by Amiee Smith
“Sorry, Mama. I’m like, one day from smelling like a homeless person.”
Lynn gives her best shot at a joke to crack the tension in the room, most of which is coming from me. She doesn’t look at me, hurrying past the kitchen to gather her laptop and journal on the dining room table.
“What happened?” Brit asks.
“I’ll assume you called my mom,” Lynn says, her voice almost a whisper.
“I freaked when I couldn’t get a hold of you. Why didn’t you answer any of my text messages or calls?” Brit asks.
“My phone died,” she says, wrestling her computer from detective Jen.
Lynn carries her things into the guest bedroom.
“Why did you go through my stuff?” Lynn asks, returning to the open space.
“We were looking for you,” Brit says.
“And you thought you would find me in my luggage while you drank Nick’s wine?” Lynn asks.
Her face, like stone. Her voice, flat with a hint of indignation.
“Lynn, we were worried. You owe us an explanation,” Evelyn says.
“The drama in your heads is probably way more satisfying than what actually happened,” she says.
Lynn moves into the kitchen, still not meeting my gaze, and puts her dishes in the dishwasher.
“Lynn Eve Scott. You disappear and now you’re acting as if we’re inconveniencing you.”
Evelyn is laying it on thick, but I kind of don’t mind. Lynn does need to say something. At least to me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just hungry and a bit sore. I sincerely appreciate your efforts in finding me. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress,” she says, closing the dishwasher.
I’m still getting to know Lynn, but I detect a bit of sarcasm in her apology.
“What happened?” Michael asks.
Lynn sighs and leans over the island across from where I’m standing, blessing me with an eyeful of her exposed back and hip-butt-thigh.
“I was struggling with my plot. A little writer’s block, I guess. I went for a walk. Stopped by a Starbucks in Downtown. Then took the bus home.”
Something inside me warms as she says “home.”
“You walked all the way to Downtown L.A.?” my brother asks.
He lives there and knows exactly how far it is.
“Yes.”
“That’s six miles from here,” he says.
“I don’t have one of those step trackers, but my legs and feet are definitely feeling it,” Lynn says, a little humor underscoring her voice.
“That’s why your body is so banging. Wow, honey. I knew you were working your way down the scale, but I had no idea you can now rock a bare midriff. Brava,” Jen says, raising her wine glass.
“Thank you. I guess I’ve logged eleven or so miles today and I need to chill a bit. Can we discuss this tomorrow, or like, never?”
Lynn’s shoulders slump. I feel like an asshole for being pissed off, but I’m not angry she got lost.
“Why didn’t you take an Uber home?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
She turns her head in my direction and then whips it back.
“I tried, but my account is suspended. That’s why I texted every… the girls and… Michael.”
Lynn’s purple nails toy with the diamond in her ear.
“Oh, no. I think I know why your account is suspended,” Brit says.
“What did you do?” Lynn asks.
“In my defense, I was pretty drunk. When we got to my house I offered to tip the driver in sexual favors. I swear I was joking. I was making a comparison between cabs and ridesharing and the lack of tipping and how it is changing the economy. And then he kicked me out of the car,” Brit says, glancing at her feet.
These girls all have brains that are too big for their own good.
“Ugh, Brit. Is that some dated story you heard on NPR? You can tip on the app now,” Lynn says.
“Yes. Dang it. It was so much funnier and intellectually stimulating in my head. Lynn, how do you get your ideas out in coherent thoughts and on to the page while still being funny… and relevant?” Brit asks.
“I take really long walks without charging my phone before I leave. I also request Ubers for my friend who crack off-color socio-economic jokes and gets my account suspended so I can’t access my boyfriend’s address. Then I panic and text everyone asking for said address because I didn’t want to ruin my date night by calling my dude and saying, ‘oops I got lost.’ In other news, I fixed my plot. It’s cute and smart and really funny. Ha. Ha.”
I fight a smile. Basically, Lynn’s writing secret is to be herself.
“It’s your date night?!” a choir of female voices say.
That must be code for something because every woman in the house turns a sympathetic face and heads in the direction of the door.
“It was,” Lynn says with a sigh.
Evelyn places her wine glass on the coffee table and retrieves her purse from the sofa.
“The night is still young. I’m glad you extended your trip. Your dad and I want to take you and Nick to dinner this week. Next time, cover up before you leave the house. Your banging body makes you criminal bait. I love you, Baby Girl. Glad you’re back safe,” Evelyn says, exiting my front door.
“Since you’re in town there is no need for Wine and Skype Wednesday. I booked us all a Champagne Mani Pedi for tomorrow at 6:00. You should have gotten an automated confirmation call this afternoon,” Jen says, slipping on her shoes and draining the last drop of wine from her glass.
“I didn’t receive anything from anyone,” Lynn says.
“Your phone is probably on do not disturb,” I say.
“Oh. Shoot. You’re totally right. I also routed all my calls to voicemail. An iPhone hack Marc taught me. Shoot. I’m sorry. Jen, I’ll respond once my phone is charged,” Lynn says.
Lynn steps from side to side and stares into nowhere, so I know Marc is aka Venus Bar hook-up aka booty call. My scowl deepens. My jaw tightens.
“No! No! Enjoy your date night. See you tomorrow. Come on, Jon,” Jen calls to her husband who is trying to make sense of kale as chips.
“Bye, Nick. Bye, Lynn. Glad everything worked out,” he says, leaving the bag on the coffee table.
“Michael? Brit? How about dinner at a restaurant in Downtown? The owner is a Top Chef winner,” Alex says.
“Sounds fun,” Brit says.
She slips on a jacket I’m almost certain is vintage Chanel. Brit is decked out in a black jumper and platform shoes so high, she stands as tall as my brother.
Lynn walks out of the kitchen and over to Michael. My nose involuntarily flares while they whisper back and forth. He stands and moves toward the door.
“Dinner will be great. Text me the address and I’ll meet you there,” Michael says, leaving my house.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was your date night. I’ll call Uber tomorrow and explain everything,” Brit says from the door.
“No. I have a friend in SF who works there. She’ll get it resolved. See you tomorrow,” Lynn says.
Alex and Brit exit, leaving Lynn and I alone.
“You never explained how you made it back to my house.”
I haven’t moved from my spot in the kitchen. My arms, still crossed over my chest.
“I met a fellow Tri-Delta on the bus who lives in the neighborhood. You’re the dreamy Olympian with the hair,” Lynn jokes, dashing in the direction of the guest bedroom.
“Lynn, come here.”
“I really need a shower, Nick.”
“Come. Here.”
She crosses the living room and sits in her barstool at the island, her gaze downcast.
“I’m really sorry, Nick. Give me a half hour and I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’m not pissed about tonight.”
“Oh good—”
“I’m pissed Michael Ahmed has a spot in your inner circle, but I don’t.”
The iceberg of my rage comes into full view. I want t
o be the person she goes to first. Above the girls. Above her parents. Above Michael Ahmed. Above some booty call dude.
“Nick, I was trying to get your address.”
“I believe you. I don’t understand why everyone heard from you this afternoon except me and I had the solution to your problem!” I say more aggressively than appropriate.
“My phone died. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think all my actions through today… like, at all.”
“Before you arrived, Evelyn gave me a lecture on protecting ‘her daughter.’ Everything I do to keep you safe goes unnoticed. The note with my address. Instructions on using the trails because there is only one way in and one way out, so it’s really difficult to get lost. Several requests to call me if you need something.”
“Please don’t take anything she said personally. And nothing has gone unnoticed. Today was one of those days where I didn’t connect all the dots. But I’m grateful I made it home on my own. Can we hit restart on the night?” Lynn asks, still not making eye contact.
She feels bad and I’m being a bit of a hard ass. Which is not a sexy combination.
“I get it… I think, but right now I’m too pissed off to be good company. I’m going to go for a drive to clear my head,” I say.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asks, glaring at me for the first time.
“No! I just need a little time,” I yell.
“Are. You. Sure?”
The intensity radiating off her causes me to recoil. My heart pounds wildly in my ears. A signal. I’m probably seconds from receiving a graciously crafted, hand-written “go fuck yourself.”
I grab my keys and hustle toward the door. I choose my words carefully.
“Lynn, if you leave and go back to San Francisco, I will get on a plane and follow you there. Tonight, the only thing I know for sure is I will be sleeping next to your banging body.”
CHAPTER 23:
LYNN SCOTT
Nick’s car pulls out of the driveway. I rise from the barstool and pace the living room. I could get all weepy right now. And I never cry. Oh, I do get a little teary during those emotionally manipulative dog rescue commercials. Focus. I need to focus. Deep breath.
Shoot. I really turned my date night into a hot mess. I want to flip out. Run away. Act all crazy. But what good would it do? I want my date night with Nick more than I want to engage the drama in my head. And clearly, engaging the drama is the fastest way to make a messy situation messier.
I owe it to my myself, both my banging body self and my fat girl self, to turn this night around. I’m a Tri-Delta. I’m a member of the Smart Girl Mafia. I’m a bad mama jama. I’m Lynn Scott author of three NY Times Bestsellers.
I grab my journal from the bedroom and pen a list:
Lynn-Style Date Night
Dinner (bed picnic):
Order a vegan pizza and some Nick-friendly dish.
Have dinner delivered.
Bath:
Run water.
Light candles.
Bedroom:
Make bed.
Find a blanket for picnic.
More candles?
Attire:
Check the Nordstrom bags.
**Put running clothes in washer…. throw out the crop top.
–Shower (quick).
–Do something cool to my hair. (single French braid?)
–Give Nick an “I’m sorry” gift.
–Do a 15-minute house clean.
I finish writing my list and get to work. I hope that by some miracle, I turn this night around.
CHAPTER 24:
NICK WILLINGHAM
I open the door to my house an hour later. The hum of the dryer greets me. The living room is spotless. All the wine glasses and bottles, gone. I follow the smell of pizza to the kitchen. After dumping my bags on the counter, I read a note written in purple ink.
Dear Nick,
I apologize. This relationship thing is still VERY new to me.
I would love to spend the evening with you. How about a bath and a bed picnic?
If you agree, drop a text and I’ll meet you in the tub in 20 minutes.
If not, I totally understand. We can do it another night this week. I’ll be in the guest room.
Always,
Lynn
PS: There’s pizza.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Tuesday, 7:42 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Boyfriend): 20 minutes.
Tuesday, 7:42 p.m.
Lynn Scott: Yay! [heart eyes emoji]
I chuckle. Dammit, I can’t be upset with this woman.
I gather my purchases and go to my bedroom. Lynn has made the bed and picked up her lingerie. I jump in the shower to wash work off my body. As I get out, the sound of running water in the other bathroom fills my chest with excitement. I dry off and wrap a towel around my waist. Grabbing one of my purchases, I go to the kitchen to pour two glasses of wine.
I arrive in the bathroom first. The room glows with more candles than I even knew I owned. I get in, leaning my back against the rear of the tub.
Lynn shows up wearing a towel as the water eases the tension in my back. She hangs it on the rack and sits between my legs in the bath. Her slim back rests against my chest, and her loose French braid tickles my abdomen. She smells like Lynn. Sweet. Fresh. Lavender and coconut. I hand her the glass resting on the edge of the tub.
“Wine?”
“Thank you,” she says, having a taste. “That’s a nice Tempranillo.”
“Good palate,” I say.
“Last year… my first year working for myself. In between drafts, I would drive up to wine country during the week when the rates are low… and stay in different hotels. Tour wineries. Eat at Michelin-starred restaurants. I learned a lot about wine and food. I haven’t been much lately.”
“You’d go alone?” I ask.
“Yes. Most of my friends in the City work regular 9 to 5s or are starving writers who refuse to sell out. I’ve learned to do a lot of stuff alone. My life in the Bay Area is nothing like my life here in L.A.”
“Do you miss home?”
“Yes and no. I had a wonderful day in Downtown. I felt so… alive,” Lynn says.
“Until you came home?”
“No. I panicked when my alarm went off at 4:15. I set it assuming I’d be working here all day. I didn’t factor in travel time and… not having the address. Ah… How was your day?”
“Good. Long. A bit stressful. Happy to be here right now.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“I’m sorry too. I expected more of this when I got home. Why didn’t you call me first, Lynn?”
Her sigh vibrates throughout my torso.
“I didn’t want you to look at me like… I’m broken.”
“Lynn, I think you’re incredible.”
I lean forward, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her skin, impossibly soft.
“Ditto.”
“Wanna get stoned?”
“Yes, please. Do you have a waterproof joint stored somewhere?”
I laugh. “I picked this up on my drive. There is a dispensary that makes them custom to order.”
“A vape pen! I swear I asked the Universe for a vape pen this morning. What strain? THC percentage?”
In the candlelight, Lynn’s face fills with glee. I hand her the pen. I love that weed makes this woman happy.
“It has CBD oil and Lemonade Haze oil, which is a hybrid of Lemon OG Kush and Lemon Haze. You said you were sore, so I thought the CBD would help and the Lemonade Haze seems to be the perfect strain for both our needs. THC 72% and CBD 20%.”
Lynn draws from the pen. A delicate aroma of lemon and skunk floats in the room.
“Nick, this is so smooth,” she says, passing the pen to me.
“I don’t know much about concentrates other than CBD oil, so I’ll need your guidance on dosing.”
“My rule with concentrates is take two or three hits and then wait to see how I fee
l.”
After two inhales, I lean back against the tub and observe the candlelight gleaming off the ceiling. Warm steam rises, misting around our heads. A familiar silence passes between us.
“What did you do?”
I ask the question gnawing at me for the last few hours. The weed; moving barriers in my mind. The need for truth; palpable.
“Excuse me?”
“What did you do in the past that puts everyone in your life on high alert?”
“Exist,” Lynn jokes.
“Lynn.”
She takes a deep breath, her rib cage expanding in my embrace.
“My mom and dad became helicopter parents after I was diagnosed at eighteen. Before that, they barely checked my report cards. I always did well in school and had friends, so everything was all good. After I was diagnosed, they changed. I think they felt bad they missed the signs.”
“What did YOU do, Lynn?” I ask again.
“Ah… It was the summer between my junior and senior year of college. I was sharing an apartment with Brit. One of my sorority sisters invited me to her family’s home in Vancouver, B.C. for the long weekend. I adored the city. It was lively and clean. Enchanting. I walked around. Ate good food. Hung out in bookstores and bars. Saw an amazing play. Scored a ticket to see Sleater-Kinney in concert. Flirted with boys. Started writing my first novel.
I didn’t want to leave. So instead of going to the airport at the end of my trip, I had my cab driver drop me off at a hotel, and I stayed an additional six weeks. I had some savings because I was the go-to writing tutor for Fraternity and Sorority Row. My phone didn’t work there. I emailed my parents and said I was staying a little longer, but I didn’t tell them where or when I’d be home.
It was one of the best times in my life. I felt so… free. Free of my parents, the girls, my social and academic responsibilities. I didn’t do anything crazy or erratic. I hung out in the city and wrote in my room. Smoked a little pot when I could get it. I paid close attention to my cash and didn’t overspend. I just enjoyed life. Writing. Walking. Kind of like today.”
Lynn pauses, threading her small fingers through mine under the warm water of the bath. I don’t move in fear that she won’t continue. After what seems like forever, she takes another deep breath.