Finally I reached the pictures from two years ago, the ones Wendy actually wanted. She and I were seniors at UCLA at the time, and someone had gifted her a handful of VIP tickets—an exorbitant gesture of the sort that happened to Wendy on a regular basis. We were relatively new friends, having only met the previous year, so I’d yet to introduce her to Summer.
Truth be told, I hadn’t done the best job of keeping up with Summer while I was in college. We’d remained close the last two years of high school, our constant texts and Skype calls serving as a pressure-release valve for my small-town Georgia life, which I was beginning to find suffocating. My freshman year at UCLA we communicated less, though we did have a great time when she came out from Arizona for spring break. But the following year, after she moved with Rhonda and Brittani to the Inland Empire––only an hour away––we only saw each other maybe every few months. It wasn’t just the drive; our lives were in such different places—she was working at Hooters and taking cosmetology classes while I was studying and doing plays. When she’d come into LA for the night, she’d want to go out to clubs to meet guys and I’d want to go over to a drama friend’s house to smoke pot and listen to obscure records. But I’d always thought that Summer and Wendy would get along, so when one of the other girls from our Coachella group dropped out last-minute, I asked Wendy if I could offer Summer the ticket.
I was right. Maybe too right. From the moment they laid eyes on each other, Summer and Wendy were inseparable. I soon felt like a third wheel trailing behind them, watching their flower crowns catch the afternoon sun as they bent their heads together plotting which stage or bar to hit next. I wasn’t surprised that Wendy took to Summer so quickly; she collected pretty friends like charms, and Summer was the most dazzling of them all. It was Summer’s instant affinity for Wendy that caught me off guard. Summer had never had many female friends. She didn’t need them. In Georgia, I was her sole confidante. In fact, during all the years I’d known her, she’d only introduced me to two girlfriends, neither of whom she’d ever mentioned again. Of course I’d hoped she’d like Wendy, but I never imagined I’d be left in the tent holding our place while they went off to do whatever it was they were whispering about.
The pictures from the trip were reflective of this dynamic. Wendy and Summer dancing, outlined in the blues and pinks of the stage lights; Wendy and Summer peering over identical sunglasses while sipping identical drinks; Wendy with Summer’s hair draped over her so that she looked like a blonde. There were a few pics of the three of us mixed in, and I immediately recognized the one Wendy must want. We were backstage—Wendy knew a guy in a band, of course—our ALL ACCESS lanyards layered over our festival beads, perched on the edge of the stage smiling with the sun setting in a blaze of orange behind us. We looked like three sirens just risen from the sea.
I selected the photo and sent it to Wendy with a kissy smiley face emoji. She immediately texted back:
Thx! What u doing 2nite?
I replied:
Hitting art show with Summer. U?
She responded:
Sry I couldn’t make it! Have 2 go 2 party my old boss is throwing. LMK if u guys wanna come by after.
I texted her a thumbs-up, suppressing my irritation that Summer had obviously tried her before me.
Things among the three of us had evened out once Wendy and Summer got through their honeymoon phase after that first Coachella. Wendy and I graduated in May, and buoyed by the first breath of post-college freedom, we lit the town on fire. Summer became a fixture in our lives, rotating between our couches weekend-to-weekend until she finally got a waitressing job at a club in the city and dumped the Inland Empire boyfriend she’d been living with for an investment banker with a sleek apartment in Hollywood, which she added into the crash-pad rotation. She had yet to rent a place of her own; between Wendy, me (definitely more me), and the cast of men in her life, she’d always had a place to stash her stilettos.
We joked that the three of us had navigated the past two years like a tricycle, supporting each other while trying to avoid potholes. Wendy had her interchangeable pack of pretties, Summer had her revolving men, and I had my acting dreams, but more than anything, we had each other.
So in the greater scheme of things, the fact that Summer invited Wendy first to be her wing tonight was trivial, and I wasn’t gonna let it spoil my evening.
When the train pulled into the station, I jogged up the steps and emerged into the concrete jungle, taking out my phone to orient myself. A text from Summer popped up:
Running late, there closer to 7:30!
Great. Really, I should have known, though. Summer was always late.
But I didn’t mind. It was a beautiful June evening and Art Walk was in full swing. Light reflected between the tall buildings, bathing the buzzing streets in an otherworldly glow as fashionable connoisseurs and window shoppers spilled out of galleries onto the sidewalk, poorly concealing half-drunk plastic cups of wine.
I strolled through an open door and accepted a cup of warm Pinot Grigio as I perused a wall of golden naked ladies, painted on canvases made of money. On the adjacent wall were primary-color paintings of farm animals with ribbons and price tags around their necks. Interesting juxtaposition.
I checked my phone and found a text from my college roomie Hunter:
Abbey tonight? My doppelgänger is performing!
A series of man-doing-disco emojis followed, along with a champagne bottle, champagne glasses clinking, and confetti. Hunter was never light on emojis. Another text popped up from him, this one a picture of a muscle-bound black guy wearing a thong while dancing on a bar, accompanied by entirely too many men-holding-hands emojis and the message:
See? Totally twinning!
I laughed so hard wine almost came out my nose. It was true; they did favor each other . . . sort of, if I squinted and used a good dose of imagination. But as much as I adored going dancing with Hunter, I hadn’t been so much as kissed in weeks, and tonight I was hoping to meet a guy more interested in my body than my shoes.
Love to but I’m seeing an art show with Summer
Immediately an eye-popping amount of crying and poop emojis filled my screen, followed by:
Summer interested in art???
I must have read that wrong.
I felt momentarily guilty but had to laugh.
Actually it’s the artist she’s interested in
He sent a GIF of a drag queen winking.
Knew there had to be a man involved!
If she flakes you know where to find me!
As if on cue, a message from Summer popped up:
Gonna be closer to 8, Brian called. Sorry!
Poor Brian. He’d left his wife for Summer less than a year ago, and here she was already cheating on him. Though I guessed it served him right for having an affair in the first place.
I hadn’t known at first that Brian was married. Summer and I had both been so busy last spring that somehow it never came up; I was finishing my bachelor of arts, juggling finals with evening performances of Shakespeare and agent showcases, while she was slinging drinks in a Hollywood club, going home with rock stars and producers. When I finally found out about Brian’s wife, I told Summer adultery was bad karma, but she just laughed. She didn’t believe in karma. Now I was slinging drinks while she was living the high life in a swanky condo with a view all the way to the ocean. So maybe she was right.
I threaded my way through a couple of abstract exhibitions and a mixed-media show in a bar before I found myself in front of the gallery where I was meeting Summer. I shot her a text and stepped inside.
A jazz band was playing at one end of the airy industrial space, filled with a mostly young, rocker-chic crowd swilling champagne from actual champagne glasses. It was art photography, and I was relieved to find the work was quite good. Not that I was an authority by any means: sure, I’d been to all the major museums in the city and attended my fair share of art shows (mainly those of artist friends
from school), but whether I liked something was purely based on whether it spoke to me, not on any knowledge of the art scene or what was supposed to be “good.” Regardless, I liked these pieces. An aerial photo of a stormy sea beating a sunny shore, a castle built upon a garbage dump, a train station that appeared to be underwater.
I stood in front of a life-size portrait of a naked woman, flowers blooming from her orifices. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, nipples, vagina all obscured by blooms. She was in black-and-white, and the flowers were in color, giving the work a three-dimensional effect.
“What do you think?” said a deep voice next to me.
My eyes landed on the owner of the voice, and my heart skipped a beat. He was blindingly beautiful, like staring into the sun. Tall and tan with sea-green eyes and a thick head of wavy blond hair pulled back in a messy man bun. He was dressed in ripped black jeans and a T-shirt, tattoos creeping down his arm, and he was looking at me like he could see straight to my soul. Damn.
I caught my breath and glanced back at the image. “I was just wondering if she had flowers coming out of her ass, too.”
He laughed so hard he almost spilled his champagne. I hoped my grin didn’t give away how inordinately delighted I was he found me funny. “What about this one?” He gestured to a half woman, half tiger, her head tossed back, fangs exposed.
I momentarily blanked as I gazed at the photo, wanting to keep him laughing. “She’s pissed. Can’t fuck men, can’t fuck tigers; it’s a lonely life when you’re the only one of your kind.”
“Is that how you feel?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
A zing went up my spine as I realized I hadn’t sounded like a complete ass. “Yes. I lament my inability to fuck tigers every day.”
Too far? No. He laughed and lightly steered me to the next work, a lion being devoured by a gazelle. I wanted to turn the questions back to him but couldn’t think of what to say, and anyway, I was on a roll now. I studied the picture in front of me. “The victim becomes the victor. Though that’s not how a gazelle would kill a lion.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No,” I returned. “Victor and victim are determined only by who wins the race. If the gazelle manages always to stay a step ahead of the lion, eventually she leaves him too malnourished and exhausted to hunt, thereby terminating him through starvation.”
He laughed. “Remind me never to chase you.”
Buoyed by how easily the conversation flowed between us, I floated along the wall beside him trading witticisms until two pretty girls approached, primed for flirting. “Hiiiii!” they said in unison, then giggled.
I stood by awkwardly sipping my champagne as they took turns giving him hugs, their hands lingering on his chest and biceps as they whispered intimacies in his ear. I slipped away when his back was to me, threading my way to the other side of the gallery. While I had enjoyed our little flirtation, that one was trouble. Too good-looking to date, too charming for a dalliance. Nope. I checked my phone. Summer:
On way now! Sorry!
“Champagne?” I looked up to see him again, offering a fresh glass of champagne.
I told myself not to be so pleased as I took it. “Thanks.”
He tapped his glass to mine. “Waiting for someone?”
I nodded. “My friend. She’s always late.”
“I’m going up to the roof,” he said. “Come.”
And with that, he disappeared around the corner, into the building. I considered not following, but my feet were already moving in the direction he’d gone. No harm in hanging out with him until Summer arrived, anyway.
I found him down a short hallway, holding open the door of the smallest elevator I’d ever seen. I hesitated.
“Claustrophobic?” he asked.
I nodded, embarrassed. “A little.”
“I can help.” He gestured for me to get in.
Against my better judgment, I stepped inside, and the door closed. I was so close to him I could feel the warmth of his body. He shifted to stand behind me and placed his hands over my eyes with a “May I?” His chest grazed my back. He smelled of wood spice and detergent. “It’s not so bad if you can’t see the walls,” he whispered, though claustrophobia was no longer what I was feeling.
As the elevator climbed slowly upward, I fought a losing battle against the raw desire burning in my veins, hardly breathing. I reminded myself that he had this effect on every girl, including the pretty ones that came in pairs, scattered throughout the gallery below.
“Your shampoo smells good,” he said, his voice husky.
Ding! The elevator doors opened, and he released me. A gust of warm wind whipped my hair into my face as I stepped onto the roof. We were about ten stories up in a rooftop garden with sweeping views of downtown. Golden rays from the setting sun flared through the buildings, reflecting in the windows and turning the clouds orange and pink.
I followed him to the edge of the roof, where we stood in silence, listening to the sounds of the city below. Two birds dipped and glided together among the buildings.
“How’d you know to come up here?” I asked.
“I live here.” He lit a joint and hopped up on a low wall that ran along the lip of the roof as he blew a line of smoke out at the city.
“Oh, cool. I didn’t know there were apartments in this building.” Realizing that might sound stupid, I added, “Not that I would have a reason to know whether there are apartments in this building or anything. I’ve never actually been here before, but . . . I love the view,” I finished lamely.
“Me too,” he said, oblivious to my self-consciousness. “I try to come up here every night.” I held my breath, watching him walk along the wall. He noticed my apprehension and jumped down. “It’s okay. There’s a balcony a floor down.”
He offered me the joint and I took it. “You’re not afraid of heights?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I know how to fall. I rock climb.”
“What else do you do?”
“Cook.” He gestured to the planters around us. “Garden.”
“My mom always says, ‘The closer to the earth you eat, the better it tastes.’ ”
“Better for you, too,” he agreed. “It’s insane the things they put in our food these days. What about you?”
“I garden, too. On the balcony of my apartment. A couple of herbs and a lone tomato plant. Mostly I like to feel my hands in the dirt.”
He held my gaze. “And where is this balcony?”
“Beachwood Canyon.”
“I used to live in Beachwood. I shot the series with the women and the flowers there.”
The realization hit me like a bag of rocks, and I felt immediately stupid. I combed back through all the supposedly witty comments I’d made downstairs about his work, my cheeks burning. No wonder he was laughing.
“I’m such an ass,” I apologized. “I didn’t realize—”
He smiled, unfazed. “It’s okay. The people downstairs are just kissing my ass in case I end up famous, and I’m kissing theirs so they’ll buy my shit.”
“I do like your work,” I asserted. He smiled at me, amused, so I continued. “I do. There’s something really interesting in the way you play with opposites.”
His eyes brightened. “Thanks. Most people don’t get it. They just think it’s fantasy. But to me it goes deeper than that—a marriage of opposites.”
“Like life.”
He laughed. “Exactly.”
Unable to hold his gaze for fear he might read my indecent thoughts, I bent to smell a yellow rose.
“O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke . . . ”
To my surprise, he completed my sentence, feigning an outsize British accent:
“ . . . cold fire, sick health,
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!”
We both dissolved into laughter. “How do you know that?” I aske
d.
“I played Romeo in college.”
“I did, too,” I exclaimed. “In a production where we reversed the sexes of all the roles.”
“Sounds avant-garde.”
“Oh, it was. So very avant-garde. So very . . . college.”
My phone buzzed. Summer:
I’m here. Where are you?
“Dang,” I said. “My friend’s here. I’ve gotta go down.”
“I should probably get back, too.” He sighed.
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. He placed his hands over my eyes, and I allowed myself to lean into him this time. I could feel his heart beating in his chest, fast like mine. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he was dateable. He knew Shakespeare. Can’t judge a book by its cover and all that.
I summoned all my nerve as I sensed the elevator about to hit the ground level, and turned to him, our faces close. “Thanks for the tour.”
His eyes traveled down to my lips. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Belle.”
“Nice to meet you, Belle.”
Ding! The elevator doors opened, and the spell was broken. Two men in suits and a fashionable dark-haired woman with black-framed glasses stood in the hallway, as though anticipating our arrival. The woman beckoned to him.
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 9