by Lila Monroe
“It’s from the 1920s. I love it,” I say, grinning. Who doesn’t love a good carousel? Answer: people with no soul.
“Then I think we should take these two rascals for a ride,” Flint says, hoisting Lily onto his shoulder while she shrieks with glee. Seeing him so relaxed with the little girl, my heart does a traitorous squeeze. Maybe he’ll have kids with Charlotte. Adorable little munchkins with Flint’s gorgeous hair and eyes and Charlotte’s beautiful face. They’d be perfect.
We roll the kids to the carousel and buy tickets. I sit with Lily in the carriage pulled by a wooden swan, and Flint sits on a magnificent white horse, holding Callum in front of him. As we ride in slow circles, we chat.
“This your favorite place in LA?” he asks me, going up and down in the air on his trusty mount. Heh. Mount. Stop it, Laurel.
“I think the Malibu coastline is what really gets me,” I tell him, picturing the crashing white foamed waves against the beautiful beaches and rocky terrain. I’m a nature girl myself, in a way. I just prefer the ocean. “But I love this place.”
“Ever come here with that guy, what’s his name? Thomas?” Flint asks casually. My stomach sinks. He sounds fine with the idea of me dating someone new. Well, why shouldn’t he be fine? Besides, I want it to look like I’ve moved on as well. That would be for the best. Both of us healthily moving forward. Going our separate ways. Separately.
“Oh, all the time,” I say lightly. I mean, Thomas and I do come here. It’s a good way to get some fresh seafood and scope out the hot guys with their shirts off. But Flint doesn’t need to know that.
Once the ride is over, we put the kids back in their stroller. Apparently the overstimulation is catching up: Callum yawns, and Lily rubs a chubby fist in her eye. We amble over to a set of arcade games on the other side of the building. One of them is a figure of a man with a genie turban, and a sign saying LEARN YOUR FUTURE: $1
“My future’s not worth that much,” I laugh as I put in the change and watch the machine come to life, colored lightbulbs turning on and off rapidly. Flint leans against the machine, rolling the stroller back and forth. The kids are fast asleep now, drooling adorably.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he tells me. “You’ve got everything you want, don’t you?” He clears his throat. “Like yesterday, with that guy at the restaurant. You seem happy, like you’re in a good place right now. Like you have everything you wanted.”
I nearly scream ‘I don’t have you, you beast!’ before ripping his shirt open and terrifying the old women and pigeons. But we’re not going there. I saw the photo of Charlotte; I know what’s going on. If I brought the ‘are you back together?’ question up at this point, it’d be both pathetic and uncomfortable. I don’t want Flint to see how torn up I still am when he’s clearly moved on, so I am not going to say a damn thing.
“I don’t know,” I say. He studies me, then looks away.
“You don’t? You mean you’re not as happy as you could be?” It’s my imagination that he sounds hopeful. Right?
“I do have everything, mostly,” I say, feeling defensive. And that’s not a complete lie. “My career’s going in the direction I always dreamed. I love it.”
“Your career. Right. It makes you happy.” It’s not a question, the flat way he says it. Flint watches me as I wait for the genie’s fortune. “Everything out here makes you happy. Career wise, other things wise.”
“I guess. I mean, LA used to be a place where dreams happened to everyone else,” I say with a shrug. “Now, I’m finally becoming everyone else.” That didn’t sound as special as I wanted it to.
“That’s good,” Flint says, sounding distracted. “I’m happy for you.”
Look at us two. A bunch of happy, happy people. So happy. I force a smile and try not to grind my teeth.
The fortune finally pops out of a slot at the bottom of the machine. I pick it up and read it: YOUR AMBITIONS WILL ALL BE FULFILLED
“See? I’m on my way,” I tell Flint, grinning again to mask my unease. Ambitions fulfilled, but not desires. That’s a real shame.
31
“Can you see your mommy and daddy?” I coo to the twins, kneeling down beside them in their stroller. They wave and giggle as their parents step into view from the elevators. Callie and David are both grinning happily, walking hand in hand and not throttling each other. That’s a good sign if I ever saw one. “Did you two lovebirds have a good day? Or a very good day?” I ask, nudging Callie in the arm.
“Don’t answer that. I’m right here,” Flint says grimly, shaking his head. “There are some things brothers don’t need to know.”
“It was a good afternoon,” Callie says, looking at David with a warm, contented smile. “I think we’ve just been missing each other.”
“What I like about this woman,” David says, kissing Callie’s hand. “She makes up as good as she fights.” Then he winks at her.
“Please no,” Flint says, closing his eyes in pain.
“One of these days, buddy, you’re going to know what it’s like to really screw something up, and be so relieved when it comes back together,” Callie says, slapping her brother on the arm. My stomach jolts at that. Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s already got that figured out, what with Charlotte and the house he built for her. Nothing says ‘let’s get back together’ like ‘I worked thirteen hour days to build you a fairy tale chateau in the woods. Come, enjoy my mountainside hearth. I have made you elk stew and cheesecake.’
Okay, some of my own fantasies are crossing over here.
“You two are looking okay,” I whisper to Callie as David picks Callum up and bounces him on his hip. Callie beams at me. She looks radiant.
“We got a massage. And things. And then we talked. Honestly, Laurel, I think we were just taking each other for granted,” she says. “Lesson learned: don’t do that shit.”
“Are you going to go to counseling? Learn how to reconnect more often?” I ask. Man, learn to reconnect. I think Jessa is starting to rub off on me.
“Oh hell no,” Callie says. “But when it gets too hairy, we’ll know to drop the kids off with my brother for a night and go have hot sex in a hotel.” She sighs. “David is much more limber than I remember.”
Okay, we’re entering the land of too much information. Looks like Flint’s getting a similar earful from David, because he’s saying things like, “Yes, yes, I totally abstractly understand. I have to leave. I have an appointment. An appointment to do something.”
“And we’ve got to get you back on schedule,” I tell him, desperately grabbing my purse. But before I can escape, Callie grabs me, loops her arm through mine, and walks me toward the elevators. “What’s up?” I ask, surprised. Are we going upstairs? Did she not get enough afternoon delight? I’m a pretty liberal minded person and all, but—
“Listen,” Callie whispers. “Whatever went wrong between the two of you, you should try clearing the air.”
Air clearing. Good idea. Then again, right now, pretty much anything that isn’t listening to the Winstons’ sexual greatest hits is a good idea.
“I’ll give it a shot. Clearing the air, I mean.”
“Good. Because he won’t talk to me about it, but I know he feels things ended badly.” That kind of makes me want to laugh and cry. Well, good. At least Flint feels bad that we went down in flames. I could ask Callie about how he and Charlotte are getting along, if they’ve chosen a new wedding date yet, but the words stick in my throat. Maybe it’s cowardly avoidance, but screw it. There’s no wizard to help me out with that.
Mentally, I congratulate myself on the Cowardly Lion/Wizard of Oz reference while Callie gives me a quick hug. Flint and I head out, leaving her and David to cuddle with the twins. As we stroll to my car, I breathe in freedom.
“So. I guess I’m driving you back to your hotel…unless you want to get an Uber?” I say, opening the door. Flint grunts.
“You in a hurry to get home?” he asks. “Got plans for tonight?” The way he as
ks, it almost sounds like he’s interested. Except that of course he’s not.
“More like I have a date with a bubble bath and a Netflix marathon,” I say. He nods.
“Sounds good. Netflix, I mean. Not bubble bath.” He clears his throat, making his voice as rugged and masculine as possible. “Bubbles. Not something men of the wilderness really know that much about.”
“You’re much more of an Irish Spring in a cold shower type of guy,” I say. “Like all your ilk. You must never enjoy the finery of feminine hygiene products.”
“I once got a loofa for a present,” Flint says. “Had no idea what it was supposed to do. I ended up using it to stop a leak.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t work.”
“Well. Maybe we should continue this scintillating loofa conversation in the car,” I say, sliding behind the wheel. “Come on. I’ll show you the city at night.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve seen the city. Rodeo to Sunset, remember? Publicity hasn’t given us a break.” But he gets in the car.
“You’ve seen LA, sure. But LA and Los Angeles are two different things. LA’s industry, Los Angeles is home. I promise, you’ll like it.”
Flint adjusts his seat again; apparently my puny muscle car is no match for the powerful bulk of his body. It would be really awkward with him stretched all the way back in the seat, his fingers fumbling at the buttons on my blouse, unhooking my bra…
I need to focus on driving so I don’t kill us with my horniness. We drive out and down the glittering streets of the city, managing to thread our way through Beverly Hills and up into the lush, dark twilight in the verdant hills. Once we get up around the Hollywood sign, we stop for a moment and get out of the car.
“Unbelievable,” Flint says, his voice soft with incredulity. Well, he’s not wrong to be amazed. When I first arrived in Los Angeles, I drove up into the hills and went right up to the Hollywood sign. Maybe it wasn’t entirely legal, but hey, I live on the wild side. Ish. Now we’re standing close to where I stood that first trip up here, with the whole city spread out before us in the darkness. The sun’s just gone down over by the ocean, creating a rippling haze of fiery orange and red on the horizon. And the city lights are sparkling, twinkling, almost like the ground remains of crushed diamonds.
“It is,” I say. We stand right next to each other, and the hot jasmine-scented night air passes over us. I can actually smell him close to me, the woodsy scent of his cologne, the musk of his body. Once you learn that smell, you don’t forget it. I’d love to lean against his shoulder, bury my face in him. But that would be a bad move. Bad, bad move.
“When I see it like this,” Flint says, putting his hands in his pockets. “At a distance, I mean. The city almost makes me want to stay.”
There is no reason my heart should do an enthusiastic leap when he says those words. Especially when the next thing out of his mouth is,
“But that’s not who I am. It’s only this beautiful from a distance. I don’t want to be like those people you work with.” He all but shudders.
“Oh?” My blood starts rising, just a little. “Well, we’re trying to make a living in a very difficult and highly competitive industry. I suppose I’m just as bad as the rest.”
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Flint says, sounding surprised. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
I will not be appeased, dammit. “No, but you’re always going on about how awful we are down here. ‘Boy, those Angelenos, what a waste of space. Trying to make a deal or screw somebody, yee haw.’” I’m not sure it helps my case that I do a kind of swinging arms thing when I say those words, or that I’m making Flint sound like he’s one of the river people from Deliverance. But you know what? I’m frazzled, I’ve been around him for many, many consecutive days, and I miss him too much to be calm right now.
“I’m just telling you what it looks like to me,” Flint says, anger coloring his voice. “Those people I met at the premiere, Kandy Kristi, the waiter at Replenish or whatever that restaurant’s name was. Everyone’s a prostitute or a snob. The way executives in your company talk, you’d think Americans were these backwards mouth breathers who need to be told what to eat, what to drink, what to buy, what to do. That without Hollywood pulling their strings, they’d curl up and drool on themselves.” Even in the dim, flickering light of the city, I can see the emotion flashing in his eyes. “All you people want to do is take, and you never give back.”
“You people? As in me people?” I snap. Okay, that’s it. Before Flint can respond, I stomp away from the lights, back down to the car. I get in and slam the door, waiting for him to just get inside and let me drive him back to his stupid hotel. Last I remember, I gave him a one way ticket to stardom and a chance to save his floundering company. Not much taking in that department. But I’m not going to talk to him about this. It sounds too petty, and I’m too fucking pissed off. How dare he pass judgement on all of us as he rides by on his high and mighty horse (that he couldn’t even afford in the first place if it weren’t for my soul-sucking, greedy hack of a production company)?
Flint finally gets in the car beside me, and we’re both incredibly silent as we drive back down Mulholland, back down toward the city. We’re nearing my apartment when he finally speaks again. “You know what Callie said to me right before we left?” Flint asks. His voice is still tense.
“That she wants you to use your newfound celebrity to keep her and David in expensive hotel rooms?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted amid the turmoil.
“No.” He sighs and leans back in his seat. “She told me I need to start being honest with myself. That I need to focus on what I want, not on what I think is best for the family or anyone else.”
Well, remembering how perfect Charlotte is, I get the feeling he probably has been focusing on what he wants. So what can I tell you, Callie? Your argument is invalid.
We finally pull up, and I hit the button on my building’s garage door. It takes a full minute of Flint clearing his throat before I can stand to ask, “What? What exactly is the problem now?”
“I don’t mean to bother you while you’re thinking,” Flint says, his voice cool, “but this isn’t my hotel.”
Surprised, I look back at the opening garage door and almost scream. Great, I was so frazzled I drove us directly to my apartment. I all but start banging my head on the wheel.
“Easy there,” Flint says, grabbing my shoulder. His touch is electric and completely depressing. He’s like a bolt of lightning that hits you once and then never calls again.
“Okay, let me drive you back,” I say, looking over my shoulder and getting ready to peel out and knock over some trashcans. I think Flint senses how totally on edge I am, because he instantly says,
“No. I can get a cab. Let’s go inside, get you a drink, and I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. You still get your Netflix and bubble bath.”
“Fine,” I mumble, pulling into my underground parking space and turning off the ignition. Instead of getting out right away, we just sit there in silence. I’m flooded with memories of the last time Flint was at my apartment, how different things were between us just a few short months ago, and I don’t want to get out of the car at all. My, how time flies and everything gets worse. I finally take a deep breath and open my door, sliding out and into the garage. It’s dimly lit in here, but at least it’s warm and smells Downey fresh, since somebody’s got a load of laundry going in the small room just next to the elevator.
Flint gets out but stands by the car door, as if he’s not sure which way to go. Which actually, he probably isn’t. Last time he was here we stumbled out of a cab, onto the sidewalk, through the building’s front entrance, and then tumbled into my apartment devouring each other. Nope, I clearly don’t remember the details at all.
“I’m not going to bite your head off,” I sigh. “You want to come up for a drink?”
“I should probably call the cab first,” Flint says, still not moving. But there’s something ab
out the way he’s watching me. My skin prickles with sudden goose bumps; man, where did those come from?
“I’m sorry I lost it on you back there,” I blurt out. “That’s not what I wanted.”
He shakes his head. “I honestly wasn’t talking about you. I’ve just been really frustrated with this whole process. I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s never what I want,” Flint says, his voice low and earthy. “I never want to see you upset, especially not because of me.”
Then why did you use me? Why was I just a pawn to get Charlotte back into your flannel-clad arms, you infuriating, wonderful, stupid, handsome man?
“What did you just call me?” Flint sounds shocked. Oh God.
“Um. Wait. How much of that did I say out loud?” I ask.
“Something about infuriating, stupid, handsome?” he asks. His eyebrows lift slightly. “What did you mean by that?”
Oh no. Oh, shit. I have this bad habit of talking while I’m thinking. Or thinking while talking. Or talking. I talk sometimes; always a bad option. My mouth opens and things come flying out and then disaster strikes. Flint watches me with wordless surprise while I make probably fifty different faces, ranging from terror to embarrassment.
“I uh, I meant exactly what I said,” I reply, crossing my arms. Good. Smooth recovery, doofus.
“And Charlotte? What about Charlotte?” His voice is rising now. “Why would you bring her into this?”
“What do you mean? You’re back with her, together, all lovey dovey and housey wousey and sunflowers or whatever! I don’t do this baby talk shit!” I’m yelling, my voice echoing in the empty parking garage, and he comes over and stands before me, towering like a…big hot hunk of tower.
“You’re bringing up Charlotte after you spent yesterday rubbing your new guy in my face?” he asks. Every word is a crisp, clean snap. My heart starts pounding.
“New guy? Gay guy, is that what you meant?” I almost laugh at his confused look. “Thomas is the gayest man in the world. He goes to Sound of Music singalongs at the Hollywood Bowl without irony—that’s how gay! Did you not notice him drooling over you? How could you possibly think we were together?”