Twisting my hair into a low chignon, I check my reflection one last time before reaching for a bottle of my Kai perfume and spritzing my pulse points.
“We’re going to the Brentwood farmer’s market today,” I tell her.
She makes a face.
“What?” I ask.
“Since when do you do shit like that?”
“Since never,” I say. “But we’re trying new things this week, things neither of us have ever done before. It’s a week of ‘yes.’”
Melrose sticks her finger down her throat, pretending to gag herself. Always so judge-y, this one. But I don’t take offense to it. Her idea of spending time with a man involves one at least twice her age, a sexy sports car, and a reservation at an exclusive LA eatery.
She may be my best friend, but we couldn’t be more different.
“All right, well … while you’re hanging out with your serial killer friend, I’m going to be lunching with Gram at The Ivy,” she says, teasing like I should be jealous. And then she cracks a smile. “Wish you could join us …”
“Next time.” I hit the bathroom light and head to my room, grabbing my things and stepping into a pair of comfy sneakers. The farmer’s market is only six blocks from here, so I’m walking. But before heading out the door, I text Isaiah and tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes.
He says he’s already there.
I smirk.
Those military boys and their punctuality …
“You stand out like a sore thumb,” I tell him when I find him.
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it. You just do. You’re not a farmer’s market person, I can tell.”
“Should I have worn my flax pants and straw hat today?” he asks. We begin to walk, our arms bumping into one another every few steps.
“Smart ass.” We pass a flower stand and a bouquet of blue hydrangeas steals my attention. “Hold up. I want to buy some of these.”
“Want or need?”
“Blue hydrangeas are always a need.”
A minute later, I walk away with a beautiful bouquet wrapped in brown paper and Isaiah stops at a breakfast burrito stand for some wrap made with local, cage-free eggs, organic cheddar sourced from Northern California, and free-range chicken sausage.
We find an empty table next to a wine vendor’s booth and steal a couple of spots.
“So what is a farmer’s market person?” he asks.
I laugh through my nose. “I don’t know … maybe a Volvo-driving, organic-obsessed, Pilates-loving mom of four? Not to be, you know, stereotypical. I’m just going off of what I see here. There definitely seems to be some consistencies around us.”
He glances toward a parking lot behind us and I count at least eight Volvo XC-90s, most of which are polished black or glimmering white. A woman pushing a double stroller and wearing $90 yoga pants yells at her two older kids, telling them not to run off.
“See?” I point toward her. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right.” He inhales his last bite of burrito and wipes his hands on a napkin. “So what kind of person am I?”
“What?”
“If I’m not a farmer’s market person … how would you categorize me? What box would you place me in?” he asks.
Sucking in a deep breath, I mull over my response. I promised him honesty, so honesty he’s going to get.
“You’re still a question mark, Isaiah,” I say. “At first glance, I’d put you in some kind of military category because you’re so serious and clean cut and stoic. But these last few days, I don’t know. I think there’s more to you than you’re letting on. You’re closed off. So closed off I haven’t even attempted to figure you out. I tried, too. Laid in bed one night replaying our day together, trying to see if there were any things I missed. Then I got a headache, so I went to sleep.”
He sniffs, shaking his head. “A question mark, eh?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“That’s a fair statement.”
“You ever going to open up? You know you can tell me anything. We’re still basically strangers. You probably don’t even remember my last name, so your secrets are safe with me.”
“I don’t really tell anyone anything,” he says. “It’s nothing personal. And I do remember your last name because I had to submit a claim to your insurance for the damage you did to my car.”
I exhale. He’s going to be a tough one to crack, but I feel like he’d be worth cracking. Only problem is our days are numbered, our time together dwindling by the second, and I don’t see myself making much progress with him before he goes.
“It’s okay.” I rub his arm. “Just know that if you ever want to vent about anything, I’m your girl.”
“I don’t vent.”
His full mouth lifts at one corner and he leans back in his seat, staring at me in a way he’s yet to stare at me until now. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking, good or bad.
“Should we do a little more exploring?” I ask, rising. He breaks his gaze and stands beside me, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts just enough that I spot the chiseled muscles pointing down the sides of his hips as well as the hint of a rippled six-pack.
My heart hiccups and I lose my train of thought for all of three seconds. I don’t remember fully appreciating those things that night at the concert.
“I heard there’s a killer cinnamon roll stand here,” I tell him, scanning the booths. “First one to find it wins.”
“Wins what?”
“Wins at life, Corporal. Cinnamon rolls are everything, duh.”
He follows me into the crowd, and it isn’t until we’re at the far end of the farmer’s market when I realize I left my hydrangeas back at the wine stand.
“Shit,” I say.
“What?” He frowns. “What is it?”
“I left my flowers.”
His gaze drags the length of me, like he needs to personally confirm that I did in fact lose my flowers, and then he exhales. “You want to go back and get them?”
“I’m sure they’re long gone by now. Trust me, these farmer’s market ladies see an abandoned bouquet of hydrangeas and they’re going to be more than happy to give them a good home.” I swat my hand. I hate dwelling on negative shit for too long. It makes me crazy. “Oh, well.”
Isaiah glances back from where we came, his hands resting on his hips.
“Don’t,” I say. He turns toward me, feigning ignorance. “You’re thinking about doing the chivalrous thing and buying me some replacement flowers. Don’t do it.”
“What are you talking about?” His nose wrinkles, but I don’t buy it.
“I don’t want flowers from you,” I say. “Even if you’re replacing the flowers I bought for myself.”
“I would never buy you flowers. That’d be breaking rule number one.”
My head cocks to the side, and I examine his handsome face. “Don’t lie to me, Corporal. Don’t break rule number two just so you don’t break rule number one.”
“For the record, I was thinking about getting another burrito,” he says.
“Mm hm.” I’m still not sure if I believe him. “All right, whatever. Let’s get you another burrito.”
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow and we head back into the crowd, just a couple of SoCal salmon swimming upstream and stopping at the cinnamon roll booth on the way.
After this, I’m taking him to the Vista theatre, a glorious, nearly century-old tinsel town fixture.
Today we’re seeing Casablanca.
Which is kind of fitting … because of all the pancake joints in all the towns in the world, he walked into mine.
And no matter what happens after this week, we’ll always have Brentwood.
Saturday #4
“YOU NEED ANYTHING BEFORE I go?” I peek my head into my mom’s room, surprised to find her awake this early in the day.
Rubbing her still-closed eyes
, she shakes her head ‘no.’
“I’m okay, Isaiah,” she says. “Though I’d love a cup of coffee if you have the time.”
“Of course, Ma.” I head to the kitchen and return a few minutes later with her favorite hazelnut coffee, placing it on the coaster on her nightstand.
“What are you dressed like that for? You going to the gym?” she asks when her eyes focus on my gym shorts and sneakers.
“I’m going for a hike,” I say.
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
“By the Hollywood sign. Brush Canyon trail.”
She chuckles. “No kidding?”
I nod, but I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t know about Maritza and really there’s nothing to tell her. Maritza’s just a distraction. I wouldn’t even call us friends despite the fact that I kind of, sort of secretly enjoy her company.
“I’ll be back later. Call if you need me, all right?” I wait for Mom to sit up and get situated, and then I head out.
“Six and a half miles. Race you to the top?” Maritza assumes a makeshift starting line position before a sly smirk claims her pink lips. Her posture relaxes and she bends at the waist, stretching before glancing up at me. “I’m sure six and a half miles is nothing for you.”
“Why would you say that?”
Her eyes widen. “Um, have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re jacked. Ripped. Whatever people call it these days. Clearly you know what the inside of a gym looks like.”
“Kind of you to notice.”
“I don’t run,” she says. “And the number of times I’ve hiked, I can count on one hand.”
“So why’d you agree to go hiking today?” I study her face, willing my gaze not to fall to the hot pink sports bra that hardly contains her cleavage or the black shorts that leave very little to the imagination.
Maritza shrugs. “Because I’ve never hiked this trail before and we’re doing all these quintessentially Hollywood touristy things. It fit the theme.”
I chuckle. “All right.”
“Don’t you mean ‘fine’?” she teases.
“Fine.” I stretch out for a minute before doing a quick jog in place. Taking a swig from the water bottle I brought, I eye the trail sign ahead and watch as a skinny, blonde-haired woman jogs by with a fit and lean yellow Lab.
We head up the trail, and I stay a bit behind her because it’s the proper thing to do … and the view is killer. It isn’t until we’re a good mile and a half into our hike when Maritza stumbles over a boulder sticking out of the ground and goes flying.
I try not to laugh despite the fact that it was fucking hilarious.
“Don’t laugh.” Maritza reaches for her foot and moans.
“Oh, shit.” I drop to her side, examining her left ankle.
“Don’t touch it.” She swats me away.
“I’m not going to touch it, I just want to look at it.” With gentle hands and barely any pressure, I examine her ankle the way I would an injured soldier’s on the battlefield. “You think you can stand on it?”
“Um, no.” Her eyes brim with tears and she glances away. “And for the record, I’m not crying. It’s just … the pain is making my eyes water.”
“Here. Let me help you up. If you can’t stand, I’ve got you.” I don’t give her a chance to refuse, instead I slide my forearms under her arms and slowly bring her into a standing position.
With her left knee bent, she taps her toe on the dirt before attempting to stand.
“I can’t,” she says. “I swear, Isaiah, I’m not being a baby. It just really fucking hurts. I don’t think it’s broken, I think it’s just … really twisted.”
“Fine,” I say, placing myself in front of her. “Hike’s over.”
Draping her arms over my shoulders, I then reach for the backs of her thighs.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Climb onto my back. I’ll carry you back to the car.”
“You’re going to carry me on your back for almost two miles?”
“I don’t suppose you saw any wheelchair rentals on your way up the mountain, did you?” With her legs wrapped around my hips, I hook my hands behind her knees.
“Smart ass.”
She’s leggy but light and this is going to be a piece of cake. I’ve carried grown men farther distances than this before.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive back at the street parking, and she carefully slides down my back, leaning against the passenger door of her blue Prius for support.
“You going to be able to drive home?” I ask, examining her ankle, which is already starting to swell like a son of a bitch. “Damn. You got yourself pretty good.”
Crouching down, I give it a closer look. Maybe she could drive herself home just fine, but she’s not going to be able to get out of the car once she gets there, not without some help.
“We need to get some ice on that,” I say, frowning. “Give me your keys.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m taking you home. Unless you want to ride in my car … I just figured you’d feel safer in yours. You know, since we’re strangers.”
Digging into a little zippered pocket in her tiny shorts, she hands me a valet key, which I use to unlock her passenger door. Helping her in, I get her seatbelt and tell her to keep her ankle elevated. Rounding the front of the car, I climb into the driver’s side.
I’ll have to Uber it back here to get my car later.
Pressing the “home” button on her GPS, we turn ourselves around and head down the steep hills that led us to this mountain trail, coming to a stop just before a busy road filled with lunch hour traffic.
“You doing okay?” I ask, glancing at her while we wait for the light to turn green.
Biting her lip and wincing, she nods. Her ankle is resting on her dash and I swear it’s growing bigger by the second.
The radio plays some cheesy pop song and I keep an eye on the GPS, focusing on getting her home. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the familiar iron gate outside her grandmother’s sprawling, hacienda-style mansion. Reaching into the console, Maritza retrieves a remote, pressing a black button.
The gate swings open and I pull through.
“Just … drive around back to the guest house. I don’t want my grandma to see you. She’ll ask too many questions and then she’ll invite you in for tea and that’s going to turn into her showing you her Oscar and making you watch Davida’s Desire.”
“I see your sense of humor’s back. Feeling better?”
“Kind of.”
I come to a stop outside her little white guest house, and by little, I mean only in comparison to its big sister out front. This place, which looks different in the daylight, is still massive and it’s positioned just outside a sparkling teal-blue pool with trickling fountains and a Grecian-style cabana. There’s a lot of different styles going on here, but somehow it all fits in an eclectic, crazy famous person kind of way.
Killing the engine, I step out and move around to her side, getting her door. Placing her arms around my shoulder, I help her out and she hobbles to a side entrance where she punches in a key code. A second later, the lock beeps, and we’re in.
“Couch?” I ask. She nods, and I help her toward her emerald green velvet sofa. We prop her left ankle on a pillow I’ve placed on her gold-and-glass coffee table covered in fashion and lifestyle magazines, all of which are addressed to Melrose Claiborne. “All right. I’m going to grab you some ice.”
I head to her kitchen, which is the most eighties-looking thing I’ve ever seen, complete with yellow appliances and carpet on the floor, but judging by the kitschy accessories, it seems she and her roommate have completely embraced the vintage theme and made it their own.
Yanking the top door of the little yellow fridge, I grab an ice tray and check a few drawers until I find a spare hand towel.
“Here.” I return to her side, taking a seat next to her and placing the makeshift ice pack on her ankle. She breathes in through her teeth. “You
okay?”
Maritza nods, leaning forward to place her hand over the towel, brushing mine in the process. “I’ve got it now.”
Reaching for the far end of the coffee table, I grab her TV remote. “Anything else you need?”
Her brows meet as she thinks. “Nope. I should be good for now.”
Pulling out my phone, I tap my Uber app.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Getting a ride back to my car.”
Glancing up at me through long dark lashes, she chuckles. “You’re welcome to stay here if you want. We can … I don’t know … watch Netflix or something? The day doesn’t have to be a total bust.”
Sitting my phone aside, I drag my thumb and forefinger down the side of my mouth.
“I’d like you to stay,” she says, point blank. “Honest.”
I pull in a hard breath, giving it some more thought. Sightseeing and Saturday-ing is one thing. But hanging out on a couch watching TV and trying to fight this bizarre attraction between us is something else entirely.
It’s almost reckless.
“Don’t make me beg, Corporal,” she says with a teasing tone. “I just feel bad that I ruined our hike. And also, I don’t want to sit here and be bored the rest of the day …”
“Fine. I’ll stay for a little while. But only if I get to pick what we watch.” If I’m going to stick around, it has to be on my terms.
“Oh, now that might be a deal breaker for me. I kind of had my heart set on watching season three of Fuller House.”
“Yeah, well Fuller House just so happens to be a deal breaker for me.” I shrug, rising slow. “So I guess I should be on my way.”
“Wait.” She stops me, palm lifted in the air and head cocked. “If I let you pick … what might we be watching?”
Dragging my hand along my jaw and inhaling the spicy floral scent of her living room, I blow a breath through my lips. “The Punisher.”
She makes a face.
“Luke Cage, then,” I say.
Her expression doesn’t budge.
[2018] PS I Hate You Page 8