I’m not sure if I’m going about this apology thing the right way. You know I’m better with numbers than words. But I can’t leave any stone unturned in my quest to make you understand how much I love you, how much I value our marriage and our family, and how sorry I am. I hope you can realize that what I did is not who I am and it will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN! I beg you to keep letting the passage of time be on our side to allow this wound to heal. Please give me the chance to show you how much you mean to me. You don’t need to write back. I just hope you think about what I said and that it helps a little. Knowing me and my writing, I hope I was able to convey what I feel, and I hope you realize that I love you very much.
With all my love, Darren
I start to cry somewhere around the part where he wrote that even though what he did was horrible, it doesn’t make him a horrible person. That’s really the crux of the whole thing. I am so thankful he wrote that to me. It’s not difficult for Darren to let his feelings show, but it’s difficult for him to actually put them into words. And I appreciate his effort.
I am suddenly exhausted. Tired of always trying to figure things out. Tired of the endless sorting out in my brain of what I should do, when I should do it. Should I work? Should I stay with Darren? Should I flirt with Jake? Should I even be nice to Darren and to Jake? Again, I admonish myself to just be. To stop the analysis for a while. Tonight will be a good opportunity to get out of my head. I’ll be with my friends, and have a few drinks and a lot of laughs. And although I have softened a bit on Darren, I can’t help the purely physiological reaction I have to Jake Doyle who I will be seeing in exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes.
chapter seventeen
At 6:58, as I’m stuffing my money, ID, and phone into a small handbag, I hear the doorbell and then a lot of excited greetings. My mom hasn’t seen Kiki or Arden in a couple years. My friends love my mom and they appreciate her for what she is. Kiki always said she wished her mom was less housecoat-wearing mamasita and more Gucci-wearing Nina Roseman. We all want what we don’t (can’t?) have.
I hurry to the front door, and the excited greetings start anew. We all hug, and Arden does one of her jumping-in-the-air side heel clicks—her trademark way of expressing glee. It’s almost an optical illusion to look at thirty-nine-year-old women whom I’ve known since they were young. In my mind I see fifteen-year-olds. But if I squint a little and pretend these women are strangers passing me at the mall, they suddenly become the almost-forty-year-old women they are. And it’s amazing for me to realize that we are as old as our mothers were when we were in high school. Our mothers looked old, like mothers. And they acted like they had their shit together.
Kiki is all decked out and gorgeous in a one-shoulder, white dress with a huge blue hibiscus on the torso that looks like something Carrie Bradshaw would wear. Arden’s look is the antithesis in slacks (Who wears slacks? Arden wears slacks.) and a fitted cashmere sweater. Her straight blonde hairstyle hasn’t changed since fifth grade. She’s a classic beauty, all Clinique skin and Laura Mercier lips. She and Kiki are both lookers in completely different ways.
We pile into Kiki’s Denali and make our way to Koi in West Hollywood. I’ve never been to this sexy, hip Japanese restaurant, but I’ve heard about it plenty from my sister and Us magazine. Kiki cranks up Madonna’s Like a Virgin album to bring us back to 1984, right around when we all became best friends. So we’re all singing our heads off to “Material Girl,” windows down, driving up Santa Monica Boulevard toward La Cienega Boulevard, gossiping and laughing. My mind is a million miles from my marital problems and from my comfortable life in Rye, New York.
I feel like someone is kneading my stomach, like a baker with his dough, and I’m excited to see Jake. Tension has been building since that first Facebook chat a few weeks ago. And since I decided to actually make the trip, and since I told him I was coming, there’s been a sense of anticipation I can’t deny. However hard I try. It’s probably good that I ran into him today at lunch; it’s minimizing the anxiety a bit. Minimizing it enough.
I mentally go over my rules. I will allow myself to flirt, to feel pretty, to escape my life for one night. I will not allow myself to touch or be touched, to engage in any sort of Darren-bashing, to do anything that would make me feel embarrassed if Kiki or Arden saw. Just old friends hanging out. Yeah, an old friend who I used to have a major crush on who still has some power over my heart and my nether regions. Act with grace, Grace. Act with grace. It’s not like I’m wearing special underwear or anything. And my long-overdue bikini wax is more Botswanan than Brazilian. That proves I’m not interested in anything happening.
We pull up to the valet parking at 7:45 and make our way through the throng of paparazzi staked out to photograph whatever stars decide to dine tonight at Koi, a celeb hotspot. Kiki gives our name to the hostess who leads us to a banquette on the back patio. We get our paparazzi answer when we pass Leonardo DiCaprio at a table of beautiful women and Hollywood-agent-type guys. They’re all laughing at a joke that we missed, but we still feel the punch line’s transferred joy.
The restaurant is very cool, lots of wood and bamboo, lush greenery, and soft candlelight. Exactly the kind of ambience I was hoping for. I feel excited. The rest of our crew is already there, and there’s lots of hooting and shrieking from the table when they see us approach. They all stand up to greet us. Scotty is on the end so he gets to me first and gives me a kiss on the cheek and a bear hug. Scotty is 6’1” and 200 pounds. There’s nothing better than a Scotty hug. He pulls away, holds my hands, and scans me up and down.
“Gracie Roseman May, you look phenomenal!” he says, beaming at me.
“Why thank you Scotty Alden Reynolds, so do you,” I say as I smile at him and give him another hug. There’s something about being with old friends. There’s something about being with Scotty. It’s feety pajamas, a cold night with a fireplace, endless M&M’s.
“I would like to introduce you to my beautiful and talented fiancée, Abigail Marlow. Abigail, this is Grace,” Scotty says putting his arm around Abigail’s shoulder.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say to Abigail, not knowing whether to shake her hand or give her a kiss. During that split second of indecision, she leans toward me and gives me a proper British two-cheek kiss.
“Grace, I’ve heard so much about you. Lovely to finally meet you,” Abigail says warmly in her posh British accent.
She is a presence. As tall as Scotty, but with a lean, dancer’s body, Abigail’s auburn hair is cut in a pixie and she has Natalie Portman’s face. Stunning, absolutely stunning. She looks at Scotty, and they smile and kiss. I feel a wave of love for my old friend. And happiness that he has found his wife.
“Stop hogging the import,” Jake says as he bumps Scotty on the shoulder and maneuvers next to me.
“Hey, Jake,” I say smiling, the baker in my belly getting a little frenzied.
“Hey, Gracie,” he says, also smiling, and he gives me a kiss and a tight hug.
Just then, Tommy and Sara make their way over, and a new round of kisses and hugs begins.
Sara was the fourth in the Kiki/Arden/Grace group. But she was also the third in the Stacy/Samantha group (they liked to call themselves the SaSSy Sisters, even had off-the-shoulder T-shirts made—so lame, but this was the 80s!) so she and I were never as close as I was with Kiki and Arden. Sara is one of those girls who looks nothing like she did in high school. She went from Tracey Gold to Cameron Diaz. The tightly curled brown hair, unflattering nose, pimples, flat chest, and baby fat have been replaced with chemically straightened blonde hair, Cameron Diaz’s nose (Kiki told me Sara brought a photo into her plastic surgeon’s office and requested an exact replica), dermabrasioned skin, enhanced breasts, and toned arms. Girl looks good. A little fake. But this is L.A., and girl looks good.
After the greetings and compliments are exhausted, we slide into the U-shaped booth. On one end is Sara and the seating order next to her is Abigail, Scotty, me, Jake, Kiki
, Tommy, and Arden. It’s like the first day of school when the teacher assigns your seat that will be permanent for the rest of the semester. Your placement either sucks or guarantees you’ll be next to the boy you think is cute or the girl you can cheat off of, wherever your priorities lie. I’ve scored big in the seating assignments tonight.
The booth is a little small for eight, so we’re packed in close. My legs are pushed up against Scotty’s on my right and Jake’s on my left. But only my left is tingling a little. I pledged not to touch. But I have nowhere else to go.
We order a round of Koi saketinis and edamame. Kiki doesn’t drink, which is why she’s our designated driver. She orders a virgin Koi Chai Tea. The restaurant is loud, so it’s hard to have a group table conversation. I start off on my right asking Scotty and Abigail about the wedding.
“We’ve decided to go to Hawaii, just the two of us, and get married in a tiny resort on Kauai,” Scotty says.
“How romantic. How does Rosalie Reynolds feel about that?”
“Well,” Scotty continues, “Rosalie Reynolds is none too excited because she wanted to throw the wedding of the century. But we’re allowing her to have a small tasteful party for her friends when we get back. Unfortunately, small and tasteful in Rosalie Reynolds’s world means 250 in black tie at The Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s fine, though. Abigail’s even a little excited about it, right, hon?” Scotty asks and turns to Abigail as he re-laces his fingers through hers.
Abigail leans over Scotty so I can hear her. “My mum died when I was little, and I adore Rosalie, so we’re actually having fun with it. I’m the daughter she never had, and she’s playing that mother-of-the-bride role for me. She’s been lovely,” Abigail says and smiles at Scotty.
“Well, I’m just really happy for the two of you,” I say.
“Thanks, Gracie. There are only a handful of people who I would like to watch me get married, and you’re definitely one of them,” Scotty says, his eyes starting to tear up.
“Well, I’m honored to hear that. So just make sure you take lots of photos and email them to me.”
“It’s a deal,” Scotty says.
Our drinks arrive, and Jake clinks a chopstick against his glass, proposing a toast to our guests of honor. He speaks loudly so we can all hear.
“I would like to take a moment to honor Scotty and Abigail. Scotty, you and I have been like brothers since we were just little dudes, hunting for babes, dreaming big dreams, desperately trying to speed up life so we could turn sixteen, get our licenses, and take off on a road trip that we never ended up taking. But you’ve taken an even better trip. A successful career and now a beautiful woman who you are about to marry. Abigail, I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect, better-suited woman for my best friend. I wish you two all the happiness in the world. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” We all shout in unison, clinking glasses, laughing, delighting in our good fortune, our deep bonds, our warm feelings all around. I get caught in a man hug between Jake and Scotty. One of them smells really good, like Drakkar Noir, the cheesy adolescent cologne that gets me every time.
“That was really nice,” I say to Jake as the smaller conversations around the table start up again. When he looks into my eyes, I feel my insides clench and the heat rise up my neck. Don’t blush, Grace. Hold it together.
“Thanks. Didn’t think I had it in me?” Jake asks, clinking my glass. We both take sips of our saketinis.
“It’s not that. I guess I just don’t think of you as the sentimental type, and that was really . . . thoughtful.” I have to turn away from him and focus on the edamame because every time I look into his eyes I smile.
“Me? I am Mr. Sentimental!” Jake proclaims.
“Really? Well, I have to say that I don’t really know you, or really most of the people at this table, as an adult. To me, everyone’s still little sixteen-year-old Valley kids frozen in time but with crow’s feet and more expensive watches,” I say, popping some edamame out of their shell and tossing the empty pod into the bowl in the middle of the table.
“It’s true.” He laughs. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that we’re not all going to meet up at a kegger at Jason Pontrose’s house on Saturday night. Those days are long gone.”
“Jason Pontrose,” I say reminiscing. “Whatever happened to him?” I sneak a peek at Jake. He’s looking at me. I smile.
“He lives in Tarzana and runs a smoothie shop.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. I stop in whenever I’m in the Valley, and he gives me free smoothies. Talk about frozen in time, he still wears Op shorts and black-and-white checkerboard Vans.”
“Wow.” I take a sip of my drink and stare at the dancing fire in the votive candles. “I guess some people need to see the world and expand their horizons, and other people are quite content living their whole lives in the same place. I’m not saying one’s better than the other, they’re just different.”
“Did someone say Jason Pontrose?” Sara asks.
“We were talking about the keggers he used to have all the time. Where the hell were his parents?” I ask, laughing.
“Sara, remember the time you passed out at his house and your parents filed a missing persons report because you never came home that night?” Kiki asks.
“Oh my God. I had completely blocked that out. That was horrible. The life of a teenager before cell phones. I remember waking up in Jason’s bed, next to a completely nude Jason. I was completely dressed, of course,” she says, “but I was so embarrassed. He swore nothing happened. Yuck.”
We all laugh. I could talk about high-school memories for hours. I don’t know if that makes me sentimental or pathetic. Probably a little of both. The waiter comes, and Jake orders a slew of appetizers for the table without even looking at the menu.
“Come here often?” I ask.
“Yeah, once in a while,” he says modestly. “My agent’s office is down the street, so she sets up a lot of lunch meetings here with potential clients.”
“You’re kind of surprising me,” I say.
“Why? Because you still think of me as the clueless surfer dude who said ‘stoked’ all the time and skipped school when there were big swells at Zuma?” Jake asks, pushing his hair off his face. He’s got that perfect hip casual look going on again tonight. He’s wearing faded jeans, a white linen button down, and a cool silver necklace with some sort of Zen-looking charm around his neck. He’s got a fresh glow on his face, like he spent the afternoon on the beach.
“Well, to be honest, I guess I kind of do.”
“Well, then I’m going to have to change your perception of me.” He smiles at me.
“Tell me about your art,” I say, trying to steer us toward neutral subjects.
“I’m kind of transitioning my style. I do that every year or so as different things inspire me, like places I travel to, people I meet, challenges I overcome, social issues I become active in, music I listen to, books I read. When my perceptions change about things, and I open my eyes to new interpretations, it just seems to manifest itself in my art,” he says. As he talks, his voice turns serious and he gestures meaningfully with his hands.
I’m so moved by what he just said that I realize I was holding my breath. Darren would never say something like that. He’s just not evocative. Not the type of guy to read literature or have a favorite poem. Jake is so different from Darren. I feel the alcohol working, and I take off my sweater because I feel warm. I get a little stuck as I try to maneuver it off in the tiny space I’ve been allotted in the banquette.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Jake says as my shoulder brushes across his chest. As it does, I catch his eye. He’s smiling at me.
“Thanks,” I say, turning away to get another edamame. I don’t even like edamame. It’s just giving my hands something to do.
“Jake, why are you monopolizing Grace?” Arden asks in her I’ve-had-one-drink-and-I’m-already-so-buzzed voice. Arden was the girl in high school who had one Bartles
& Jaymes and was good for the night.
“Cuz she’s just so damn pretty,” Jake says in a fake cowboy voice.
“You really do look pretty,” Tommy says. “I really screwed up when I let you go in eighth grade, didn’t I?”
“You guys dated?” Abigail asks in a surprised voice.
“Oh, Abigail, you don’t want to know about all the love drama that went down over the years between the people at this table,” Kiki says, smiling at Tommy.
“Really? Well, even though it’s ancient history, I’m sure it’ll make me laugh so I think I do,” Abigail says, giving us all searching looks as if she’s trying to figure out who the guilty parties are.
“Okay, here we go, it’s like this,” tipsy Arden begins. “Everyone always thought Grace and Scotty had a thing because they were such good friends, but they never did until he kissed her once in college, but she had a boyfriend and that was the end of that,” she clinks glasses with me and then Scotty. “Grace and Tommy had a little love connection in seventh or eighth grade, I can’t remember which.”
“Eighth,” Tommy and I say in unison, laughing, and clinking glasses.
“Right, eighth,” Arden says. “But Tommy dumped her at a bar mitzvah because Eliza Jandry had promised him a blow job in the bathroom.”
“Doh!” Tommy says.
“Seriously?” I ask, turning to Tommy, my eyebrows raised.
On Grace Page 16