I met my dog’s hopeful gaze. I had no way of knowing that taking him for a walk that night was going to blow up my life, so I gave in to the guilt and got up off the couch.
“No, it’s OK.” I sighed. “I’m getting up.”
I swung my legs off the couch and Brando literally jumped for joy. Dogs are so easy to please—let them out when they’re in, and in when they’re out, and they’ll reward you with sloppy, wet kisses for days.
I went to my room to change. I liked that we lived in a freestanding house and not a noisy apartment with people coming and going at all hours, but our little bungalow had seen better days. The carpeting was getting stained and frayed around the edges, and we never did get that broken window fixed like we told the landlord we would. But I didn’t complain. This place was nicer than anything I could have afforded on my own. Even if I could have made rent, I would have been living in an empty shell—no pots, pans, dishes, cable TV, or set to watch it on. I came to LA with nothing beyond my clothes, my favorite pillow, and my dog-eared copies of Stanislavski and Uta Hagen. I slept on a futon that was used before I bought it off Craigslist seven years ago, and all the stuffing had migrated to the sides, making it more like a lumpy canoe than a bed. It was definitely time for some furniture upgrades, but somehow at the end of the month I barely had enough money left to pay my share of the rent.
“Weather’s weird,” Jordan said as I emerged from my room in a black hoodie and leggings.
“Super weird,” I agreed as I pulled on a baseball hat, completing my ninja dog walker look. I had lived with Jordan since we moved to LA from Wisconsin the summer after we graduated from college—me to pursue acting （pretend career）， and him to go to med school （actual career）。 Except for that one drunken kiss, we’d never dated, but we got along really well—so well that at one point we joked if we were still single at thirty, we should get married. At least I thought we were joking. My thirtieth birthday was coming up, and we had already celebrated his—Do I dare bring it up?
I contemplated my current dry spell as I slipped on my sneakers. It had been a long time since I’d invited a guy to spend the night, and not just because of that lumpy futon. And Jordan hadn’t brought a girl home since the yoga teacher he’d thought was “the one” cheated on him at our Halloween party, literally in his own backyard. That was almost a year ago. We were already playing house—bulk buying at Costco, drinking out of the same milk carton, sharing a Netflix account—just in separate bedrooms. We were probably closer than a lot of married couples—except of course for the sex part; that we had never done.
I looked over at my roommate as he typed on his laptop in our tiny kitchen. He was indisputably handsome, with his sepia complexion and eyes like clover honey. And I was pretty sure he’d once been attracted to me, even when we weren’t three margaritas deep. So what happened? How did we settle into this platonic cohabitation? Does he want things to change? Do I?
“Bye, Jordan,” I said as I clipped the leash on Brando’s collar. I could feel my hair start to frizz the moment I walked out the door. I missed many things about living in Wisconsin, but stifling humidity and bad hair days were not among them.
“Be safe,” Jordan called after me as I headed out.
I didn’t think there was anything ominous about Jordan’s send-off. People say “be safe” all the time, like, “take care,” or “see you later.”
But I was an actress, not a bank teller. I’ve never been one to play it safe.
CHAPTER 2
* * *
LOUISA
“You didn’t have to make me dinner,” my nephew, Nathan, said as I pulled the baked trout out of the oven and gazed down into its dull black thumbtack eye. Some people don’t like the sight of a whole dead fish on their plate, it makes them feel murderous; they prefer the sanitized version—filleted and disguised by lemony gravy. But I didn’t feel bad for my fish friend; he was raised to be on my table. With his trip through my oven, he was fulfilling his potential, which was more than you could say for most people.
“If I didn’t cook for you, who would?” I teased, and my nephew glared at me.
“I’m a perfectly good cook, Aunt Louisa,” he shot back, reminding me that he did not subscribe to stereotypical gender roles. In that respect we were the same. When people found out I was rich, they inevitably asked, “So what does your husband do?” I had the great pleasure of seeing their ears ripen when I told them, “He’s dead, so not much.” After the obligatory “Oh, I’m so sorrys,” eventually came some version of “Well, what did he do, then?” Because they assumed it was he who had made us rich. But I was the breadwinner, and he kept the nest. The plan was to let me work until my profession spit me out, then travel the world together, enjoying the spoils of my labor. But his heart attack and my subsequent diagnosis crushed that dream, and now I was out to pasture with nothing to do with my money but look at it on a balance sheet.