“I wondered how long it would take you to bring this up again, Crazy. Come on, out with it.” I could hear him grinning through the phone.
“Christ on a crutch, you know me well.” I laughed, feeling my face burn a little at the knowledge that he was always—and would apparently always be—one step ahead of me.
“I know you better than anybody, but I can’t read your mind,” he said. “So tell me what you’re thinking. What you’re really thinking, Grace.”
“Hmm, well, the thing is, it’s not that I suddenly want kids or anything—I’m still pretty convinced that I don’t…” I trailed off, trying to consolidate my own thoughts before throwing them out all over him.
“But,” he prompted.
“Don’t but me, mister. I guess I’ve just realized that while I’m still pretty sure I don’t want kids, my chances of having them are also getting considerably smaller.”
“Right, well, being forty-eight doesn’t help matters,” he said, the smile evident in his voice.
“No, forty-eight is rather old to begin a family. And it’s not that my clock is tick-tick-ticking, but when you realize the baby-making years are beginning to wind down, it’s a little scary. Just because I know the options are somewhat limited, I suppose. But seriously, what if you decide ten years from now that you want kids? You’ve changed your mind. At that point, for me, it’s not so possible. You could be giving up a lot being with me, ya know?”
I twisted down lower in the bed. He was in San Francisco doing press, and I was in New York, trying to seek comfort from a duvet as we talked about this very sensitive topic.
“Well, first, I’m flattered that you think you’d still have me ten years from now, so thanks for that.” He laughed, and I smiled underneath the covers.
“And sure, it’s possible that I might change my mind. Who knows? At my very young age, there could be a lot of things I’m undecided about. There’s one thing, though, that I am fairly certain about?”
“What’s that?”
“You. I’m fairly certain about my redhead.”
“Well, that’s good to know. I’m fairly certain about my Brit.”
We’d finally gotten to a place where we were totally honest with each other, even if we didn’t have all the answers. This is what I meant about falling more and more in love.
The plane touched the ground, and I felt my heart swell. Christmas in L.A. was unlike Christmas anywhere else, and I couldn’t wait.
***
Holly had some open time in her schedule that afternoon (amazing!), so she was the one who got to fetch me from the airport. As I walked through baggage after collecting my stuff, I texted her to let her know I was ready. She texted back almost immediately.
Thank God you’re home.
No one has cooked for me in ages!
I’ll be there in 5.
Your favorite bitch
I smiled to myself and gathered my bags. I’d shipped most of my things back, so they’d be arriving within a day or so. I was so happy to get back to life in L.A. and finally make my house a home that I exited the airport with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face.
Outside in the California sunshine, I breathed deep: smog and oranges and excitement. Yummy. I felt the breeze and sunbeams on my face, and I was home. Holly waited at the curb, flipping off several people honking at her. I almost didn’t recognize her. She leaned against the hood of a brand new car, looking fierce. She was on the phone as I approached.
“No, dear, you’re not hearing me,” she said. “He cannot take a meeting tomorrow…No. He’s not meeting with anyone until after the holidays…Nope. Not gonna happen…Okay, we’ll speak again after the new year. Great. Kisses,” she said, rolling her eyes and clicking her phone shut.
She finally spied me and grinned. “Asshead!”
“Dillweed,” I answered, nodding. I dropped my bags, and we hugged it out.
“Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.” She giggled as we embraced.
“Me too.” I laughed, then jumped as we heard another round of honking start.
“Oh, settle down! We’re moving, we’re moving!” she yelled as we piled my bags into the back of her new wheels.
As I settled into the plush leather seat of her Mercedes, I sniffed. I loved new-car smell. “So what’s up, Hollywood?” I asked, running my hands along the wood grain on the dashboard, admiring the lines of her newly chic ride.
“Shut it. It was time to upgrade, and I totally deserve it,” she said, swerving out into traffic and heading for the freeway.
“Yes, you do. I’m amazed you lasted as long as you did, frankly. You’ve wanted one of these since college.” I dug out my phone and began texting the Brit to let him know I’d landed.
“Are you texting Jack?”
“Yep, I told him I would when I got in. Why?”
“He has some interviews this afternoon. He’s so glad to be almost done with this press tour. I got him on an early flight from Madrid, and he should be here sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s what I heard. I’m so glad we have these few days here together before he goes to London,” I said as I sent the text.
Sweet Nuts,
Just landed and headed HOME!
What the hell time is it where you are?
I don’t care—call me before you go to sleep.
Love you and miss your body more.
Dorothy Zbornak
“He’s leaving on the twenty-third, right?” she asked, weaving in and out of traffic with the reflexes of Danica Patrick. L.A. driving could prepare anyone for that circuit.
“Yep.” I sighed. I was glad he was going home for some time with his family. He needed it. When I saw him in recent interviews, my Brit just looked totally exhausted. But still pretty…oh, still pretty.
“But you have all this week with him. Any plans?” she asked, missing a Bentley by mere inches on the 405.
“Nope, just the Christmas dinner on the twenty-first.”
Since most of our friends were staying in L.A. for the holidays, I’d volunteered my house as Holiday Central. We were having a dinner party to celebrate together, and everyone was in charge of something. Jack and I were cooking, and Holly was bringing wine. Nick was providing the entertainment (which terrified me a little), and there would maybe be a few more dropping by.
We chatted and laughed and giggled and swore as we made our way through the Hills of Beverly and on up to my house. As we turned on to Laurel Canyon and the trees closed in around us, I was reminded why I loved this street so much. Growing up in the Midwest, it was easy to think of L.A. as a very cheesy, very plastic, very shiny place. And it was, in certain parts. There was definitely some cheese in this town. But I truly believe you see what you want to see. And if you looked past that, L.A. was beautiful. The pocket neighborhoods, the architectural mishmash, the palm-lined streets. And then there were the canyons: Coldwater, Topanga, Benedict, and finally Laurel. There was something mystical about Laurel Canyon: the way it wound around the mountain, the houses dug into the landscape, the ancient trees, the stillness at night.
And there was my bungalow. Cozy and warm. When we pulled in, I sighed contentedly.
“Happy?” Holly asked as she shut off the engine.
I heard birds chirping. I inhaled and smelled…lemons.
“Hell, yes,” I answered.
She helped me get everything inside, then paused when she saw the Post-it on my fridge next to the picture of Jack and me in Santa Barbara.