Hugo’s car sits in the driveway, underneath an ivy-covered archway. There’s a bike parked to the side, Hugo’s helmet dangles from the handlebars. Evidence of a life, however pristine, in motion.
But there is something strange about Hugo’s house I’ve never exactly been able to put my finger on. It’s beautiful, and inside, impeccably decorated—it has much more personality than I ever expected it to have the first time I came here. I remember thinking I’d find lots of glass and chrome, but instead I was met with oversize velvet chairs, textured antique fabrics, and a blue-painted kitchen. It looked warm and welcoming, but it still gave me the feeling of emptiness somehow. Like if I opened any given drawer in the kitchen I’d be met with blank space. Once, when Hugo was in the shower, I went to his bookshelf and cracked the spine of a copy ofUnderlandby Robert Macfarlane, just to make sure the pages weren’t blank. Not only were they not blank, but they were etched with blue ink—Hugo’s notes and markings.
“I picked out none of it,” Hugo once told me, but as time went on I became less and less convinced that was true. Now, I know it isn’t. Hugo loves aesthetics. I’ve been with him to the Saks on Wilshire to pick out new suits. He has a personal shopper at Brioni, a tailor who calls him with the latest Prada styles. The man likes to look good, and he likes everything around him to look good, too.
Hugo leans across the front seat and gives me a quick hug. “Later, babe. And happy for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I watch him close the car door and walk up the front steps. The sensor picks up movement, and the lights flick on, illuminating his wood-and-brass door, the white stucco of the house.
I wave and back away.
It takes me seven minutes to drive home, but by the time I getin, it’s twelve minutes past midnight. My dog, Murphy, doesn’t bother to get up when I come in, just moves a little to let me know his sleep has been disturbed. I took him for a walk earlier, so he’ll be good until the morning.
I got Murphy for my twenty-sixth birthday at Bark n’ Bitches on Fairfax, a place that has sadly since closed. He’s a terrier mix but there’s something else in there, too. He’s bigger than most terriers, with a softer coat.
Murphy was never interested in anything canine. It is my genuine belief that he is a 1940s banker who was once cursed by a witch to live in a dog’s body. He sniffs almost nothing and is appalled by the game of fetch.You want me to catch a ball? With my mouth? I imagine him saying.How uncivilized.
“Hi, buddy,” I say. I go over and scratch his ears. He gives me a cordial nod before going back to sleep. I kick off my heels and stretch my toes onto the wood floor. It’s cold underneath me—Los Angeles buildings have absolutely no insulation, and it’s freezing at night, especially in the winter months. I really need a carpet. And a space heater, maybe.
I live in a small apartment building on North Gardner two blocks off Sunset. There are five units and a shared courtyard between them. Each apartment has its own entrance—mine just happens to be street-facing.
The apartment is big—bigger than it should be for what I’m paying. Mike hasn’t raised my rent in nearly four years, which is unheard of in this part of town. There’s an open living room, a roomy kitchen—although the marble is dated, and the cabinets are peeling—and a back bedroom with a walk-in closet. When I first moved in, I painted the hallway and living room in a sagegreen. The place is decorated haphazardly—in prints, neutrals, wood, linen, some vintage orange Bakelite lamps I picked up at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. And curtains from Pottery Barn. I have too much stuff.
I drop down onto the couch. I know I should just stay in motion—teeth, pajamas, bed. Keep going until I can lie down. But even the bathroom feels too far right now. I tuck my freezing feet underneath me.
On my coffee table is a copy ofFor the Love of Shakespeare, a gift from Irina that was representative of an inside joke I now can’t quite remember. I love it unironically, though.
“Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love.”
Here’s the truth: I do want love. In some ways, I’ve been looking for it forever. Real love, the kind that makes you want to grow old together, makes you not just unafraid of all that time with one person but electrified by it.
I assumed at some point, maybe, the papers would stop. But I wasn’t looking forward to that day, at least not exactly. There was something in me that wanted to keep moving. If you never stop long enough to sink into something, then it can’t destroy you. It’s easier to climb out of a pool than a well, is the thing.
None of this is particularly unique, or revelatory. We live in an age of romance where you can pick from thousands of strangers on the internet. Pretty much everyone fears buyer’s remorse. And yet—
I hoist myself off the couch, driven by dehydration, and pour a glass of cloudy tap water from the sink. You’re supposed to drink only filtered in Los Angeles, but I stopped refilling my Britaabout a week after I purchased it. There is no way that thing was clearing out anything, anyway. The only change I could see was the addition of black dots to the container—which did not seem like much of an improvement.
I do miss the thing I don’t have. It’s strange to feel that, to want something that you’ve never even known before. But that’s love, isn’t it? The belief in something you cannot see or touch or even explain. Like the heart itself, we just know it’s there.
I walk over to the back door and look out over the courtyard. It’s empty and silent. Overhead, the sky is heavy with midnight clouds.
I wonder if I’ll miss it, I think. The feeling of openness. The understanding, even buried down deep, that anything could happen. That I could bump into someone at an airport or in line at the pharmacy. That the man three stools over at the bar could be taking me home tonight. That the next great adventure was just a slip of paper away.
Being single is like playing the lottery. Most of the time all you’re left with from that trip to the convenience store is a bag of chips and a six-pack. But then there’s always the chance. There’s always the chance, however slim, that with one piece of paper you could win it all.
Chapter Seven
Martin, three days.
I was racing down the steps to catch the metro and already late for set in the first arrondissement—a full thirty-minute commute from the portion of Paris I had been stashed away in. I’d been there for three weeks, assisting on a shoot for my brand-new boss, Irina. I had replaced Kendra just ten days before we’d left for France, and now I was playing catch-up, halfway around the world.
“What are your thoughts on living in a foreign country for a month at very short notice?” Irina had asked me in our interview.
I looked at her razor-sharp black hair, perfect cigarette pants with crisp creases down the middle, and starched white button-down, collar slightly popped. If this artfully constructed woman could be spontaneous, so could I.
“They are excellent,” I’d told her. I thought about Murph, but he loved my parents, so I knew it would be OK.
