The phone rings at three o’clock, right in the middle of the day.
“Hey,” he says when I answer. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m at work.”
It’s only partially true. I’m at home, but I’m going over a budget for Irina’s next shoot. She’s producing a foreign commercial, which she does occasionally as a cash grab. It’s a low lift, but she’ll want this back by the end of the day.
“Right, of course, sorry about that. I’ll make it quick.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to hear from you.”
I mean it, too. His voice is warm through the phone.
“Excellent. Listen, the reason I’m calling is that I have tickets to this comedy show tonight. It’s outside, in Hollywood. It’ll be one of those things—whoever is in town comes and does a set.You never know exactly who will be there. There’s a rumor tonight that Seinfeld may show.”
I feel myself smile. “Really?”
“Do you want to come with me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.” I tentatively have plans with Kendra to go to dinner, but she’ll be thrilled. Number one, I’m seeing Jake again. Number two, about two-thirds of the time she cancels our plans, anyway.
“I can pick you up,” Jake says. “If you’d like. Or we can meet there, whatever you prefer.”
“Let’s drive together,” I say. “It will give me a chance to assess your road skills.”
He laughs. It’s hearty. “All right, then. Shoot me a text with your address, and I’ll pick you up at seven. Cool?”
“Cool,” I say.
He shows up at 6:55.
He knocks twice in rapid succession on the door. I’m still one leg out of a pair of jeans, swiping on my mascara. Murphy doesn’t bother moving from the bed.
“Just a second!” I call.
Why is he early? Everyone knows you’re supposed to show up on time to a restaurant and late to someone’s house. I can feel the quick-fire drill under my chest. I take a moment to steady my breathing.
I button my jeans, yank on my cropped orange sweater, and pad to the door without shoes.
Jake is standing outside, wearing jeans and a navy-blue sweater.His hands are tucked behind his back and he’s wearing glasses—a new addition. He looks handsome, and older than he did at Gracias Madre. More weatherworn, maybe. In any event, it’s attractive.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says. He pulls open the door farther. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you. Here, sorry, come on in.”
I hold the door open, and Jake steps around me. I let it swing shut behind us with a clang, a cool burst of air follows it.
“Just give me a second,” I say. “I’m almost ready.”
Jake looks around the place. It’s tidy—I cleaned up a bit before in anticipation, but the amount of things I’ve accumulated over the years of living here make it hard for the place to appear completely orderly. There is just too much stuff for the space.
“I like it,” Jake says, unprompted. “It feels like you live here.”
I laugh. “That I do.”
I go into the bedroom and locate my shoes—brown leather platforms. The thing about LA is that it can feel like summer up until December. But tonight appears to be an oddly crisp evening. They’re closed-toe.
