever since I insulted him in the costume warehouse. I owe him an apology. Another reason to dread tonight’s dinner.
I row faster, harder, turning this hobby into more of a competitive sport and catching odd looks from some of my super-chill neighbors. They don’t understand. They must have less-shitty lives than I do, or else better cannabis. The worst part is, when I round the next bend, I have to park this ship and go inside and wash my hair and put on a party dress. And pretend I’m okay. Because it’s the end of the first week of shooting on season seven and, like clockwork, time for the network’s annualZombie Hospitaldinner party at the home of the president of CBS.
“Get out herenow, bitch!” Aurora commands, pulling me by the arm out onto the oceanfront patio of Amy Reisenbach’s Malibu mansion.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as Aurora weaves me around a tuxedoed server, from whose tray I accept a glowing red zombitini. Jude could be here any minute, and I need to steel myself with triple sec.
“I need you to see this view,” Aurora says, spinning meawayfrom the view to face her phone’s camera in selfie mode. “Now serve,” she commands, adjusting her black naked dress and striking her full-lipped smirk. She checks the photo. “Cute! What even is that in the background?”
“That’s Catalina. It’s the largest of the Channel Islands.” I turn to see the real thing, whose coastline some forty miles to the south of Malibu is bathed in pink-hued sunset light.
“Random.”
“Not really. I was just there last week.”
My voice must hold some intrigue because Aurora leans close, looks at me, and then looks at the island. “Is it dope?”
“I had fun,” I say. I hear the wistfulness in my voice as, in my mind, I see Sam on the porch of his cabin, binoculars to his eyes. He’s birdwatching, but what if he could look through those lenses and see all the way across the water, to me, right now, missing him?
But because it’s pointless and a little cuckoo to wonder that, I turn back to Aurora.
“Idea,” she says, pointing a long, silver, spear-shaped fingernail at Catalina. “What if I chartered a yacht to go play out there with some friends for my birthday? Is there a club scene?”
I wince at being asked to give away what I’d like to keep secret from her. She has the power to ruin the entire island in one fell yacht party. “There is a big ballroom you can rent called the Casino. The vibe is kind of Roaring Twenties Hollywood—”
“I love old-fashioned shit like that. Last month, I went to a 2015-themed foam party in Mallorca. Everyone had selfie sticks. I was so jealous of the host, I almost went down on him.” She gazes at the island, foam bubbles popping in her eyes. “This could top that. How do we get to the Casino?”
“Most people go by ferry. Catalina has two terminals, two very different experiences.” I feel the need to clarify, “Avalon is the main town, where the Casino and most of the tourist attractions are. But Two Harbors, that’s the part of the island you can see from here—that’s where I was last week. It’s rustic and remote.”
“You really know your shit, Fenny. You’re like my cute little LA emissary.” Aurora takes a sip from my drink. “Wait, I’m having an amazing idea—”
“Who’s having amazing ideas out here without me?” Rich says, stepping out onto the patio wearing this season’s douchebag couture: white jeans and a white shearling aviator jacket. He and Aurora take a beat to air-kiss and compliment each other’s ridiculous outfits, then turn to me and fall silent, even though I’m wearing one of my very best looks, a flowy silk minidress printed with thick black and blue stripes.ShouldI have rented the feathered turtleneck shawl and snakeskin midi? Whatever.
The sight of Rich is always my cue to leave a room.
“Where are you going, ho?” Aurora says, turning to Rich to explain. “She was just about to help me start planning my birthday yacht adventure. You in, Rich?” Aurora takes another sip of my drink and then tries to return it to me. I wave her off.
“I’ll grab another,” I say, “I see the guy with the tray—”
“Come right back!” Aurora sings. “I’m not done with you!”
Stepping back inside the party, I grab a fresh drink. The idea of planning anything with Aurora is terrifying enough, but a trip back to Catalina? The decision I’d have to make about whether to see Sam? The thought alone causes me to accidentally guzzle my entire drink.
When I set the glass on a table, I have to steady myself on a dining chair as the triple sec rejiggers my cells. I need to stay away from that patio, that view, and probably alcohol for the rest of the night, or I’ll end up drunk and crying in Amy Reisenbach’s bathroom again.
The bigger issue is: Am I going to apologize to Jude tonight? Is there a way we can both just forget what I said and go on the travel shoot Sunday as if it never happened? No, the guilt will eat away at me. I’ve got to find a moment alone with him tonight, swallow my pride, and get it over with.
I notice President Amy herself stationed by the front door. I don’t know her well enough to strike up a conversation, but I’d love to somehow make a good impression. I need to be at the front of her mind when she thinks ofZombie Hospital’s rising talent. Jude’s not here yet to double my self-consciousness, so now’s the time. I meander toward the door and decide that the next person who walks in will become my charming conversation partner and my gateway to Amy’s attention.
Of course, a moment later, in walks JDS, bearing a bottle of champagne. He’s dressed in a sleeker suit than usual, this one navy and pinstriped with a solid black oxford shirt that doesn’t seem like it would match, but it does. Did he trim that beard? It looks…softer. Like if you touched it with your hand, you would also then want to touch it with your cheek and kind of nuzzle it?He takes off his glasses and cleans them on a cloth, but before he puts them back on, he looks forward and catches me staring. The accidental eye contact sends a shockwave through my body that is definitely not attraction. It’s a message shockwave, sayingNow you’re going to apologize to this manin front ofAmy Reisenbach? Bad idea. Go get your shit together.
