“What’d he say?” Arthur asks when she’s made her way back to us.
“He wanted to know if the sun was coming up tomorrow. I told him I think so and that he smells like Uncle Rick now.”
“That’s gin,” I tell her. And we go inside to listen to Hollywood drive away.
CHAPTER 3
Leo’s missing.” Weezie’s call interrupts me in the middle of Wheel of Fortune and my glass of wine.
“Missing what?”
“I mean, we can’t find him. Bruno pulled the trailer right in front of his building to drop him off, no small feat he tells me, and it was empty. They didn’t stop for gas or anything on their way. I’m just, well I’m kind of freaking out.”
“Well, he’s not here. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that he’s been kind of off these past few weeks, drinking too much and sort of disconnected unless he’s on camera. I’m worried.”
“Okay, well he’s not in my house. I don’t have enough space that I wouldn’t notice a grown man hiding. Want me to check the tea house? It’s really the only other shelter and it’s raining out here.”
With a sigh and an eye roll, I put on my coat and boots and make my way out the back door to the tea house. Through the rain I can see that it’s dark. The door is shut, so that it looks like a dead end rather than a beginning. As I get closer and wetter, I start to lose patience with this sad, spoiled man who has the balls to just disappear and make everyone worry.
I throw open the door, maybe too aggressively, and no one’s there. I stare for a few seconds at the empty daybed, the perfect place for him to hide out and get a little extra attention he doesn’t need.
My wine doesn’t taste good anymore when I get back inside. I text Weezie and tell her he’s not here. She reassures us both that if something had happened to him it would already be in the news, which is good. We’re both feeling maternal, I can tell, and we agree to call each other if we have any news. I’m glad to be in the loop, though I don’t know why I even care. It could be because he’s the lead in the movie I wrote, but of course his meeting a tragic end would just increase ticket sales. I try to review his whole persona to see if there’s something about him I like. He’s entitled and rude and never says thank you. I settle on the fact that I like the way he talks to Bernadette. I like the way he notices things. A noticer is a person who can never be entirely self-absorbed, though he’s pretty close.
I lock up and tell my kids to go to bed. They want me to read a chapter of The Hunger Games, which is too dark and too old for them, but I agree because I want to feel fierce. They fall asleep on either side of me, and I decide to let them sleep in my bed. I drift off with Katniss on my mind, relishing in having reclaimed my domain.
* * *
? ? ?
The sunrise wakes me up if I forget to pull the curtains. This is the primary reason why I never, ever pull my curtains. I creep out of bed so as not to wake my kids and head down to the kitchen to press the button on the coffee maker. The sun is rising, those people are gone, and today I’ll write. I feel Bernadette’s signature giddiness bubbling up in me.
I throw my morning sweater over my nightgown and take my coffee out onto the front porch. It’s glorious. The sky is a brilliant pink. The rain has stopped and everything has a just-washed look to it, like green peppers that have just been misted in the produce section.
“Hi.” I swing around at the sound of this greeting and spill half my coffee. Leo is sitting up on the porch swing, wrapped in his duvet, feet tucked under him.
“People are worried about you.”
“I know. I’ll call. But come sit for a sec before it’s over.”
I’m too stubborn to sit, so I turn back around to enjoy the rest of the sunrise before I’ll have to dismantle this guy. When I face him again, he is giving me a soft smile, a younger unguarded smile of someone who is actually pleased. He says, “Your nightgown is see-through. You have nice legs.”
I make a mad dash to the swing and hide my legs under myself. “You’re a real piece of work,” I say, accepting half of his duvet.
We sit in silence for a while watching the colors dissipate from the sky. I don’t want to ask the questions that I know will suck me into his self-pity. And he doesn’t seem that interested in telling me why he spent the night on my porch in the rain.
After a while, I say, “You need to text Weezie.”