“The whole thing just seems so . . . inevitable, y’know?” I didn’t know, so I shook my head. “Brando chose that house. And Nathan was there, and his aunt was a casting director, and knew of a job that was perfect for me.” I didn’t believe in fate in the way she did, but I knew there was no way to talk her out of her conclusion that it was all “meant to be.”
“One-stop shopping,” I joked, and she smiled.
“I can’t help but think this is the one,” she said. I thought she was talking about Nathan, until she added, “the big break I’ve been waiting for!” And it occurred to me that the two were connected—this job and this man were her long-awaited destiny.
We’d had versions of the “This is the one!” conversation many times before—after she’d auditioned for a character with her same initials, or for that casting director who was also from Wisconsin, or for that remake of the movie that had made her want to be an actress when she was twelve. This wasn’t the first time she’d found a reason why “this one was different.” But I opted not to remind her.
“Listen, Ashley,” I said. I had made a decision at the gym, and there was no point waiting to tell her. “I’ll always care about you, but I can’t go on like this, being your roommate.” After fifteen rounds with the speed bag, I realized the only way I could move on from this fantasy of finding forever with my childhood friend was to get away from her.
She nodded slowly, like it hadn’t occurred to her that after being dissed I wouldn’t want to stick around. “Do you want me to move out?”
“I was thinking about finding a place closer to work anyway,” I said, which was true; I’d just never had a reason to confess that until now.
“If I get this job, maybe I can take over the rent by myself,” she said brightly. And I felt a little sorry for her.
“You’re putting a lot of stock in this woman.” It’s not that I didn’t believe this woman could help Ashley if she wanted to. I just knew how often people—especially LA people—promised things （I’ll call you! Let’s do lunch!）， then never delivered. The word people used was “flaky”; but the more accurate word was “rude.”
“I think she really believes in me. And she’s so connected. I mean, she knows everybody. I think she might be the missing piece.”
Of course she had no way of knowing that this casting director was not the missing piece, but rather, the piece that was about to go missing. And you didn’t have to be a doctor to know that where she was going, there was no coming back.
PART 3
* * *
AFTER
WINNIE & CHARLIE
CHAPTER 21
* * *
WINNIE
I found out my mother was dead in the produce aisle at Whole Foods.
I was examining an organic lemon the size of a baseball when my cousin’s call came in. I almost didn’t answer—I can’t stand people who jabber on their phones in supermarkets, blocking your access to the butter, then getting all self-important when you interrupt to ask them to move—but Nathan didn’t call very often, and I was curious what he wanted.
“Hi, Nathan,” I said, putting the lemon-ball back on the pile. “Your timing is perfect. You just saved me from buying a three-dollar lemon.” I pushed my cart toward a tower of apples with one hand and held my phone to my ear with the other. Talking while shopping was probably the only form of multitasking I had mastered in my adult life, unless you count shooting tequila while drinking beer—that I could do all day and night.
“If it’s not a good time, I can call you later,” he said.
“It’s the perfect time,” I said. “I hate to shop alone.” OK, that was misleading but not untrue. I hated to shop under any circumstances—alone, in a pack, even online while listening to the Beyoncé channel. Not having a reliable way to pay for things does that to a person.
“Maybe you should step outside,” he said. And I stopped browsing.
“Nathan, what’s going on?”
I heard him take a deep breath. Then, with lungs full of courage: “I’m really sorry to tell you this, Winnie”—his voice cracked as he said my name—“but your mom has passed.”
For a moment I didn’t understand. I mean, I knew what “passed” meant—deceased, expired, departed, kicked the bucket—but it didn’t seem possible. My mom was a Mack truck. You could litter the road with nails, then ram her from all sides and it wouldn’t even slow her down. And now he was saying she had “passed”？