Bliss

by Shay Mitchell

  “A Demi?” asked Maya. Two phones rang at once, and she was off to the races. Her day would continue like this for another twelve hours.

  Demi filled a mug, and scrolled through her work emails. Seventy-eight messages, most of them marked Urgent, re: First @ Second. One address popped out at her. The email was from Mrs. Rydell, the building manager who showed her the apartment at the Grace. The message had an attachment—her signed and executed lease.

  She called Mrs. Rydell, who picked up on the first ring. “Hello, Demi. Did you get the lease?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Do you love the place?”

  “I like it. But I couldn’t help noticing, everyone there is really old.”

  Mrs. Rydell was such a fast talker when she was walking her through the place. Now, she took a pause. “I told you the residents were mature.”

  “By mature, I thought you meant employed.”

  “More like retired.”

  “Did someone die in my apartment?”

  “People die everywhere.”

  “The lease is signed. I can’t get out of it now. Just tell me the truth.”

  Another pause. “The apartment’s quirky history is why it’s so affordable.”

  “How quirky?”

  “All I know is that the deaths were from natural causes, like heart attacks and strokes. It’s just a coincidence that they happened in the same apartment.”

  Demi choked on her coffee. “Deaths, plural? How many?”

  “Four?”

  “You rented me a death trap!”

  “The place is completely safe. It’s been checked and rechecked. The water is clean. No mold, bugs, toxins, or rodents. The elderly are very good neighbors. No loud music, they go to bed early, and keep the place spotless. If you have some kind of prejudice against old people, then you can always break the lease. But you’ll forfeit the security deposit and your first month’s rent.”

  Demi was too hungover to be angry. It was a large apartment in an immaculate building and a great location. She didn’t hate old people. It was just a bit disconcerting to be the youngest person in the building by fifty years. She put her head down on her desk, and tried to picture Miriam and the gang of ghosts who might be lurking in her bathroom. Friendly ghosts, she was sure, and not necessarily a bad thing. Demi could stand to meet some new people.

  She might’ve dozed a bit, because the next thing she knew, Maya was shaking her shoulder. “I’m up!” she said, and busily tidied her desk like a kid caught snoozing through history class. “I was just resting my eyes.”

  Maya was not amused. “Permit?” she said.

  “Going.” Demi grabbed her bag, left the office, and got in the Audi. It made some suspicious grinding noises, but she ignored them. Should she even be driving this hungover? She drove last night. How could she have done that? Never again, you idiot! She went down to City Hall, parked, and found the right room in the labyrinth of offices, only to find out that the clerk was out to lunch until two P.M., an hour from now. She texted Maya and said, “Office closed until after lunch. Will go back then. Running errands.”

  Demi made the snap decision do a quick food shop and then head back to the Grace. It was so close, and she could still smell pinot grigio coming out of her pores. She’d bake muffins, take another shower, then get the permit and be back at work with at least five minutes to spare before Maya’s nervous breakdown.

  * * *

  The oven was as old as the average resident at the Grace, so Demi wasn’t optimistic about baking there. Plus, she wasn’t much of a baker at all. She followed the recipe and measured and mixed the ingredients carefully. The pumpkin spice muffin recipe was a James favorite. She’d perfected it over the years and was quite proud of it. She hoped her neighbors liked it. Who didn’t like pumpkin? You’d have to be insane not to, a deranged, twisted psychopath. Bonus: It was packed with vitamins A and C, good news for the olds. Demi could use a double dose of antioxidants, too. She’d been treating her body like a garbage dump since the breakup.

  Since the breakup. Her life was now divided between “before the breakup” and “since the breakup.” James’s betrayal defined her life, and probably would for a long time. She could sum up her existence to a new person, “Hi, my name is Demi Michaels. I’m twenty-one and have no clue what to do with my life. My boyfriend cheated on me for years. When I found out, I had to break up with him. I’m desperately lonely. I wish I could bury my head in the sand, and pretend I never caught him. But I did, and now I’m stuck with the anger, zero trust, a jaded perspective on love, an open invitation to AA, pity money, party friends, and no confidence.” Man, she was a real treat these days.

  Demi poured the batter into the muffin pans, and put them in the oven. While they baked, she showered again, changed her clothes, and cleaned up her space. The light was fantastic at this time of day. It gave her a freshly scrubbed, clean feeling.

  Speaking of which, she had a mountain of laundry to do. While the muffins cooled on a rack, she took a duffel bag down to the basement to the washer-dryer room, no quarters required. She stuffed two of the washers, one with whites, one with coloreds, set the dials, and started them off.

  As she was leaving the room, Yoga Pants came in, lugging a basket of her own dirty drawers. When she noticed both machines were running, she said, “Both yours?” and pointed at the two churning washing machines. “House rules: You’re not supposed to take two at a time.”

  I can’t do anything right, she thought. “I’ll take my stuff out if you want.”

  “No, forget it.”

  “Just leave your stuff. I’ll put it in when mine’s done. I’ll even fold. It’s the least I can do after this morning.”

  “Are you feeling better?” The woman placed her basket on top of one of the washers.

  “Much, except for the abject humiliation.”

  Yoga Pants smiled. “You certainly gave us something to talk about.”

  “I’m Demi, by the way."

  “Catherine.” They shook hands.

  “I’m never tangling with shrubs again. I’m never drinking again. It was a one-time thing. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Catherine said, “Bullshit!” Whoa, Demi’s grandmother never cursed like that.

  “You’re right. I am going to drink again.”

  “You can come upstairs and have a sip right now, if you’d like. I put some Bailey’s in my coffee at this time of day.”

  Be neighborly! “Um, sure. Sounds great.”

  They took the stairs together. Catherine zoomed up the stairs, shockingly. “I do yoga five days a week.”

  “You’re in better shape than I am.”

  “Considering the shape you were in this morning…”

  What a sassy old bird! They got to the second floor. “Here you are,” said Catherine. “I’m right across the hall.”

  It was after two P.M. Demi really should go back to City Hall, but she couldn’t very well abandon the laundry and turn down her neighbor’s hospitality after accepting it. That would be rude and make a bad second impression. She’d have one coffee, transfer the wash into the dryer, then run back to City Hall and get the permit. She’d deliver it to Maya, and then race home and fold.

  They got to their floor, and Catherine said, “I’ll get the bottle. We can christen your place.”

  As she opened her door, Demi warned, “I don’t have anywhere to sit, but you do yoga, right?” They both smiled. Demi felt better already.

  When they were settled on boxes in Demi’s apartment, she had to ask, “Were you and Miriam friends? I know about the portal of doom, by the way.”

  Catherine laughed. “We call your apartment ‘God’s Waiting Room.’”

  “God’s going to have to wait a long time for me.”

  “Don’t curse yourself.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going to die tomorrow. Is that better?”

  Catherine liked her little joke, and gave Demi the brightest smile she’d seen in we
eks. It was like sunshine and lemonade, and warmed Demi inside out.

  “Something smells really good,” said Catherine.

  “My muffins. I baked them for you, for all of you, to say ‘thanks’ and ‘sorry’ for this morning.” Demi dashed around the kitchen to put a hot cake on a plate.

  Catherine took a bite, made yummy sounds, and asked, “Who doesn’t love pumpkin? You’d have to be insane not to. Only serial killers don’t love pumpkin.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Demi as they clinked their coffees and took another bite.

  demi’s pumpkin spice raisin and walnut muffins

  MAKES 12 MUFFINS

  ingredients

  3 cups gluten-free baking flour

  2 tsps baking powder

  2 tsps baking soda

  1 tsp salt

  1 tbsp ground cinnamon

  1 tbsp ground ginger

  ¼ tsp allspice

  ¼ tsp ground nutmeg

  4 eggs

  2⁄3 cup applesauce

  1⁄3 cup maple syrup

  2⁄3 cup almond milk

  2 tbsps vanilla extract

  one can pumpkin puree

  ½ cup chopped walnuts

  1 cup golden raisins

  instructions

  1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a standard 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners.

  2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and nutmeg.

  3. Add the 4 eggs, applesauce, maple syrup, almond milk, and vanilla directly to the dry ingredients. Stir until the batter is smooth and thick. Using a plastic spatula, fold in the pumpkin, walnuts, and raisins until all are evenly distributed throughout the batter.

  4. Pour the batter into each prepared cup ¾ full. Bake the muffins on the center rack for 25 minutes, rotating the tin 180 degrees halfway through. The finished muffins will be soft to the touch, and a toothpick inserted in the center will come out clean.

  5. Let the muffins stand in the tin for 15 minutes, then transfer them to a wire rack and cool completely. Store the muffins in an airtight container at room temperature for up to three days.

  5

  rock that invisible tiara!

  A month post-breakup, Sophia studied Demi carefully on her laptop screen, checking her face for blotches and bloat, and her psyche for cracks. The breakup had taken a toll, although today she seemed okay. Better. “Any bootie texts from James yet?” asked Sophia.

  “If only! He’d be shocked if I showed up at his place … with a chain saw.”

  “What’s the feelings update?” Sophia asked, hoping Demi would keep it brief. Not to offend her or be rude, but she loathed James and was so glad that was over. But she understood the pain her friend was in. When Jesse broke up with her—totally out of the blue, just announced one day that he wanted out—she was shellshocked. But after a month of daily emotional check-ins with Demi, Sophia was suffering from chronic sympathy fatigue, and was ready to be done with it.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  Demi waved off the concern. “I don’t recognize that wall. Where are you?”

  “I’m in a Days Inn in Los Angeles for pilot casting week,” said Sophia, reflexively glancing over her shoulder at the cheesy print of fruit and cats on the wall. Usually, for their Skype chats, Sophia was on her bed with her vision board behind her.

  “We’re in the same time zone!”

  “I can almost smell Vancouver from here. Fresh air, good food, and boringness.” They laughed together.

  “What’s pilot season?”

  “It’s when every actor in North America flocks to Hollywood, trying to get a TV job. Agnes has arranged auditions for sitcoms, family dramas. I spent the day with a hundred girls in a soundstage, reapplying lip gloss every five minutes.”

  “I’ve been such an absentee friend! Sorry to be so selfish lately. I’m done with that, promise So, Days Inn, huh,” said Demi.

  “It’s fine. Check out the room service,” said Sophia, holding up the bag of Lays she got from the vending machine down the hall.

  “Are you lonely?”

  An odd question, but Demi could always sense Sophia’s moods. “Not lonely exactly. More like invisible. I’m walking like a star, believe me, but so is every other girl. The casting people and producers don’t look you in the eye. They talk to my head shot, not my actual head.”

  “No eye-to-eye contact,” said Demi.

  “Eye-to-ass, eye-to-boob.”

  “Eye-to-crotch. So humanizing!” As Demi spoke, she stood up to give Sophia a close-up view of her underwear. Then turned around and pushed her ass to the camera. Sophia got up and started dancing in her robe.

  They laughed, instantly cheering each other up. In all this serious career stuff, Sophia needed the strong hit of goofy that only Demi could provide. If only Demi were here! It had been a long day for Sophia, with another one tomorrow. “You know that actor I met at Ta-Da I told you about? Scott? He’s in the room next to me. He’s been coming to LA for pilot season for ten years already. He’s either a masochist or my hero.”

  Demi started putting on makeup, using the Skype window like a mirror. “I can’t talk long. I’m meeting Sarah and Jo for dinner in an hour and I have to get ready.”

  “How’s the new place?” Sophia didn’t want to let her go yet.

  “It’s okay. I made friends with my across-the-hall neighbor. We hang out after work drinking Bailey’s. You have to meet her when you come home.”

  “Another drinking buddy?” asked Sophia.

  Demi snorted. “She’s eighty. We bake casseroles and watch Real Housewives. She’s just someone to talk to.”

  “And I’m chopped liver.”

  “No! You are in Hollywood, becoming a movie star.” She used this stupid accent. Sometimes it veered Irish, sometimes Indian, and always hilarious.

  “Yes,” she replied in the same accent. Sophia missed Demi more than ever. The irony of it was that at first, Sophia was relieved when Leandra left for Thailand, to get a break from her intensity and have some mental space to think about herself. But after a week she couldn’t ignore the widening sinkhole of her social life.

  “Isn’t Renee in LA now?” asked Demi. “Can you call her to hang out?”

  Sophia marveled at how Demi could read her mind over hundreds of miles. “I left a voice mail and a text. She didn’t call back.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Scott is taking me to a party in the Hills tonight, so that’s something.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams.”

  “You mean a producer who casts me as the star of a cool new show? Ideally, he’s gay, or has no hands.”

  “Yes, exactly!”

  “You realize you haven’t said a thing about James this entire time,” said Sophia. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I’m giving you a heartbreak breather. Catherine lets me talk her ear off about him. To be honest, I’m kind of tired of beating a dead horse. C’est la vie!”

  “You should have some French wine to go with the attitude,” said Sophia.

  “Way ahead of you,” said Demi, lifting a glass into the frame.

  “Whoa, that’s a healthy dose. You’re not driving are you?” A knock on the door. “That’s Scott. Okay, wish me luck at my first Hollywood party.”

  “Wear your invisible tiara,” sang Demi. “And have fun in ‘the Hills,’ whatever that means.”

  She hung up feeling calm. They were so different, but they wanted the same things: for both of them to find their bliss, ideally, at the same time so they could love their lives together.

  * * *

  Driving to the party via Uber was like a sightseeing tour of famous movie titles: Laurel Canyon, Mulholland Drive, the Hollywood Hills. As the car climbed higher and higher into the mountain, the houses were farther and farther back from the road. The hidden ones were the real gems, and she wished she could get out, sneak
through the hedge, and take photos of them all. They drove still higher, then made a turn to see the valley stretched out below.

  “Sensational view,” said Scott.

  “Unbelievable,” she agreed.

  “Just wait until you see the house.”

  Sophia felt the heat of the city in her body. She adjusted her invisible tiara in her mind and smiled.

  According to conventional wisdom, everyone who lived in these mansions worked in the entertainment biz or had parents who did. If Sophia lived here, her imagination would spark up like a forest fire. She would have loved to stop and take photos for her vision board, but Scott would mock her for gawking like a tourist. Instead, she snapped discreetly out of the car window. She loved a good drive-by Snapchat. There was something artistic about it. They scaled the side of the hill until they reached the home on Hilldale of Adam Schlock, the writer/director of the horror series Butcher. (Cue stabbing music.)

  “I met Adam on Butcher 1 about ten years ago when I was young and hot,” said Scott, who was only thirty years old. The car pulled to a stop at the end of the driveway. “It was a hit, and he went on to make three more of them, with another currently in the works. You would think he’d run out of ideas after Butcher 2, 3, and 4, but there’s always another sick, perverted way to hack up a co-ed.”

  “Were you disemboweled on-screen? Because that would be the centerpiece of my highlight reel,” said Sophia.

  “I wish! I was an extra on the beach, just another idiot screaming over a gore-covered body. Fake gore and a dummy, but still thoroughly revolting. I screamed for real the first few takes. But after the seventeenth, I could have curled up next to it and taken a nap. When the day was over, Adam told me I had the best little girl scream of any grown man he’d ever met. We bonded. I haven’t managed to get many jobs out here, but I have made some friends. Then again, in LA, everyone is your friend as long as you give them something they want.” They wound down the driveway toward the house, where a few party stragglers smoked or yelled on their phones outside.

  “What does Adam want from you?” she asked.

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “Are you from Vancouver … or Kansas?”