“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“She’s mean.” He sat slumped on the bed, knees up, picking at the frayed hem of his Cherokee-brand pants.
“She won’t be mean tonight. She’s excited about babysitting, and she wants to do a good job.” (Besides, I was paying her; she had to be nice.)
I tried pulling my hair back with a clip, but that exposed my dark roots. When was Jay going to send me for a follow-up appointment to Stefano? This was getting embarrassing.
“Why can’t I go to Daddy’s house?” Ben asked.
“Because Daddy got to have you for the past two days. This way, I get to have dinner with you tonight and breakfast with you tomorrow.” (And also, I really, really didn’t want to explain to Hank why I couldn’t have scheduled my date on a different weekend.)
“When will you be home?” His voice quavered.
“Oh, Benji.” I joined him on the bed and put my arms around him. He didn’t hug me back. “It’s not that big a deal. I’m leaving at seven, and you go to bed at eight. I told Mrs. Mott I’d be home no later than eleven. It might even be earlier. When you wake up, I’ll be here, and I’ll make you pancakes.”
I stood up and smoothed out my dress. It was royal blue, slightly off the shoulder, with a 1940s-type hourglass silhouette. Before getting the kids from school, I’d gone downtown and bought a few things at Roadkill Ranch, the boutique Nina was always telling me to visit. With the dress, I wore new black pumps and a chunky silver bracelet.
“Do you like my dress?” I asked Ben.
“No.”
Brady’s reaction was far more enthusiastic. “You look amazing. Just . . . beautiful. And . . . amazing.”
“Thanks.” I liked the way he gazed at me, as if he were trying to memorize my every curve and pore. Had Hank ever looked at me like that? I couldn’t remember.
His apartment was on the second floor of an old, mint green apartment building in West Hollywood. He stood in the open doorway, leaning on the doorjamb, looking especially gorgeous in a blue-and-white-striped shirt, which he wore untucked over soft blue jeans.
See? It was possible to dress casually without looking like a slob. Jay could learn a thing or two—not that I wanted to think about Jay right now.
“You want a beer before we go?” He moved out of the doorway to let me in.
“Sure.” I didn’t really want a beer, but it seemed rude to refuse. Besides, I was eager to see his apartment.
It was nothing special. The main room was a big white box with a rectangular window that looked out to another tired, pastel-colored apartment complex. There was a gray velour couch, a chunky pale wood coffee table, two recliners, and an incredibly large television mounted on the wall. Shiny black boxes sat on the floor next to the television: the DVR, VCR, cable box, and video game console. There were no pictures, no candles, no vases or throw blankets.
In short, the apartment stood as material proof that there was no woman in Brady Ellis’s life. As such, it made me very, very happy.
A can of lemon Pledge sat on the coffee table. I picked it up.
“Cleaning?”
“Oops.” He took it from me. “Didn’t want you to see the apartment in its natural state. I’m not that bad, but my roommate is a pig.”
“You have a roommate?”
He nodded. “He’s not here right now, but yeah. Ivan. He’s a stuntman. And a little person.”
“You live with a midget?”
“Don’t laugh! Dude’s scary. He’s got tattoos all over his back and neck and arms and stuff, plus he’s got a pierced ear and a pierced cheek with a chain that hangs between them.” He shuddered. “Another couple seasons of
Kitty
and I should be able to buy my own place. Assuming there are a couple more seasons . . .”
I remembered what Jay had said about cutting the last season short.
“Haley does seem a little . . . undercommitted,” I said.
“Haley needs to
be
committed.”
When he saw my expression, he ran a hand through his thick dark hair and said, “Sorry—that was harsh. The thing is, I gave a lot of my life to her. A lot of my energy. And it was just so draining. I couldn’t do it anymore—couldn’t fix whatever is wrong with her. She was pulling me down with her, you know? I had to save myself.”
His dark eyes grew intent. “I know it sounds selfish, but I deserve someone who will make me happy.”
I nodded, fighting the urge to shout, “Let me make you happy! Me, me, me!”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m talking too much.”
“No! Not at all!”
His eyes softened. “There’s something about you that just makes me . . . I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Open up. I feel like I can relax around you. That I can be myself.”
“I feel the same way,” I said—and then I laughed at the obvious absurdity of my statement. “I mean—except for when I’m being Haley.”
He grinned. “You may look like her, but you don’t act like her at all. You want a beer?”
“Love one.”
The galley kitchen had white laminate cabinets with chrome fixtures, white countertops, white appliances, even a white tile floor. A fluorescent fixture overhead provided the only light. Aside from a faint sour smell, it reminded me of a hospital.
The refrigerator had one shelf devoted to beer and another crammed with carry-out boxes.
“Meal-delivery meals?” I asked.
“God, no. Take-out containers. I haven’t gone
that
Hollywood.”
He opened two beers and handed me a bottle. I liked that he didn’t offer to pour it in a glass. He was just a regular guy . . . who happened to look like a Greek god.
“You want the tour?”
He took me by the hand and led me down a dark hallway. His roommate’s door was open, revealing a double mattress on the floor with covers so disheveled that they exposed the striped ticking. Clothes, dishes, and magazines covered almost every bit of the carpeting.
“Scary,” I said.
“Sometimes it’s worse,” Brady said.
Next, we passed a dark, grayish bathroom with a shower but no tub. And then we reached Brady’s room. A queen-sized bed, neatly made with blue covers, took up most of the space. There was a tall black laminate dresser and a matching night-stand. There were no pictures on the walls, no photos on the surfaces—nothing. Like Haley, Brady had a guitar propped up in one corner. I felt a stab of jealousy: they had something in common.
I pointed to the guitar. “You play?”
“You want to hear?”
“Of course.”
He took the guitar and settled on the bed. I sat next to him because there was no chair. And because I wanted to.
He played a soft song that I’d never heard before. His voice was smooth and mellow, full of emotion. I could have listened to it for hours.
I would have gotten lost in the music, but the little voice in my head wouldn’t let me:
Ohmigod! I’m next to Brady Ellis! On a bed! Ohmigod, ohmigod, OHMIGOD—what if he makes a pass? What if he actually wants me IN this bed? Would that be wrong?
“Did you like the song?” Brady asked.
I blinked myself back to attention. “Loved it. How long have you been playing?”
“Since high school. Music is my first love. The acting thing just kind of happened. I took the part on
Kitty
because the producers said I’d be able to play my own music, but that hasn’t worked out. They’ve only had me sing twice, and never my own stuff and never alone.”
He held my eyes. I could feel my heart beating all the way up to my throat. He put a hand on my cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”
My lips felt hot. He leaned forward and laid his mouth on mine, and it was like my entire body dissolved into his warmth. I put my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him.
When he drew back, it was like someone had taken my oxygen away. His breathing, still close enough to feel, was warm.
He ran a hand down my arm. It tingled. He said, “This is moving kind of fast. I don’t want you to think . . . I mean, I really like you, and I don’t want it to be like . . .”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s okay.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to take you out. You know—be a gentleman.”
“You don’t have to be too much of a gentleman,” I said, fully prepared to rip off my new blue dress.
He stood up and held out a hand. “We’ve got plenty of time. I want to get to know you first.”
We didn’t have plenty of time, but he didn’t know that. If I was going to make it back to Fullerton by eleven, I’d have to leave right after we had drinks. What would Brady say if he knew I had a child? Would he still like me so much?
He dropped my hand and pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. “I need to text a friend of mine—another actor. We’ve worked together on a couple of projects. He and his girlfriend are going out tonight, thought we might meet up. That okay with you?”
“Sure—of course.” Did Brady like me so much that he was already prepared to bring me into his circle of friends? Or was he not ready to spend an entire evening alone with me?
This kind of overthinking was one reason why I never dated. The other reason was that Brady was the first guy to ask me out since my divorce.
He tapped out a quick text with his thumbs. Almost immediately, the phone buzzed with a response.
“They coming?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Dunno. His girlfriend wants sushi—she likes this place down in Santa Monica—so if they show, it’ll be after, like, eleven.
I nodded, even though that meant I wouldn’t meet his friends; I’d be home by then. It was already after eight-thirty; I hadn’t bargained on spending so much time in Brady’s apartment (though I was glad I had).
For the first time, I was conscious of the age difference between Brady and me. It was only three years, but we were at completely different life stages. But then, I’d skipped right over the postcollege party stage. Was it too late? Did I have to live my life in order?
The apartment building was on stilts, with a parking lot below. Brady pointed out cars. A Camaro: “Belongs to a guy used to be in
MacGyver
.” A bright red Civic: “Girl was on
The Bachelor
—that one with the Italian guy. She didn’t win, but she’s doing some modeling and guest appearances and stuff.”
Brady’s car was a late-model Jeep Cherokee, gleaming on the outside, borderline-filthy within. “Should’ve cleaned,” he said, removing a cardboard coffee cup, half full with an old brew, from the cup holder. He chucked it into a garbage can and climbed into the driver’s seat as I strapped myself in.
He froze. “I forgot to open your door. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Really.” Again, Brady seemed young, but I liked it. I’d already tried the older, door-opening man route, and that hadn’t worked out so well. Maybe it was time to reclaim some of my lost youth.
Bar DeLux was on Cahuenga Boulevard, a street crammed with flashy cars and trendy bars. Brady pulled up to a blocky, glass-fronted brick building. A valet opened my door, exposing me to the peering masses: girls in tiny black dresses, guys in jeans and sports jackets, photographers in bright white sneakers. Flashbulbs bathed my face before I even stepped on the pavement. Jay was going to be pissed.
Brady put his arm around me and ushered me through the crowds.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” I whispered into his ear.
“Don’t worry—inside it’s dark and private. No one will bother us.”
“Haley!”
“Haley—over here!”
“Haley, Brady, Haley!”
“Haley, Brady—are you back together?”
“Smile for me, Haley, Haley—smile!”
The flashing cameras had been fun on the red carpet. Now—not so much. Tonight I was Veronica Czaplicki. That’s who Brady had asked out, not Haley.
At the velvet rope, the bouncer, an enormous man dressed all in black, hesitated. A line had formed to one side: people not beautiful or famous enough to get in without a wait. He looked from me to Brady and back at me, nodded once, and unhooked the rope. “Have a nice night, folks.”
At last, we were in. A willowy girl with heavy eyebrows and hair too dark for her complexion waited inside the door, a velvet curtain behind her.
“Dinner?” She gave Brady a hungry-wolf grin.
Brady took my hand. “Just drinks. Can we get a couch?”
She studied a chart—not an easy task in the dim light—and shook her head. “But if you hang out by the bar, you might be able to get a table.”
“You’ve gotta have at least one couch left,” Brady said, flashing a smile.
“They’re all reserved. For dinner. Really sorry.”
Brady dropped my hand and took a couple of steps toward the girl. At first, I thought he was taking her hand—I’m all in favor of getting a good table, but that was pushing it—but then I realized that he was slipping her some money. I heard him say, “Haley Rush.” The next thing you knew, before I even had a chance to feel miffed at being passed off as Haley, we were past the velvet curtain.
It was like entering a different world—or, at least a different time, one of old Hollywood glamour and Art Deco sophistication. The walls were velvet, the ceiling mahogany, the couches geometric. Flames flickered inside an elaborately carved wooden fireplace. Overhead, crystal chandeliers shaped like wedding cakes cast a yellow glow. Behind the mahogany bar, a lit wall of green stained glass showed a scene from long ago: a time of blimps and Model Ts and quiet, paparazzi-free streets.
Holding hands, we followed the hostess through the small space, weaving between heavily made-up girls in stilettos and pampered guys in jeans and sport coats. At last, we reached our couch.
“It’s like the Emerald City,” I said, looking toward the bar. And it was, too—assuming the Emerald City was dimly lit and had a DJ playing techno pop.
Brady put his arm around me. I looked at his perfect face and thought: Is this really happening?