“Pretty much,” Sam says, flopping down beside her. “I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, but I liked the attention.”
“You?” she asks, feeling her lips quirk. There’s a little bit of stubble on his chest and she strokes it absently with one finger—liking the soft porcupine-y bristle of it, how weirdly intimate it is. She tries not to think about the look on his face at the club earlier tonight, that cold flash of panic in his eyes like he’d suddenly realized he was in over his head and needed to get away from her as soon as humanly possible. She can feel his heart tapping away underneath his skin. “I’d never have guessed.”
Sam looks down, watching her. “I go to a Hungarian woman named Renate,” he confesses, covering her hand with his. “The first couple of times I screamed like that scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, but now I’m very stoic about the whole thing.”
Fiona props herself on one elbow. “Does Renate give you a lollipop at the end and tell you what a brave young man you’ve been?”
“That is the kind of positive reinforcement I require, yes.”
“I thought so,” Fiona says with a smile, and climbs on top of him one more time.
“Did you know that Eartha Kitt had a threesome with Marlon Brando and James Dean?” Claudia asks on Saturday morning. They’re sitting on Estelle’s screened-in patio doing foot masks, which Estelle bought on Amazon and which promise to slough layers of dead skin off and leave their heels as soft as a baby’s.
Fiona raises her eyebrows. “Where did you hear that?” she asks, at the same time as Estelle says, “She wasn’t the only one.”
Fiona and Claudia look at her, then at each other. “Say more about that,” Claudia instructs Estelle, as Fiona ducks her head back over the thank-you card she’s writing. Across the yard and inside her house a beautiful orchid is sitting on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, alongside a note from Thandie that says she hopes Fiona is taking good care of herself. She didn’t mention the video—Thandie wouldn’t—but still Fiona has been working on her reply for the better part of an hour, trying to strike the right balance of gratitude and actually this was completely unnecessary, as I’m extremely fine and sane. The whole thing is mortifying, even though she knows Thandie meant it sincerely. It’s mortifying, even though she knows Thandie’s just being a good friend.
“Okay,” Fiona says finally, bending down and sliding the disposable cotton booties off her feet, which are slimy with some kind of gel. She actually has no idea what’s in this mask, though the package had a bold-print warning against using it if she was pregnant or nursing. “On that note, I’ve gotta get ready for rehearsal.”
“Are you coming home tonight?” Claudia asks. “Or are you sleeping at Sam’s?”
That gets Estelle’s attention. “How often is she sleeping at Sam’s?” she asks, crossing her elegant ankles and eyeing Fiona with interest.
“Three nights this week,” Claudia reports.
Fiona’s mouth drops open. “Claudia!”
“Well, you are.” Claudia shrugs.
“Good for Fiona,” Estelle says, toasting her with a coupe glass full of V8. “And as for you, principessa”—she turns to Claudia—“you know Brando and I are always happy for company if you find yourself getting lonely over there.”
Fiona frowns. “Are you?” she asks. She’s been worrying about this, her sister alone in the house with only their dad for company, even though Claudia has been very clear that she’s graduating in a couple of months and certainly doesn’t need babysitting. “Getting lonely?”
“Desperately,” Claudia says, her fox-like face going serious. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. I think I’m going down a bad path. Some other latchkey kids at school got me hooked on huffing whipped cream and I feel like it’s probably only a matter of time until I’m creeping into your room at night and stealing your Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award to hock for Reddi-wip money.”
Fiona snorts. “All right,” she says, wiping her sticky feet with a towel and standing up. “You’ve made your point.”
“I like Sam,” Estelle announces, taking a sip of her V8—which, upon closer examination, seems to be mostly vodka. “He seems extremely virile.”
Fiona manages to keep a straight face, but barely. “I’ll be sure to let him know you think so.”
“Has he said anything else about the show?” Claudia asks.
Fiona shakes her head. “He hasn’t,” she admits, a little grudgingly. “He said he wouldn’t, and he hasn’t.”
“Almost like he just wants to spend time with you because he likes spending time with you,” Estelle says pointedly.
Fiona feels herself prickle, though she isn’t entirely sure why. “Almost like,” she agrees.
“I’m happy for you, ma chérie,” Estelle continues. “You deserve it.”
“Don’t go picking out our wedding china just yet,” she says. “We barely know each other.”
“Seriously?” Claudia sounds surprised now, the joke drained right out of her voice. “Fiona,” she says quietly. “You’ve been half in love with him since you were like fifteen.”
“I—what?” Fiona sputters, her cheeks flaming. “I have not!”
“Easy,” Claudia says, holding both hands up. “I’m not saying it to be an asshole.”
Fiona eyes her. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” Claudia says evenly, sitting perfectly still in her lounge chair. “I’m saying it because I think it’s, like, kind of true.”
Fiona gazes at her sister for a long moment, still holding her ridiculous cotton booties. “I’m going to be late,” is all she says.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam
Sam figures Russ will call him when he gets back from Tulum, but after a week goes by and he doesn’t hear anything he calls and leaves a message with Sherri, who promises to pass it along. “Nothing urgent,” he tells her, trying not to sound desperate or sweaty. He would have thought he’d heard back about the firefighter show by now. “Just, you know. Checking in.”
He drops in on his old acting class in the Valley. He spends a lot of time at the gym. He goes on YouTube and watches old Birds of California clips for a while, which is weirdly enjoyable—turns out it was a pretty good show, with sharp dialogue and the occasional bit of slapstick and a knack for tearjerker montages set to acoustic covers of classic rock songs. He’d forgotten what a gifted comedian Fiona could be when she wanted to, all perfect timing and elastic expression, her delivery always dead-on.
Sam blows out a breath, leaning his head back against the couch and sifting his hands through his hair. He knows he needs to be honest with her, to talk to her about Birds, but he doesn’t trust her not to bite his head off the second he brings it up. The last thing he wants to do is lose her. But it feels like he’s running out of time.
Still, Sam reminds himself, they might have gotten famous for playing precocious teenagers on television, but they aren’t actually kids anymore. They can have actual conversations. He’ll take her out, he decides—somewhere nice with white tablecloths and flattering lighting, the kind of place where they call french fries frites.