“It’s number 203 and the complex is called Briars,” I told him, “and your roommate’s named Lucas Barclay.” The roommate I had mentioned several times, but who he had not yet reacted to.
Now, however—
“A roommate,” he said incredulously, scowling.
I gave him an apologetic shrug. Personally, I would have expected the school to shill out for a one bedroom, but those decisions were made about a mile above my pay grade.
He nodded in resignation and resumed climbing the steps. I fished the keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door, then stood in the doorway until he had stamped out his cigarette, after which I let him in and gave him his keys. The apartment was lovely, with a big bay window to the east, a high ceiling, and a spacious kitchen.
My dorm-residing-self seethed delicately.
There was a welcome basket on the table; Armand brushed past me without looking around, grabbed it, then made for one of the bedrooms.
“So I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you? There’s a luncheon you’re supposed to be at. I’ll just—”
The door to the bedroom slammed.
“—let myself out.”
Well. It wasn’t like I didn’t have more important things to do. The life of a leading man ingénue was full of adventure and challenge. Today, adventure was likely to be found at the gymnastics studio, where I had several routines to practice, and the challenge would be the emotional work—I really had tointernalizethe fact that I was no longer just a sad, bullied, theater kid. Or a disposable extra.
Oh no, I was a lead. A protagonist. The hero, who does not stand around waiting for temperamental artists to acknowledge his existence, but who sallies forth.
I sallied forth in the direction of a boba tea.
July 15th
Serotonin slammed back into my system bite by bite as I munched away on the world’s most breathtaking slice of avocado toast. It wasgourmet: focaccia bread with a playful drizzle of balsamic vinegar and crumbled goat cheese—the kind I could only get here at Casa Maison Domo, or Triple House as it was known by us locals. I was soaking in the much-needed California sunshine on the patio seating as my two best friends not-so-patiently waited for me to regale them about my trip.
“You know,” Andie pointed out from where she and Rick had arranged themselves across the table from me, in classic new-couple behavior, “I feel pretty confident that they had avocado toast in Canada.”
“You sure?” I responded through my blissful haze. “Because I thought all they had was dismal weather and an excess of cousins.”
Rick snorted into his fluffy stack of honey and cinnamon French toast that I was definitely not coveting.
I had suggested to Marla, as had Mom and other choice members of the family, that we would be more than happy to host her wedding here in California, at home, at the Barclay homestead, where there would be perfect weather. But for whatever reason, she had insisted that she and Steven had found a lovely bed and breakfast not far from where they would be moving. In rainy Vancouver.
Well. One’s cousin presumably only gets married once, so alas, sacrifices must be made.
I tried, as discreetly as possible, to check my phone under the table—Darren had finally texted back after more than an hour of radio silence:When are you headed over? I’m still trapped in this meeting
I responded with one hand, relishing the final bites of avocado heaven with the other.Ok, don’t be trapped too long, I’m gonna finish this brunch and then smooch the life out of you
Ideally, Darren would’ve met me at the airport, and we could’ve had one of those deeply romantic reunions that make everyone else uncomfortable. But my boyfriend was two-hours deep in what sounded like the meeting from hell, and it was a pleasant surprise that he’d been able to discreetly text me anyway.
It’s the little things.
As it was, Rick and Andie had ended up on Lucas Pick-Up Duty, and as expected, they’d waited for me amongst the crowd in Arrivals, arms around each other as if I might already have forgotten that they had recently decidedYou know what our trio of friends needs? For two of us to start dating and then kick the third-wheel friend out of our shared apartment.
Which was fine. Really. Because I was happy for them, and yes, I had always kind of expected this to happen, and yes, they had assured me that this didn’t mean they were kicking me out of our friend group, but still.
It was the principle of the matter.
I took a deep, cleansing breath, having left nothing but focaccia crumbs on my plate (which was a problem for future me and my personal trainer). “You may engage now,” I announced with a satisfied grin.
“You already know what we’re gonna ask,” said Rick eagerly—we always did this when someone returned from traveling. “Weird airplane stories. Go.”
Over the years we’d collected several memorable Incidents, and for a horrifying moment, I couldn’t think of anything that had marred an ideal two and a half hours of international travel.
