Penny sighs. “Fine. You can look like yourself, but we’ll fix you up a little.”
My mom ends up with a canary-yellow chiffon gown with long billowing sleeves. She looks like old Hollywood, glamorous in a carefree kind of way. I am more excited seeing my mom in this dress than I have been since I got the call.
In a stroke of good luck, they have one lavender dress, and I happen to love it. It has a wide scoop neck that shows off my collarbones （take that, Leo） and hangs in heavy crepe to the floor. It fits where it should, but nothing pulls, nothing grabs. It’s completely comfortable. When I put it on, my mom says, “That’s the one. I like the way you feel in it.”
Over meatloaf, the week before the event, Bernadette has a million questions. I’ve already answered most of them. Will there be snacks? What if I get cold? Who will drive me to the party after? Have I practiced walking up stairs in my shoes?
Arthur is quiet. “Are you worried about this, Arthur? I don’t expect to win, I just think it’ll be fun to get dressed up and be on TV.”
“Will Leo have a date?” he asks.
“He’ll be with Naomi Sanchez, his co-star.” And I’m not sure why I say it this way, as if Arthur is going to be upset that she’s his girlfriend.
“I bet he liked hanging out with you more than he likes hanging out with her.”
Bernadette and I both look at him, surprised. This isn’t something we really talk about anymore, but it sort of feels like he’s been stewing about it for a while. “Well, who wouldn’t?” I say, and I’m rewarded with a smile.
“Poor Naomi,” Bernadette kids.
“She’s a real charity case,” I say.
CHAPTER 21
It’s the end of February and I wake up in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Because I’m an Oscar nominee, I remind myself. I go to my balcony to see if I can see the sunrise, but I can’t. Los Angeles seems to center entirely around the sunset. I make myself a cup of coffee and look over the treetops.
I am happy, I think. Whenever I remember to think of the things I’m grateful for, my health, my kids, and the sunrise have been top of the list. Throw in my house, and I really have nothing to complain about. Even when Ben was around and belittling me for selling out and writing crappy romance movies, I felt grateful for my work. I mean someone had to sell out, you can’t walk into the Stop n’ Save and trade big ideas for chicken.
But this. To have written a screenplay that is essentially my truth, or at least represents my feelings about my truth, and to have it produced and then appreciated. It’s almost too much for me to contain at this moment. What if people like Sunrise? What if this is my new normal—showing people my heart and having them applaud it?
And as for my heart, it’s okay. I’ve read that quote a million times, the one about knowing when to let go of things that were not meant for you. Leo was not meant for me. I mean, look at him. We had a moment, and it was perfect. Can’t I just leave it at that? Encapsulate the memory and protect it? Maybe the whole thing was just a dream, anyway. Frankly, if his sheets weren’t sitting on Kate’s guest room bed, I might actually think I made the whole thing up.
I go for a run through the flats of Beverly Hills and meet my parents at In-N-Out Burger for lunch. I want real food in my stomach tonight; I want to feel solid. “I hope your fairy godmother’s bringing backup,” my dad jokes as I wipe the grease off my face with the last napkin. I’m in my most comfortable jeans and an over-washed sweatshirt.
“Charlie!” my mom admonishes with a grin.
“You think I’m going to have a chance to meet Leo?” my dad asks.
“Maybe. But if you do, just pretend he’s any guy, like this never happened. No questions. No innuendos.”
“Oh, I’ve got questions all right. Putz.”
This feels like a real wild card. “Dad, let’s all just act like he’s a guy who showed up to celebrate my big night. We’re not mad at him. We’re not intimidated by him. We’re just happy, neutral people who have moved on.”
“I’m not an actor, sweetheart.”
* * *
? ? ?
The glam squad shows up at my room and they blow out my hair and curl the ends, making me look like I didn’t have my hair done but that I’m just a person with good hair. This is what I asked them for.
Someone shows up with a spray tan tent. “Weezie sent me,” she says. I tip her and send her home. This is the color I am, I’m afraid. I tell the makeup lady that I don’t feel comfortable in makeup, that she needs to go on the light side.