“I’m done with the day,” I beep. “Going home. Gonna happy hour with the girls.”
“I’m ringing you first thing in the morning,” Claudia responds before signing off.
JoDeane calls as I work my way east. She tells me that I’m not pregnant, but if I am, it’s supposed to be, and “don’t even think about” getting out of doing the pregnancy test tonight.
Georgia, Amy, and Jo are all there when I get to my apartment. “Let’s go to Figaro!” I say.
“Let’s do the test,” Jo instructs.
“Oh, come on. I promise I’ll do it after happy hour,” I say hoping for a compromise as Jo pulls me into the bathroom.
“It’s just a formality now,” I inform her.
I pee. She yanks the stick out of my hand. I wash my face. She stares at the stick for forty-five seconds, then looks up at me.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I know.”
Tears start immediately. But only for a minute, while JoDeane hugs me. She tells me that everything’s gonna be OK, and that it is good that I am fertile and healthy. “It’s supposed to be,” she keeps saying.
I can tell when Amy and Georgia hear because all of sudden their conversation quits. They run in and stand at the bathroom door and stare.
Eventually, Amy says, “Congratulations!” and that makes us all laugh.
“Let’s go to Fig,” I say. “I need a drink…or at least some crème brûlée.”
For the next two hours, we sit at a sidewalk table at our local haunt and talk about the fact that I’m gonna have a baby! Everybody knows it’s what I’ve wanted for the last five years. I can’t say I’m happy or sad at this moment. I’m just numb.
“I could have a miscarriage. Lots of people do,” I tell them.
But I know I won’t.
Georgia says what’s on everyone’s mind: “Let’s not tell him. We don’t want him involved.” Then Amy adds, “And whatever you do, don’t include this in your memoir because he’ll read it and show up at your doorstep and you’ll have to kill him!” Oops, too late.
* * *
Two days after finding out I’m pregnant, I go over to Adrian’s house.
Sleep teased me the night before. It circled my body, laughing, but refused to land. The “feeling” in my groin had intensified, and with it anxiety. JoDeane, a nurse, says the mass of cells, which will form the fetus, is implanting into my uterus and some women can feel it early on. To me, it’s a constant sensation somewhat like a tightening clamp in my pelvic area.
I get to his house around 9:15 a.m. It’s a Saturday. I walk from the street through his yard and up to the front door, nervously, like I’m trespassing. Though I am not; he has told me to come.
We bumped into each other at San-Sui, a sushi restaurant in Los Feliz a few nights before. Georgia saw him first and nudged me. I turned and smiled. He came over to say hello. I stood and we hugged. We didn’t have much to talk about, so the conversation quickly turned to our common ground.
“You never did that ride-along interview you promised. Please don’t put me in your doc,” I politely ordered.
“Ah, come on. You’re already in it. We need you. It’ll be great for you anyway.”
“In what way? I have no interest in being in the movies. We had a deal. I spent three hours helping you on your documentary, and in exchange you agreed to a ride-along so I could make money. Your pictures from that day never sold by the way.”
We parted, sat at nearby tables, and ate our respective dinners. He finished first, and on his way out said, “Call me. I’ll do the ride-along.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Oh,” he said, like he was surprised. “Well then, just come by. How ’bout Saturday?”
I only stared at him.
“OK? Saturday? See you then?”
“Sure.”
When he left, Georgia grabbed my wrist in urgency. “No way you don’t go to his house Saturday morning.” No matter the premise, Georgia knew: you do not pass up an invitation to a celebrity’s house. No way.
* * *
So it’s Saturday, and I’m knocking on Adrian’s door. I shake a bit from nerves and a bit from no sleep. I try to calm myself with deep breathing—I don’t want him to think he impresses me. I peek in the window and see a bohemian den filled with strange antiques, musical instruments, and Buddha-like statues. His car is in the drive—he must be home.
After about five minutes with no answer, I take out a scrap of paper from my purse and scribble a note which basically calls him a flake and tells him, again, not to use me in his documentary.
As I’m figuring out where to leave the note, the door swings open.
“Hi,” a girl in a bathing suit and 1970s velour cover-up says.
“Uh, hi. I’m just here…to pick up…Adrian,” I stammer.
“Oh, you’re the photographer,” she says cheerily.
Wow. She knew I was coming. “Yes. I’m Jennifer,” I say feeling a little more confident.
“I’m Robyn, Adrian’s roommate,” she offers with an extended hand. “Adrian’s still sleeping, but I’ll go wake him up. Does he have your number?”
“I’m not sure.” I scribble down my number for him. Once again.
She doesn’t invite me in, and I feel awkward standing on the stoop. I return to my car and consider leaving—I doubt Adrian will wake up for me—but just then, my phone rings. A number pops up. (An actual number, not an unlisted one.)
“Hello?” I answer.
“I’m just getting up.”
“Adrian?” (Like everyone should recognize his voice.)
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. So, we’re supposed to do that ride-along, yeah?” He has a sleepy voice, but it’s upbeat.
“Well, you said for me to come get you,” I respond self-consciously.
“I’m just getting up. You wanna come in? Why don’t you come in?”
I walk back to the door. After one knock, he answers. He’s wearing a T-shirt and blue boxers, and he’s hotter than I remember him ever being. He stands in the doorframe with the door wide open, smiling. I fight my eyes in their downward pull and try to act like this is normal—Adrian Grenier in his underwear. I shake like the a.c. window unit in my apartment.
“Come in,” he says as he escorts me through the den and into his kitchen where a housekeeper is cleaning dishes and Robyn is preparing a basket of food. Robyn’s a natural host and asks me about my job and myself. Adrian watches us, not saying much, just smirking, clearly thrilled with my discomfort.
“You want to go get breakfast?” he suggests.
“Sure. But that doesn’t get you out of your ride-along.”
I think Adrian believes that I want to do a ride-along so that I can hang out with him and therefore if we go to breakfast, that will suffice. I think I want to do a ride-along so that I can make money off him. At this point, I’m not sure who’s right.
“A ride-along will be so boring. Let’s do something else,” he tries to persuade me. “I know. Why don’t we go for a swim? You wanna swim? I have a saltwater pool and Hilda can make us breakfast here. Do you want an egg sandwich?”
Hilda looks up and nods. A saltwater pool and full-serve brekky are the kind of mornings I love. “That sounds fun.” I agree.
I keep a bathing suit in the car and walk out to get it. I inhale and exhale slowly. If only I could bang the side of my head and make my rattles stop. I quickly text Georgia: I’m about to go swimming with Adrian!!!
He’s in his suit when I get back. “You can change at the pool house,” he says, and he leads me out the back of the house and up some stairs. Turkish-style platforms and cushions are arranged in several seating areas around a large pool. The pool house has been converted into another roommate area (a la Entourage, there are apparently four people who live in the house), and I change inside. I walk out wearing only my new purple bikini, which I think looks pretty good.
With a fancy dive off the board, Adrian gets
wet. I follow feet-first. The water is crisp but slightly heated, and it doesn’t alarm my sensitive skin. I immerse under it, open my eyes, and blow bubbles. The salt water relaxes and cleans me. I love pools. I’d give anything to use Adrian’s for the rest of the summer, photos or not.
He gets out first and sits on the side. Hilda brings us egg sandwiches, and we talk as we eat. I tell him more about my memoir (which he’s known about), and he tells me more about his documentary. He suggests several times that instead of taking pictures of him, we work together on something more fruitful. “We could do something productive for each other,” he says.
“Like what?” I question. This ride-along date has taken one year to materialize, so I’m skeptical.
Adrian responds by saying that when his documentary comes out, I should help him promote it, thereby promoting myself. And the book.
I tell him, again, that I don’t want to be famous. Again, he doesn’t understand.
Since we’re talking, I can stare at him without it being weird, and I do. Adrian’s eyes are huge and almost black, and his lashes tangle about them. His mouth curls asymmetrically like any beauty mark would. And his body is lanky, just my type. But I find, surprisingly, I don’t lust for him. Our conversation is combative, and we talk over one another trying to one-up the other’s accomplishments. He keeps his phone by his side and texts constantly. When we talk, his eyes don’t look past me, but his mind does. Adrian is charming and charismatic, but he never engages me, never makes me feel like David Beckham did—like he wants to be in no other place than right here, right now, with me.
We dry off in silence, and my nerves return. “I wasted two hours and have no pictures to show for it.” The words come out unfortunately whiney.
“You’re welcome to take pictures, but they’ll look like anybody’s Facebook page and nobody’ll buy them.”
I know he’s right, but then I also want proof of our swim. “I’ll take some to use for my book,” I say.
He gets in again, for me, and I take a half dozen pictures and one video with my point-and-shoot that’s always in my purse.
Dripping wet, he gets out, grabs a towel, and nuzzles up close to me to look at the shots. He tells me to delete a couple of them, but it’s a new camera and honestly I don’t know how to. “They’re fine,” I say. “We’ll just leave them.”
“No.” He’s laughing and tries to grab the camera.
“They’re fine,” I say again, giggling. He wraps his half-wet body around my half-naked one and nudges me into his chest. Our four hands jumble together on the small camera. His body practically engulfs mine. After a long time, he finds the delete button, but just as he’s about to push it, I yank the camera away. I like him here. He holds on and with our bodies fully entwined, we wrestle.
Eventually, I get shy about our physical proximity and pull away. He takes the camera and deletes the two pictures I’m certain he cares nothing about.
I follow him inside to change. He continues upstairs, and I can hear him singing. I feel pretty sure there’s an open invite to see what’s up there. But if Adrian wants me, he’s gonna have to ask me. Whether it’s because I’m too insecure or because I like to be pursued, I stay downstairs and change back into my clothes.
As we leave the house together, he grabs a watermelon and a guitar. He’s apparently going to the beach.
“Those are good props. They’ll make a salable picture,” I note.
He poses without complaint, strumming the guitar gently as he leans on the back of his car, a silver Prius just like mine.
“You should come to this party I’m having tonight,” I suggest. “It’s my roommate’s birthday.”
“We aren’t really friends. How can I come to your party?” His response is bordering on rude, but Adrian’s human like me, so I forgive him and shrug.
Then he says. “Well, we’re even now, right? You have your shots. We’re even?”
“Whatever,” I mumble and head toward my car before he moves toward his. As always, I’m careful not to be the last one standing.
He drives away first. As he passes my car, he leans his head out the window and says with a softer expression and his trademark smile, “Hey, maybe we should pull a Britney—and date?” Then he drives on without waiting for a response.
And with that, my friends, I do believe Adrian Grenier almost asked me out…!
Chapter 21
Am I really gonna have a baby? It seems impossible. All the worry, all the planning, then all of a sudden, I’m just pregnant. And I know, for me, it’s better this way. I’m an obsessive planner, but I handle change just fine. Now, there’s no obsession. There’s no planning. I’m just pregnant.
My spirit and intuition know nothing will happen to the baby, but practically speaking, my mind tells me miscarriages are common, especially at my age. I use that as my excuse for not telling my family—or Bo—while I figure out a plan. In the meantime, I quit the pot that I’ve smoked many nights over the last few years as a sleep aid, and, to my surprise and delight, I find sleep becomes less antagonistic overall.
My body’s changing too. Besides looking rested, in just two weeks my breasts are rounder and fuller, and my face has a warm tint. I look at my reflection in the mirror and think, Wow, she’s pretty. And while I’m scared and lonely and not sure how any of this is gonna go, I have to admit that it makes me happy when I think of the ever-present “feeling” inside of me. For the first time in my life, I am not striving for something else, not looking around the corner for the next thing to love or to experience. I am content with me.
Bo calls. I make it clear that we are, from here on out, completely platonic. (I already have enough drama in my life!) And he agrees. He keeps calling, though, and I consent to join him at happy hour for one purpose: information gathering. The more I know about him, the better I can make my decision: to tell or not to tell.
We meet at Fig and grab an outside table. I stare at him like I imagine one would stare at a loved one in his last hour. He doesn’t notice as I drink in every feature—his wide smile and perfect nose (mine sucks; hope the baby gets his), flawless skin (ditto), curly brown hair, dark eyes, a few errant moles. His body is not too large but not too small, and pretty hairless. I study his gait when he gets up to use the restroom, and I etch his expressions into my memory. I keep the drinks date going longer than it normally would, asking him questions—mostly about his relationships—to get a sense of how he might bond with a potential child. He begins with, “Sex will never control me,” then tumbles out a twenty-minute tirade (which several other diners also get to hear) from a deep part within his heart. It’s sad and painful and honest, and it brings up serious love and attachment issues. When he’s done, I can only think to reach across the table, hold his hand and tell him I’m so sorry.
Bo mentions that he’ll be leaving for Canada soon. When I ask him what he will do once he gets home, he says, “Make a little money, then hit the road again. I’m a wanderer, a wanderer full of wanderlust. That’s just the way I gotta be.”
And I realize that’s what it is about Bo that I’m drawn to. In this way we are a lot alike. Of course I’m ready to settle down now and give my baby a good, stable life. That might not be Bo’s cup of tea.
Though that’s not what bothers me. It’s the other stuff I can’t shake. Bo’s troubles consume me for days afterward. I believe his heart is good, but it’s clear to me that he’s affected by a tremendous amount of hurt, which he hasn’t dealt with. As a soon-to-be mother, I am having serious doubts regarding Bo’s ability to have a healthy relationship with a son or daughter—at least in the way that I would want for my child.
The few friends who know I’m pregnant all say the same thing: “You’re not gonna tell him, are you?” Everyone instinctually seems to know that including him in my life—and more importantly, in my child’s life—would be a bad idea. Aaron is the most adamant: “Mate, I’ll break his legs first. Yours second.” Only little Elif back in Turkey
has a different opinion: “You must tell him. I’m sure his family is lovely people. They will be a big help for you. You may not want him, but you want his mother.”
And initially, I’m inclined to agree with Elif. Besides not telling a man that he has a child—can you even do that? Not only is there the obvious ethical dilemma, but what are the legal implications? Georgia is on it: “The law’s often on the mother’s side,” she says after a bit of research, “especially in California. The father doesn’t always have a legal right to know.”
“How can that be?”
“Think about it. Some fathers may be a danger to their children. Maybe not Bo. Or maybe Bo. Or, what if a mother doesn’t even know who the father is? I’m sure that happens.”
I’m under no misconceptions that involving Bo in raising my kid would be miserable for me. It would be like having a second child, but one I didn’t want. And his lifestyle and “issues”—would they harm the child? Perhaps not physically, but possibly emotionally, mentally, spiritually? If my mama-instinct truly believed that Bo would not make a healthy father, could bringing him into our lives be worse for a baby than not having a dad at all?
Georgia and I continue to discuss the morality of my dilemma. “If a man is willing to ‘put out’ anywhere, as Bo apparently is, maybe he doesn’t deserve to know,” Georgia muses.
“OK, let’s just say I don’t tell him. What do I say to my child? ‘I didn’t tell your dad that you existed because I thought he and his issues were a potential danger to you?’” While I don’t love this idea, it occurs to me that it does sound better than “Your dad was A Sperm.”
“You’re thinking too much, Jen. Meryl Streep did a fine job in Mamma Mia.”
I’m still not quite convinced.
* * *
The next day, September 2, Skylar Peak, the Malibu Beach Master who lead the surfer-pap turf war, was charged.
Two Malibu Men Charged with Attacking Paparazzo
Officials on Tuesday said they charged two Malibu men for attacking a paparazzo who was snapping pictures of actor Matthew McConaughey as he was surfing in the Pacific Ocean in June. [abridged]
Shooting Stars Page 26