Great Big Beautiful Life(40)
“I wouldn’t describe our relationship until now like that, exactly,” he says, visibly and audibly dismayed.
My head cocks to one side. “How would you describe it?”
His eyes train on his green tea. He pushes it farther from the ledge. “So you don’t want to be friends.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” I retort.
He barely smiles. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight?” I ask. “Hot date. At Fish Bowl.”
“Ah. Too bad,” he says.
“Were you going to ask me to hang out?” I ask.
“If you thought you could go one night without talking about Margaret Ives,” he says, “then yes.”
“Ah,” I say. “Too bad.”
“Maybe next month,” he says.
“Maybe,” I agree, standing. “If you can forgive me for taking your job.”
13
My last text from Theo came in at three p.m.: Finishing up here soon.
One good thing about Theo Bouras is that he is, like me, a social creature by nature. Not only was he delighted at the thought of going to Cecil’s not-birthday party, but he’d offered to meet me there, so I didn’t have to wait on him.
I work until six, then take a quick shower, swipe on some mascara, and head out for the night. Downtown is packed, and I have to park four blocks away. As I’m doing so, my phone buzzes with a message from my mom.
I say “message,” but really, it’s just a link to an article about how California is going to eventually go up in flames, then break off from the rest of the country and sink to the floor of the ocean.
Ever since I first moved to LA, I’ve gotten a text like this a few times a year, with such regularity that at times I’ve wondered whether she has a calendar alert set to nudge me about my new home’s impending doom.
I tried to accept it as a form of love, even if the greater implication was also that all my decisions were wrong.
Wow, that’s terrible, I write back, and before I hit send, I stop short just outside of Fish Bowl, guilt creeping in.
I should be checking in with her more often, making sure she’s okay. Dad would be so disappointed if he knew how little we’ve seen of each other since he died.
I’m in Georgia for a story, I add. And I was wondering if I could drive down to see you next weekend?
Sure, she says. Not the most emphatic of responses, but still, a weight eases off my chest.
I tuck my phone into my bag and step inside.
If Fish Bowl verged on overstimulating during my last visit, this time it can only be described as visually cacophonous. From the fishnet-covered ceiling, dozens if not hundreds of colored paper lanterns hang. Massive bouquets of tropical flowers sit atop every table, and most of the guests are dressed in bold florals to match.
The theme, if there is one, appears to be: Bright.
The place is packed, but hardly any tables are taken, everyone standing and milling instead. I pick my way over to the bartender and ask for something tropical and nonalcoholic. He comes back with a tangerine-colored concoction in a goblet, an orchid spilling out over the top of it. “Open or closed?” he asks about my tab when I hand over my credit card.
“Open’s fine.”
He cups a hand around his ear and leans in to hear me over the roar of both the crowd and the music.
“OPEN’S. FINE.”
He goes to run the card, then slides it back over the counter as I scan for anyone I might recognize. Cecil’s nowhere in sight, and the only other person I’ve met before, in any capacity, is Sheri, the waitress carrying a tray of some kind of cheese-puff treat around. I retreat to the booth in the corner to wait for Theo.
When I sent the address to him, he’d sent a thumbs-up back, but no other acknowledgment. I do the math in my head, trying to guess how much longer it might take him to get here.
I send him one more text: Eta?
Rather than pretending to be engrossed by my phone, I opt to set it aside and try to look approachable. This mainly consists of gazing hopefully around the room for anyone not already engaged in conversation whom I could make small talk with.
I would’ve been more careful what I wished for—if I’d thought for even one second that there was a chance Hayden might be here. Again.
He’s the stillest thing in the room, which makes him stand out. His height, even sitting, and his stark black-and-white wardrobe don’t help either.
He’s at a table on the far side of the restaurant, and I become acutely aware that I’ve taken his go-to spot, in the corner, near the bathrooms.
He lifts his water glass in greeting. I lift my ridiculous mocktail back. Then he unfurls from his seat and stalks toward me.
“Twice in one day,” I say.
“It’s a small island,” he says.
“Still,” I say. “An incredible coincidence.”
“Can I sit?” he asks.
I glance toward the door.
“Your hot date,” he says. “Right.”
“He’s running late,” I say, just a hair defensive.
“I can keep you company,” he offers. “If you’d like.”
His voice is low, even, warm—a surprisingly inviting combination. I glance at the time on my phone again, finishing off the calculation that spotting Hayden had interrupted. “For a minute,” I say. “He won’t be much longer.”