It was entirely too hot here in Berkeley this past week, from last Saturday afternoon all the way through Wednesday. In my foolishness, I thought by moving north I’d be leaving behind scorching temperatures, but it seems we had the worse deal out of the heatwave, if the reports I’m hearing from my friends in LA are true. What I definitely left behind was an air conditioner, and my sweet little studio, I discovered, becomes a brutal little hotbox at night — the A-frame effectively traps the heat during the day, so the evenings are going to be sultry for the rest of the summer, unless I figure out how to cool the place. Last Saturday night was almost bearable, after Alex and I had both taken cold showers and had a dinner of ice cream. (Sometimes being a grownup isn’t so bad, after all.)
Alex was due to leave on Sunday for a week in New York for work, but the only way I could even imagine getting sleep until the heat broke, given the forecast, would be to stay at his apartment so I could take advantage of central air. (I was even willing to put up with having to listen to his neighbor almost but not quite reach orgasm on several consecutive evenings for this luxury.) The other option was of course to stay at a hotel, which I very much wanted to do starting on the first hot Saturday, but Alex dismissed this as a “colossal waste of cash.” It’s not like it’s his money I was going to spend, but he found the idea of staying with me in a room effectively paid for by Julian “fucking disgusting right now, Mel.” (I suppose there is a fiction he can live with that my rent is paid for by my wages alone, sidestepping the problem of staying over at my place.)
So that Saturday night we made the best of the sweltering situation in the A-frame by spending the evening sitting around in the back garden, eating pints of Talenti. We spread out Alex’s grubby old blanket and lay down and listened to Mystic Braves play tinnily on his phone’s speaker and held each other’s hand as the sunset turned to dusk to night. We talked lightly for the fourth or fifth time about what the “next” is for us — I am too afraid to ask him if we could think about getting married, even though I want it so badly, for fear of breaking the spells keeping our relationship together as well as it currently hangs.
We headed back to San Francisco very early on the Sunday morning. Alex’s flight was around 1pm, so I wanted to make the best of an abbreviated day by having breakfast at home — I made walnut and honey waffles, as well as a small pitcher of mimosas, and packed Alex’s bag for him while he showered. He was a little irritated that I’d taken it upon myself to pack for him, claiming he was perfectly capable of doing it himself (which of course he is, Minty never picked up a finger for him), and I was not his “skivvy or valet, dammit.” I asked how this was any different from when he helped me pack up the other weekend when Rachel had arrived unexpectedly, and he rolled his eyes. “Stuffing your dirty knickers in a handbag is hardly the same thing, Mel. What I’m worried about is you assuming that your job is to wait on me, to anticipate my every wish. It isn’t, and all I can see when you do this is not your desire to please me — which this doesn’t, anyway — but your fear of that cheerless sod you married.”
It did give me some pause. Jenn has said repeatedly that after over a decade being with Julian (with only a couple of relationship breaks), I’m in dire need of deprogramming. “He initiated you into a cult where there was one leader and one follower, Mel. Just because he never laid a hand on you doesn’t mean that he didn’t cow you into submission.” And she’s right, he’s right — it’s all reflexive, all these defensive moves, all these small behaviors meant to stave off disaster. I’m not sure I had a conscious thought about why I should pack for Alex. I mean, I spent years being reminded that I didn’t have a job outside the home, so my job was the home and making sure Julian was comfortable when he was there (when he wasn’t in Seattle, or Miami, or New York, or Houston). (“We’re a partnership, Melissa. I’m proud of how you keep up your duties, just as I’m proud of the work I do.”) Packing Julian’s bags meant he could get another hour of sleep, and since I had a surfeit of empty hours in my life, what was one spent helping my husband?
The incident put a damper on the remaining time we had together last Sunday morning after what had been an otherwise enjoyable weekend, given Friday night’s confessions about Julian and the wedding. Alex’s heightened emotional state after our discussion had led to some, um, carnal embrace later that evening, which to be honest is not always a thing that happens every Friday — I’m very sensitive about Ms. Bob hearing us through the walls, and Al is sometimes too tired to want to do much of anything beyond watching (and re-watching) episodes of Black Mirror on Netflix. Getting worked up by Julian’s dictat was enough to get his blood roiling, perhaps — I could practically hear him saying “mine, mine” to an absent and unaware Julian.
Alex left around 10:30 am, and I found myself in the city with not much to do. I could have walked down to the Presidio but the heat… ugh. I decided to stay inside and bingewatch “Dead to Me.” (I admit thinking while I was watching it how much easier life would be if Julian was just… not around anymore, but I felt immediately guilty about that, if only for his sister’s sake. Annabelle and I never had any problems.) I was two episodes in when Jenn called.
“Hey babe — promise me you’re free Friday night.” Jenn sounded breathless, and I could barely hear her above what sounded like a disco with someone freestyling about “resistance” and lots of whooping, which seemed strange to me for 1 pm, even for Jenn.
“Jenn… are you at SoulCycle?”
“Fuck, I’m getting kicked out. Well, fuck you too! Did you know you’re not supposed to make calls at SoulCycle?” I had no reply for this. “Those fuckers kicked me out. ANYway, what are you doing Friday night? What’s Alex doing Friday night? Can you be in LA?”
The disco din had died down. “Why would I need to be in LA?”
“Sean is in town from Portland and we haven’t seen him in ages. He’s getting in on Thursday and leaving Sunday, and I thought we could get everyone together at Seven Grand to drink whisky and get deeee-runk on Friday night. Pleeeeeease, Mel. He’s down for it and Jen’s coming too, as long as Sean doesn’t insist on Mack showing up. Which even if Mack does, we can see Jen on Saturday. Caitlin’s a pain and says she can’t make it but I need you. Get Alex to come too, he’ll love Seven Grand.”
I have to admit, I immediately thought it would be a great idea — I hadn’t been home since I moved to the Bay Area at the end of last year. And it’s not like Alex is paranoid about my friendship with Sean like Julian was. Before his visa was issued, and I was still in Pasadena on my own, Julian freaked out once when I stayed over at Sean’s after a night out in Culver City. We’d been out for my birthday, I had a little too much to drink, and since Sean lived closest to the bar, he took me home and tucked me in on his sofa. Nothing happened between us — Sean always respected my relationship with Julian — but Julian never was convinced that Sean wasn’t just waiting to make his move. Then again, Julian was paranoid about any man getting within 10 feet of me who wasn’t my father.
“Well,” I considered, “I might be able to get Friday and Saturday off if Ben says it’s okay, but Alex can’t make it. He’s on his way to New York right now and won’t be back until Saturday night. I should probably check with him as well.”
“Mel, I love you, but you should just TELL Alex you’re going. You don’t need his permission. Hell, I know Alex, he’d probably get irritated that you even thought to ask his permission.” I can’t say this isn’t true, especially after the conversation we’d had that morning. A trip home sounded like exactly the sort of break I needed badly, especially after the stress of Julian’s phone call. I could see my old group, have brunch with my parents (and maybe Rachel and Matt, if Matt could convince Rachel to get out of bed before 2 on a Sunday), and if I stayed at the Standard, hang out at the pool on Saturday with the Jen(n)s. Yes, it sounded lovely.
“I’m texting Ben right now to ask him if I can, only because it’s Sean.” Ben owes me big time from March, when he took four days off to go to his cousin Gracie’s wedding at Dollywood.
“Mel, you have to be there. Sean is bringing his new girlfriend and we are going to have to do a full debrief after. She looks so ridiculous and I can’t wait to meet her in person to see if she is exactly as gross in real life as she looks on Instagram.” Jenn stalks everyone on Instagram, and Sean’s girlfriend of three months is no exception. I was intrigued though, because Greta — all of 23 and an aspiring Instagram influencer — really did look ridiculous: daisy crowns and dawn yoga with #kevitakombucha and eating croissants in bed with #bonnemaman and one truly amazing and tear-drenched video where she admitted that she was “coming out” as “suffering” from corns so #drscholls.
Text from Ben: “if u r going 2 meet Greta YES” (Ben is now stalking Greta too.)
“Yes pretty sure Greta will be there, I’ll get her to give the shop a shoutout k?” I replied. Ben sent back a throbbing heart.
“Okay Jenn, I’m in. Let’s do it.” I was already mentally writing out a packing list — Paige jeans (dark wash, high rise) and blush pink Chloe top (last season) with some Sam Edelman pumps (Ferragamo cross-body purse) for Friday night; Missoni romper and junky old Roman sandals for Saturday daytime, plus my retro Esther Williams swimsuit and a silk kimono for poolside (pajamas for after-pool); and the Paige jeans again with my beat-up Supergas plus the oversized navy Everlane v-neck sweater that was actually Caitlin’s for Sunday brunch (YSL shoulder bag). It had been so long since I’d had a chance to dress up for anything — my job can get dusty at times, given the age of some of the books I’m handling, and Alex and I are homebodies for the most part. (I did take us out to the French Laundry one time for which we dressed accordingly, but San Francisco and Berkeley are generally dress-down towns.) Julian regularly took me out to Nobu and Mélisse, and I always made an effort. To be honest, I’ve been sliding a little recently. I don’t visit the spa or the derm as frequently as I used to, I occasionally wash my hair with Alex’s Pantene and I haven’t had a blowout in six months. I don’t even want to discuss my nails.
“Book those tickets, lady, and meet me at Seven Grand at 7pm on Friday. Everyone else is getting there at 8 and I want an hour of you for myself. What can I say, I’m selfish.” I could hear Jenn smiling down the phone. “Get your skinny ass here, Mel. Let’s get ripped.”
***
I ended up getting a flight from Oakland to Burbank, since the times just worked better but ugh, Southwest. I do feel guilty about it, but it’s times like these that I miss things like hopping a ride on a private jet. (We didn’t own one, but Julian had a membership or fractional ownership or something, and we only really ever flew commercial if it were a trip abroad. So spoilt now, I realize.) I really am trying to save money these days, to use Julian’s monthly stipend only for rent, and otherwise live on my wages from my job at the bookstore. I walk as much as possible or ride my bike, eat a mostly vegetarian diet and cook from scratch most nights, and try to avoid using Uber or Lyft just because I’m in a hurry. I’m usually able to bank a few thousand a month from each support payment, or even more on occasion, and I just add it to the lump sum I received in the divorce, all of which is invested in an active portfolio. Someday Julian’s payments will stop, and I need to be prepared.
Alex though… I don’t know where his money goes. I mean, I do — mostly home to take care of Cora and Fenn, and to Minty and Lucy — but it seems like there should be more. He doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t gamble, and his only weaknesses are beautiful clothing (he got over the moth-eaten sweaters once he got a job at Goldman Sachs on the quant side right out of uni), books and wine. But where I squirrel mine away, with the occasional indulgence (like the YSL handbag), Alex’s seems to barely rest in his account. He’s never been able to live completely within his means, and while I understand much of that has to do with his family obligations, it doesn’t mean I’m not occasionally upset about it (though I try not to mention it — I’m not a nag.) Every dollar or pound spent without thought is one that could have been put aside for the future, our future. God, I sound like Julian when I say that.
Even before we were a couple, when we were very much still “just friends,” I would gently suggest to Alex that perhaps it was time to sell the old house in Perthshire, and that maybe Cora, or at least Fenn, could consider getting a job. Alex would not hear of it — Cora and Fenn are artists, and cannot be expected to abandon their craft, even for a few hours a day, for a few pounds an hour. Alex won’t say it, but I know the other reason: he thinks it’s below them. The Carrs may be just squeaking by, but they have something worth more than money: they are (Julian told me long ago) landed gentry. They have a name, which has its own somewhat ineffable worth.
There was some minor title in the family past, but that passed on another line of the family a long time ago, in a generation where his immediate ancestor was a second son. What they do have is a moldering house, some land that didn’t pass with the title (much of the many hundreds of acres they once possessed was sold off long ago), and a rather relaxed attitude about income. The house and the land and the name are the sole connections to their once-elevated status, and even though Alex is hardly a snob, he is at least subconsciously aware of his social position and what doors that opens, especially at home in Britain. Julian was too, of course, which was very much the reason he glommed onto Alex in the first place back at school. Alex had transferred in as a boarder after it occurred to his mother that he might need a little polishing up before university. (Prior to then, he’d been indifferently homeschooled by Cora and a revolving cast of tutors, all of whom saw immense mathematical aptitude in Alex, but few of whom would put up with his strop-throwing and snide comments for too long.) Alex threw open opportunities for Julian, like the smart set they mixed with in Bristol, that might have otherwise been barred to him by dint of his Widnes-born, working class father. And in Julian, Alex found a friend who put up with his sullen attitude and lack of ready cash, someone who forced him to come out of his hermitage from time to time and confront the world. (Left to his own devices back in his first year at Bristol, Alex would have happily sat in his rooms playing Grand Theft Auto on an ancient PS2, chainsmoking Silk Cuts and drinking 2-litre bottles of Strongbow, all to a soundtrack of Mogwai.)
Gosh, I have gotten sidetracked from what I intended to write about. Maybe it’s the hangover from Friday night, even still. (It’s Sunday early afternoon here right now, about to go meet Rachel for brunch.) So yes, I was in the airport lounge at Oakland, scrolling through Instagram, mostly to refresh my memory about Greta in preparation for this evening. Part of me feels sorry for the girl — she’s more than a decade younger than the rest of us, and we’ve all known each other since grade school — but her ridiculous sponcon and cookie-cutter Instaesthetic (long blonde braids, floppy hat, gypsy dress, aviators) makes me feel okay about not liking her in advance. Particularly if Jenn’s with me on this one.
I’d had a couple of glasses of sparkling wine and felt the stress of the week beginning to slough off me, a skin I was shedding to be shiny and new in LA. I’d decided to simply ignore Julian’s repeated text messages to call him with an update on Alex’s decision on Jamie’s wedding, and every text I received just added to the anxiety I was feeling about my decision not to engage. After discussing it with Alex, I concluded that letting Julian sweat it out for four months would drive him even crazier than letting him know now, an idea that appealled immensely to me. And since the likelihood of running into Julian is pretty low before the wedding, I really had no incentive to allow him another opportunity to make me feel stupid and useless for failing to achieve what he wanted me to. Alex was so proud of me for making this choice on my own: “Mel, you’ve got him where you should have always had him — beholden to you. I love it when you’re the bold little tiger I always knew you were.”
Between the wine and the feeling of female empowerment (oh god, I really must tell the Women’s March story at some point) and the Instastalking and the anticipation of a night out, I settled on posting a selfie from the lounge of myself with a glass of bubbly and my copy of Anna Burns’ “Milkman” with the comment: “LA bound! Friends, whisky and poolside lounging at @standardhoteldowntown await — a perfect weekend if Alex could be with me instead of #NYC.” I got a couple of likes right away from Jen and Jenn, as well as Rachel who commented, “Bitch better have her SUMMER BODY ready!” (Thanks, Rachel.) I heard my flight being called and I tossed back the rest of the wine, ran to the gate (no way I was getting a center seat, even for less than an hour), switched off my phone and didn’t think much of the post again while I was on the plane. (Aisle seat, thank GOD.)
As we taxied into Burbank (I avoid LAX whenever I can — it holds not only some of the worst traffic in LA, which is saying something, but also many bittersweet memories of meeting up with Julian as he returned to the US), I switched the phone back on. I picked up and replied to texts from Alex (“MWAH! Hope you avoided the Dreaded Centre Seat, call me when you are settled”), Ben (“i’d better see you on greta’s insta tonight”) and Jenn (“Fucking Sean insisting on Mack, no Jen tonight”). There were a couple of Instagram notifications but I decided to leave them — I used to be so caught up in the gratification of getting likes and comments, the same sort of validation of my simple existence that posting on my old blog brought me, and I now know that way Klonopin lies.
Today, my life is decidedly not glamorous and generally makes for a boring account — odd books Ben acquires for the shop (there was one particular lot that came in that were all about tractors and tractor repairs — I never even thought they came in any flavor other than “John Deere” but I learned something that day), loaves of bread I bake, sometimes just selfies of Ben and me because we’re bored at work. Sure, I like the likes still, but I have learned that the value of my own self is not measured that way. (“You are even more amazing in real life, Mel, than on some fucking useless screen,” Alex told me one evening, months before the wheels came off my marriage. “Delete the app.” So I did, for almost a year.)
Hills and trees and businesses and signs familiar to me sped by on the 5 South, though everything was so much greener than I recalled in recent years. Alameda Ave, the 134, the sign for the LA Zoo, the edge of Griffith Park. And though I hadn’t lived in Los Angeles itself since before kindergarten (we moved to Burbank when mom finished her residency), this still feels very much my home. I wanted to stay far away from Pasadena, and all of its memories, all of its reminders of the promise of a marriage gone sour, of children who never arrived, of a life that gently then forcefully steered itself off track. Even my parents’ home holds unwelcome souvenirs of the post-wedding brunch we’d celebrated there at my insistence. (How I wish now I’d caved into Julian’s insistence that we hold it at the Langham instead! I can’t exactly tell my parents to sell their house just because it reminds me of Julian, and how I failed.)
No, staying at the Standard is a better idea than crashing at my parents’, not least because I managed to pick the only weekend they aren’t around for six months. (“Well, baby,” my dad explained to me when I called to let my parents know I’d be coming back, “normally I’d love to see both my daughters for Father’s Day, but since your mom and I didn’t expect you to come home, we booked a weekend in Santa Barbara a while back. And you know Rachel, I never assumed she’d want to do anything besides call me.” Poor dad, he suffers from the same “why can’t Rachel love me the way I want” disease that has plagued me my entire life.) It holds only happy and drunken memories and half-memories of parties and ultra-long weekends with Alex during the time we spent in a London-LA shuttle “what the fuck are we doing” relationship of sorts, before I was ready to commit to him. (Julian could not countenance Alex coming into our Pasadena home “to violate my own wife in my own bed,” even after he’d moved out, so Al and I settled on the Standard for our weekends until I moved to the Burbank apartment.)
As we merged on to the 110, I checked my post. More likes from Caitlin and my mom (who cannot help herself from liking and commenting on every single thing I have ever posted on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, back when I was trying to figure that out), Ben (who had replied to Rachel, “fuck her summer body, bitch better be in greta’s feed soon” — Ben and Rachel are now BFFs on Instagram, as I’d feared) and Sean (“LITTLE EM — TONIGHT!”), Bex and Charlie and Miranda (“I hate your face getting to be in the sun without me”). And Julian: “What fun. Welcome home — wish I could see you but I’m in Seattle.”
Julian! I hadn’t even considered that he would see the post, but thankfully I would be spared from him inserting himself into this weekend. (Seattle, I have never loved you more.) Jenn had replied to him, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself while you’re up there, J? :-)” — restraint has never been in Jenn’s wheelhouse. And without the faint spectre of a chance that I might run into Julian over the weekend (he lives a block away from Seven Grand), I felt the last of the stress flow out of me. I asked the driver if I could roll down the window — I wanted to feel the hazy breeze of home.
***
Friday night was… a bit of a shitshow, in the best possible way. After checking in (upgraded to one of the Huge rooms), I had enough time to get my hair blown out (at last!) before I had to meet Jenn. I got to the bar first — mostly because I was sitting around in my room, ready and bored. I had spoken to Alex earlier, and he was out with work colleagues so I couldn’t while away the extra time in the way I wished the most. You would think after having spent so many years with an abundance of unfilled hours I would have better ways to fill them, but no. I ordered a whiskey sour, found a space at the bar, and started scrolling through Instagram again.
Jenn showed up on time (for her — 20 minutes late for everyone else), and we spent our alone time mostly catching up on her unfailingly bad internet dates. This week featured a guy with “the most depressing post-divorce slum of an apartment I have ever seen from a 40-something tech-bro” and a UCLA adjunct in comparative lit who kept multiple milk jugs of pee in his bathroom, which he swore were for composting his tiny sliver of garden behind the house he shared in Montecito Heights.
Sean and Mack rolled in just before 8, with Greta and Kayla (Mack’s new wife, and an absolute zero compared to Jen) in tow. I had planned to shun Mack out of respect to Jen, but I couldn’t help myself and hugged him tight, eager to reconnect to my home down here in any way. Mack and Sean, Sean and Mack — my two best boys before I met Julian, and it was always less complicated with Mack, who had been mooning over Jen for years until she finally caved and married him. And even when he was doing jackassed things like leaving my birthday party to go meet Kayla under the guise of bringing back another bottle, I still couldn’t hate Mack, though my heart broke for Jen. I will say this for Kayla — even though her bayalage is as cheap as her counterfeit Jimmy Choos (I could tell immediately), she got a prenup before she married him, a wise move given his history of itchy feet.
As soon as he pushed Mack out of the way, Sean picked me up and spun me around like I was nothing more than an oversized bag of cotton candy at the fair. “Little Em! My bestest girl.” He smelled of Irish Spring, with a faint pong of weed. Just as always. He set me down and placed my drink back in my hand — a measure of Edradour in honor of Alex. “Let me see you. Divorce suits you, girl. Tell Alex he’s got my total respect — you look happy for a change.” He cracked open one of his brilliant, beach bum grins and it felt (but for the absence of Jen) just like old times, before I changed the course of my life to suit my husband’s.
“And this” — he pulled forward Greta — “is Greta. Take care of her, Em.” He leaned forward and said just loud enough for me alone to hear over the din of the bar, “You know what Jenn can be like, even when she hasn’t been drinking for a half an hour on an empty stomach. Keep Greta away from the pointy edges.”
Greta fluttered her fake eyelashes at me. “Melissssssa!” She drew out my name and then threw her arms around me. My face disappeared into the lace bib of her prairie-chic romper. (She was wearing Tocca Giulietta, which is a nice, age-appropriate scent for her, but she still had the slightest whiff of unwashed body odor it couldn’t cover up.) “I feel like we’re sisters already. Sean has told me everything about you, and all about your horrible marriage and how you found true love with your husband’s best friend. How amaaaaaaazing.” (She really spoke like every fourth or fifth word was in italics.)
“Nice to meet you too,” I said into her chest, before pushing myself (gently) away.
Mack had managed to convince enough people to move out of a corner banquette (it helps that Mack is still built like the high school linebacker he once was) for the six of us to wedge in together. Sean and Mack carefully positioned Jenn so that she was between them, and not next to Kayla or Greta (Jenn cannot be trusted not to kick shins accidentally on purpose, or make backhanded compliments that contain nasty little quips, even when she’s only a little tipsy.) I was consequently between Greta (the white whale, if a whale weighed 98 lbs and liked macrame) and Kayla (aka “Mack’s WHORE” according to Jen).
You know when you’re out with friends, slowly working up a good buzz, flowing with the tide of conversation and reminiscences, the background hum of the bar no longer an irritating din but rather something reminding you that you are Here to Have a Good Time, and then… it shifts. Everything goes from sharp, crystalline camaraderie to a sludgy and incomprehensible tumble of time, from which only glimpses of what actually transpired emerge the following day. Half a joke, or someone’s wardrobe malfunction, or even just a cloudy recollection of sitting in a bathroom stall thinking, I am so fucked up as you lean against the wall. I remember… telling Kayla that I forgave her for fucking Mack during the Super Bowl party while Jen and I were in the kitchen making more ranch dip; telling Sean I should have never married Julian and should have married him instead (what I was thinking when I said that I still do not know); telling Mack he needed to lose 15 lbs (true, but rude); putting Jenn’s hair up into a sideways ponytail with the scrunchie I had in my handbag (she was too hammered to care that it was not flattering in the slightest); and taking innumerable selfies with Greta (innumerable mostly because I was wasted and not counting, but which I could totally count now because I think Greta posted most of them), in which she looked like an ethereal moon waif and I looked like one of those “Faces of Meth” photo essays as the night progressed. Ugh. (Jenn says this is not true, I’m just not as good at looking vacant yet alert as Greta.) I got our bookstore shoutout this morning, so I guess it was worth it. (Ben sent me a text this morning that he is not coming in tomorrow, because he has now DIED of happiness.)
Jen’s noontime phone call woke me on Saturday — she was downstairs with Jenn and we had to get to the pool while the sun was shining (apparently there has been a lot of June gloom this year). “You’re kidding me.” I held my head in my hands and groaned, gagging back a heave of bile. “I think I may actually speaking to you from beyond the grave right now, and you want to go to the pool?” My stomach burbled, my head throbbed like an angry pimple and the brief glimpse I’d seen of myself was of a deathly pallid Melissa.
I could hear the rustle of the phone passing from hand to hand. “Hey fuckface, it’s Jenn. Let us up. We’ll put your suit on you and drag you up there, or you can do it yourself.” There is no denying Jenn, so I gave them my room number and struggled into my swimsuit. I was just pulling on the kimono when I heard a knock on the door — Jenn, looking far more sprightly than she should have, given the amount of whiskey she had consumed, and Jen, trying to hide under a kaftan the weight she’d gained in the years since she’d kicked out Mack. (I immediately felt like a traitor for being nice to Kayla.)
The afternoon was precisely what I needed after the night before: some poke and tempura, mimosas and Moscow mules, sun and catch up. We eviscerated Kayla for Jen’s benefit (and Jenn wisely said nothing about my friendliness and forgiveness). None of us got in the pool, not only out of solidarity with Jen, but also because neither Jenn nor I had a suit that really belonged in water (mine is red velvet, Jenn’s had a lot of metal adornments that looked like they might rust). By the end of the afternoon, it felt much like old times in Pasadena, before Julian (I really should start marking time as “BJ” and “AJ”) — poolside, drinks, snacks, the three of us, but back then it was Coronas and Doritos and the poky little pool at Jen’s apartment complex, not this luxe iteration.
After the Jen(n)s left, I collapsed in my room — the heat and the hangover caught up with me, and I slept fitfully until 11pm, when Alex woke me up for a goodnight sendoff. He’s back at home, and while he found the additions of several succulents to his windowsill sweet (I couldn’t help myself — they were too cute), he asked if I would take them home with me, since he has a black thumb and “these poor plants never asked to die an ignominious death through neglect.” A wonderful weekend so far, capped off by brunch with Rachel in a few minutes, then home to my sweet, sweet boy. Yes, it’s home up there now, not here, because wherever my beloved is, that, I think, is home.
meandering again 