by Amiee Smith
As always, the chain coffee house is overflowing with people. I find an empty seat next to the bathroom with my back facing the window. It’s not ideal, but when my muse shows up, I can’t be choosey. I read once that Neil Young ducked into a bathroom to pen a song during a dinner party when his muse appeared. I’m grateful I’m not inside this bathroom. The odor harassing my nose every time the door opens would be difficult to endure.
Removing my sunglasses, I open my notebook and get to work. Lost in my new pretend world, real-time doesn’t exist. Plot points and character descriptions pour all over the page in blue gel ink.
The Sencha ringtone interrupts my creative high. My alarm. It’s 4:15. I check my Starbucks receipt for my arrival time. It’s only been an hour. I must have walked for over two hours. Returning to my body, I notice the dull ache in my feet and lower back. My clothes damp with sweat. I overdid it today. Now I need to get back to the house (before Nick), do a fifteen-minute house clean, and shower.
I open the Uber app, but can’t sign in. My account is suspended. Crap. It’s probably a mistake. Is Mercury retrograde? I open the Lyft app, but Nick’s address is saved in my Uber trip history.
I search my email for the last receipt, but I absent-mindedly deleted all the messages in my inbox while on a three-way call with my parents this morning. A quick call to update them on my trip became a thirty-minute lecture. My mom: “Does Nick understand your condition?” My dad: “He needs to know why people with ADHD statistically struggle in romantic relationships.”
Desperation and panic tickle the center of my chest. I send a rarely used SOS message to the girls.
Tuesday, 4:20 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] SOS. Kind of lost. LOL. Can someone text me Nick’s address?
Tuesday, 4:20 p.m.
Jen Manning: [To group] Jon drove last night. I’ll call him. Where are you? You okay?
Tuesday, 4:20 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] I’m totally fine. Just need the address. Sorry to bug you.
Tuesday, 4:21 p.m.
Brit Palmer: [To group] Going into a meeting w/ my boss. LM for Alex. U good?
Tuesday, 4:21 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] Thx. I’m good.
Tuesday, 4:21 p.m.
Claire White: [To group] Took the train out last night. J + J picked me up from the station. Sorry.
Tuesday, 4:21 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] It’s my fault. I should have put the address in my phone before I left the house.
Tuesday, 4:22 p.m.
Dana Sandoval: [To group] Just entered a screening. Call my office. Ask my assistant. He booked my car service last night and will have the address. Phone will be off.
Tuesday, 4:23 p.m.
Jen Manning: [To group] Jon’s in a sales meeting. I started cocktail hour on NYC time. Sorry I can’t pick you up.
Tuesday, 4:23 p.m.
Brit Palmer: [To group] No response from Alex. Gotta turn phone off. Sorry.
Tuesday, 4:24 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] So sorry to bug all of you. I’ve got a plan B. Love you all so much. Please tell Jon and Alex to keep all of this to themselves. Not ready to unleash my ADHD craziness on my new (and only) BF. LOL.
I text the one other person I know who has Nick’s address. I open the Notes app on my phone.
Tuesday, 4:25 p.m.
626-282-4896: Hey Michael. It’s Lynn Scott. Do you have Nick Willingham’s street address? I got lost in Downtown. Need to request a Lyft. Sorry to bother you.
Tuesday, 4:26 p.m.
310-574-1818: Where are you? I’ll come get you.
Tuesday, 4:26 p.m.
626-282-4896: You’re sweet. I don’t need a white knight today. Just the address. Forever grateful. [smiley face emoji]
I’m waiting for the dots when the ten-percent battery life notification appears on the screen. Shoot! I forgot to charge my phone. Can’t wait any longer… I gotta get home, now!
Gathering my things and sliding on my sunglasses, I leave Starbucks with a plan: I’ll hail a cab; direct the driver to Mount Washington; figure out where Nick lives once I’m in the neighborhood. Easy-peasy.
After walking a few blocks and finding no cabs, I yelp Yellow Cab, dialing the number. No answer. I call two more cab companies. No answer. Holy Unicorn! Why didn’t I put the address in my phone?!
“Hey, girl. You is fine. I want a ride,” says a brown dude with a gold grill.
I jog with haste up the block. Self-conscious. My heart races. Hyper-aware. My skin crawls. The light blue crop top barely clears my breasts, leaving my concave tummy completely on display. My remodeled body is too exposed in this outfit. My lawyer mom would so freak out if she knew I was in Downtown L.A. as the sun goes down dressed like a short, brown version of fitness Barbie. (My inner fat girl was so mesmerized by how well it fit this morning that I had to wear it on my run.)
I approach a crowded bus stop.
“Do any of these buses go to Mount Washington?” I ask a Latina woman with the most adorable baby in her arms.
My heart flutters as the child’s tiny hands reach for me. For a split second, an instinct I’ve shunned my entire adult life bubbles up. Oh, hell no! I don’t have time for that right now. I gotta get home to Nick.
“Cincuenta y cinco,” she says.
Thanks to three years of high school Spanish, I understand she’s saying 55. I’m searching the map at the bus stop as Metro 55 pulls up to the curb. A sign from the Universe! I scurry on, withdrawing the two-dollar fare from my wallet.
“Does this bus go to Mount Washington?” I ask the youthful white male bus driver while I push dollar bills through the ticket machine.
“Girl, you all good,” he says, handing me a ticket.
“Thank you!”
I move to the rear of the bus and plop into a window seat. The deep ache in my feet is now very apparent. Today was a gnarly-bad ADHD day. My mind and body were way out of synch.
I open the navigation app on my phone to get a visual of how I’m going to get home. I enter Mount Washington into the destination bar, and my phone powers down. Holy Unicorn! Why didn’t I charge my phone?!
“Is this seat taken?” asks a young woman with hair as red as Jen’s.
“No. It’s yours now,” I say with a half-smile.
I’m more aware than ever of how different I am than others. Nick’s face pops into my mind, bringing with it a cloak of shame. I’m a freakin’ weirdo. He’s never going to want to be with me once he knows how truly loco I am.
The redhead settles in next me. The Delta Delta Delta USC chapter button on her backpack captures my attention.
“I was Tri-Delta at SC… a bazillion years ago,” I blurt out.
“Really? I just finished rush,” she says.
“Congratulations. Rush was crazy for me, but I’m happy to be Delta Delta Delta,” I say.
“Me too. I guess we’re in a perpetual bond of friendship. I’m KayLee.”
She extends her hand to me, which I accept.
“I’m Lynn Scott.”
(I say my full name because that’s what I’m used to doing.)
“OMG. You’re the famous author. They had a life-sized cut-out of you during the recruitment party. Ah… Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”
This past summer, the USC Tri-Delta chapter asked if they could use a pic of me from a sorority event my junior year. In the photo, I’m wearing a peach (yeah, puke) sleeveless dress and nude platform heels. When I viewed the proof, all I saw was my young puffy cheeks, broad shoulders and super wide calves. But I looked so happy in the image, I agreed to let them use it. I’m too tired to pretend I don’t understand what she means.
“I recently lost fifty pounds,” I say for the first time with some sense of pride.
I’ve worked really hard to get to the place where I can run five miles in the morning and walk two hours in the afternoon (yes, totally kray kray).
I’ve downplayed my weight loss to the girls and
my parents, just offering “too busy to eat” jokes. Heck, I think my mom still sees me as a plump teenager recently diagnosed with a chronic brain disorder (instead of a fit, thirty-three-year-old woman who can take care of herself).
“That’s so amazing! How did you do it?” KayLee asks.
Her young face glows with elation as I share my plant-based diet and daily fitness routine. KayLee makes the bus ride fun. We chat and giggle about green juice, hair products, USC football, books, boys, and TV shows. I love being a Tri-Delta!
“There’s the juice bar I was telling you about,” KayLee says, pointing out the window.
I follow her finger, only now noticing the sun is much lower than when I got on the bus. Shoot! I need to get home for date night. The L.A. bus system is not as speedy as I’d prefer. We’re still on the outskirts of DTLA.
I should have texted Nick. Goddess, I wanted to get this relationship party started without my ADHD shit being in the mix. My dad’s words from this morning play in my head, “Keeping Nick informed is the healthy thing to do.”
“What time do you have, KayLee?”
“6:08.”
Crap. I’m so late. Panic churns in my belly. Not only does he not know where I am, he’s probably pissed I didn’t make the bed or put my dishes away. I try to power on my phone, praying for a miracle. Nothing but a black screen taunting me to charge my battery. Why didn’t I text Nick?!
“Shoot,” I say, dropping my phone into my purse.
“Phone die?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend at his house, but I forgot to bring the address.”
“Does he live in Mount Washington?”
“Yes.”
“I grew up there. It’s a small community. I probably know where he lives. What view does he have? Downtown or canyon?”
Her voice is cheery, energetic, and eager to help. She’s totally a Tri-Delta sister.
“The front of the house has a view of Downtown and the back is the canyon between here and Pasadena.”
“Oh! What does the house look like?” KayLee asks.
“It’s dark gray. Almost charcoal. The garage door is really modern. It’s made of thin Cherrywood planks. My boyfriend parks his silver SUV in the driveway.”
“OMG. That’s the dreamy Olympian’s house. The one with the hair. Is that your boyfriend?”
Nick does have great hair, but it’s not what I aah and sigh over. Those hazel green eyes. Slay me. Every time. Oh, I can’t wait to see him! And listen to him recount his day while he cooks, all stoned and relaxed. Butterflies whirl from my chest to my belly, dissolving the panic.
“Yes. He’s really dreamy,” I giggle. “I’m totally late. Will you direct me as to where to get off?”
“Of course. Tri-Deltas stick together. Can I get a pic to share with the sisters?” she asks.
“Sure.”
I agree without considering I’m in a bare midriff top with sweat stains, no makeup and my curly hair is piled on top of my head in a messy unkept bun. I put my purse and notebook in front of me, and give my happiest smile to the camera. (I’m so grateful for sunglasses.)
“Can I tag you on Facebook?” KayLee asks.
“Tag my author page. I don’t use my personal page very much.”
I scan out the window, hoping to see something familiar. My foot taps. I’m soooo ready to be home.
“We’re almost there. You’ll get off in like, four more stops,” she says, peering at her phone.
“Four stops takes an eternity in L.A. In San Francisco, four stops is a five-minute ride.”
“Do you live in San Francisco? I love it there!”
“Yes. It’s an amazing city. Though I really enjoyed Downtown today,” I say honestly.
Other than getting lost with no address home, I had a great day. The shame I felt earlier lifts. Okay. My brain is a bit off, but I still can make the best of any situation. And I aim to make the best of my date night.
KayLee pulls me out of my thoughts, “Downtown is cool. It’s changing a lot. They are building condos all over the place. I keep envisioning myself living in one after graduation.”
“Visualizing works. I envisioned my current life in my mind all throughout my twenties,” I say.
“Did you visualize dating your boyfriend?”
“We went to high school together. Back then, I’d imagine hooking up with him. I had the most detailed fantasies. It’s probably why I write romance,” I say with a giggle.
“Did you guys date back then?” KayLee asks.
“No. We only know each other now because his best friend married my best friend.”
“Your visualization did come true!”
“Oh. I guess you’re right. Thanks, KayLee.”
“You’re welcome! Your stop is next.”
She gets up and I slide out.
“When you get off, walk to the right. It’s a little uphill, but on the other side you should see his house.”
“I’m forever grateful. You make me so proud to be a Tri-Delta. Bye, KayLee.”
“Bye, Lynn. Good luck with your dreamy Olympian.”
I exit the bus.
Even though I’m dragging my wagon up the hill, I feel euphoric. Joyful. Light.
Victory! I made it home.
My elation is short-lived. I arrive at the top of the incline. Nick’s driveway has become a luxury car parking lot. One being my mom’s black Cadillac CTS with custom plates.
Holy Unicorn, WTF?
CHAPTER 22:
NICK WILLINGHAM
“Her password is probably Pearl Jam. That’s what it was when we lived together,” Brit says.
She’s leaning over my dining room table. Jen tries for the tenth time to get into Lynn’s computer. Between the two of them, they’ve drank a bottle of the best Syrah in my collection.
My hip bone rests against the counter in my kitchen. I watch Lynn’s mom pace my living room with a wine glass in hand. Each step in her black pumps feels like a slap of disdain. Evelyn has already taken a self-guided tour through my house, which included my room with an unmade bed and Lynn’s lingerie on the floor.
Michael Ahmed is lounging on my sofa and scrolling his phone as if he owns the place.
Jon and Alex are sitting across from him drinking beers.
All of them are here because Lynn didn’t have my address. So much for a quiet date at home. My scowl lands on the note I left on the island yesterday with my address.
“No. It’s not Pearl Jam. She hasn’t used that since she moved to San Francisco,” Evelyn calls from the living room.
“If we can get into her computer, we can figure out where she went. I once auditioned for a role as a detective and browser history was the key to solving the mystery,” Jen says, before gulping her wine.
“Maybe she went shopping at Nordstrom? She’s got a ton of super cute clothes still in the bags in there,” Brit says.
“There’s no Nordstrom in Downtown. Though her author page has been updated with a photo from today tagged in L.A.,” Michael says.
I hate that he knows more about where Lynn is than I do. I hate even more that Brit had snooped her way through my house before I got home. I never imagined giving my brother the code to my door would be such a pain in the ass.
Evelyn leans over the sofa and looks at Michael’s phone.
“That’s not my daughter. Someone must be catfishing as her. Lynn would never wear something so revealing in public.”
Evelyn’s tone is so harsh, I believe her and don’t bother to open the FB app on my phone.
“Why don’t we get in the car and search for her?” Jon asks.
“No. Traffic is too bad. There is a Dodgers game tonight. We need to know specifically where she could be before we set out,” Jen says.
“Can we use the Find My iPhone app? That’s what I do when I need to track you,” Jon says.
“No. My daughter took herself off our family plan years ago and hasn’t shared her iCloud account infor
mation with us,” Evelyn says.
I’ve been home for forty-five minutes and I’m still in my dirty work clothes. I am tired and gross and all I want is to see Lynn’s beautiful face. Deep down, I know she’s fine. She has to be.
I check my phone again, but there is nothing new. I kind of wish she and I shared a family plan. Not so I can track her, just so I’m in the loop.
“Dude, do you have any chips? I’m starving like Marvin,” Jon says to me.
I refuse to play host two nights in a row.
“No, man. Just Lynn’s kale chips.”
“I’ll take them,” Jon says.
I’m loyal to my best friend, but he probably doesn’t realize those damn chips, at almost six bucks a bag, are the highlight of Lynn’s day. Late last night, I woke up and found her prancing around my kitchen naked (a stunning sight) drinking green juice and eating kale chips like they were a milkshake and fries. (She shrugged, giving me a happy smile and called it a “munchie moment.”)
I toss him a bag. Returning to my post in the kitchen, I make a mental note to replace them tomorrow. I usually only go food shopping a couple times a week. I’ve gone twice in the last twenty-four hours. I went to two stores today to find the leeks and coconut milk for the soup I planned to prepare for dinner.
I still need to get my remaining purchases out of the car, which includes flowers for Lynn and a special gift for after dinner. I can’t wait to watch her eyes dance with delight as she opens her gift. I push the image away because it fills me with a renewed sense of hope. And there is nothing hopeful about the scene playing out in my house right now.
The release of my front door halts my thoughts.
Lynn comes in dressed… shit, I can’t describe it. If I thought her white tank showed too much cleavage, this blue strip of fabric barely covering anything should be illegal. Sure. It’s athletic wear, but the way her curvy body fills it out is just too right. Damn, she’s beautiful.
“Oh, my Lord. Where have you been? And what are you wearing?” Evelyn asks, rushing to meet her at the door.
Lynn wiggles out of Evelyn’s embrace, dropping her purse and a notebook on the table behind the sofa.