She granted me a studied smile, aware of the cameras. “The Southern gentleman.”
Arjun at last drifted over. “What was that, Mum?”
“I was just complimenting Luke’s manners.”
“Right, we need to get you home before the Tokyo flight tomorrow. Luke, Imogen, so glad you could cameo,” their producer said, holding open a door. We were dismissed.
And then—briefly, painfully—Arjun dropped any affectation, touching his mother’s wrist. “I need to meet Luke’s dad…”
Arjun’s father sighed, affectionate yet absolute. “You know we have to get your brother home. Another time.” He broke out five crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, handing them to me. “Now, you and Imogen celebrate on me! Have fun! You’re young and beautiful in LA!” he exclaimed. “And both so tall!”
As they departed, Imogen looped her arm through mine and guided me to the empty green room where my father waited. I burst into tears, that moronic check still in one hand and Mr. Bhaduri’s cash in my other. Imogen discreetly shut the door as I collapsed into my dad. She even found a baseball cap to shield me from lingering press on the march back to our scratched rental car, any Hollywood magic officially evaporated.
Mitch and I cruised along Melrose in heavy silence until he abruptly pulled into a loading zone. In the rearview mirror I watched him approach a frayed woman with a placard that read “Maps to the Stars.” He returned, cars whizzing by, to spread a brochure on the dashboard, a shaky route in ballpoint pen. “This could be wrong, but did Arjun ever mention Bellagio Road?”
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at a Mediterranean McMansion in Bel-Air. I instantly recognized those gates. I’d watched every episode ofGone Bollywoodby then.
Mitch eyed me, unlocking the car. “You’ve never lost anything by being honest, Luke. Tell that boy whatever you need to say. It’ll be what’sright.” I’m not sure either of us believed that, but he was trying. God, he always tried.
I hopped the fence, and before I could wonder if I’d triggered a silent alarm, I glimpsed a light in the mammoth kitchen: Arjun and Emaan laughing over glasses of milk. I wandered to the window, waving to catch his eye. Arjun paused for a fleeting second, then deftly moved the glasses to the sink. He kissed Emaan good night and ushered the kid out before tightly signaling me toward the patio, where he stalked toward me, voice low. “My dad could have you arrested.”
Bravery crept in now. And anger. “That’s probably not a story they want in the press.”
He grimaced, and I realized I wasn’t the only angry one. “Luke, I’m sorry if I’ve been unclear, but you need to take the hint. This was a summer thing. We both knew that.”
My hands balled into fists. “Did we?”
“Yes, and the network just gave me a first-look deal, so no distractions anymore.”
“But… what about Europe?”
He shrugged with the exhaustion of a babysitter reprimanding an unruly child.
“So that was bullshit? This all meant nothing?”
“No, it wasfun. We got the cash and some amazing exposure. You can get the life you said you wanted now. You didn’t even need football to do it.” He revealed a remote in his hand, a side gate opening down the lawn.
I could barely breathe, shaking my head. “Don’t do this.”
“Luke, if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but this wasn’t some great romance. We hooked up, that’s all. I wanted to stay friends, but you’re making that impossible, so please leave before this gets worse. Please.”
As I staggered out the Bhaduris’ gate, I thought I’d never recover, but pining over Arjun was the luxury of a naïve boy. A month later, Mitch came home from the doctor with a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, whichexplained his persistent nausea before the LA trip. When he began chemo, I knew it was a blessing I hadn’t gone to Europe.
Spring blew in, bringing good news from Princeton, Middlebury, and Stanford about my grad school applications—and bad news from my father’s doctors. But I never heard anything from Arjun. He knew about Mitch though; Imogen confirmed that. Looking back, maybe I judged him too harshly. I’ll never understand how impossible it was to be him—closeted, famous, Indian. But at twenty-two, I only knew I’d been abandoned.
With Jenny in total denial about our father’s prognosis, I deferred grad school to care for Mitch in Charlotte. I only left to shoot the second season ofEndeavor. Our medical bills were mounting, so when the show countered my initial rejection with an appearance fee of $50,000, I was swayed. Somehow I forgot the lesson I learned then: they always get you to show up.
Emaan was here.Erikawas here. All grown up. Down the hall in Cortona.
I hadn’t gone to bed after Vanessa’s departure. No matter the jet lag, I’d never sleep. I’d been an idiot to imagine I’d return toEndeavorand polish my history away. No, my original sins always found me, tracking my scent like furies.
I waited in the upstairs hallway. I knew she’d appear eventually, queen of early risers. Not long after dawn, a door indeed cracked, and Imogen appeared, toiletry bag clutched tight. We stared at each other, a strange relief in being frozen, even briefly.
“I didn’t know who she was,” I finally said. “Vanessa told me last night.”
Imogen inhaled sharply, knowing whom I meant. “I’m supposed to buy that?”
“It’s the truth. And I need you to tell her that.”
