“Can I get you anything?” I call back to him.
“I’m good,” he says. “We should probably get going, when you’re ready.”
I throw a lip gloss, a credit card, and an ID into my clutch, walk back to the living room, snatch my keys off the counter, and gesture for him to follow me out.
We walk to his car. It’s a black BMW that does not appear to have a single scratch on it.
“She looks like she’s back in tip-top shape,” I say.
He smiles. “I left Marigold at home.”
“Marigold?”
“Unlike you, I’m a feminist. My cars are women.” He smiles at me. “I have a vintage Chevy, she breaks down a lot.”
“Ah.”
Jake opens the passenger door for me, and I slide inside. The car smells like pine cones, and I look up at the center mirror to see an air freshener tree hanging. I flick it with my finger as he settles into the driver’s seat.
“I genuinely didn’t know they made these anymore.”
“Hey now,” he says. “I’m a Pacific Northwest boy. I like to bring a little of the forest with me wherever I go.”
“Portland?” I ask.
“Seattle,” he says.
“I’ve never been,” I tell him. “All I know is what I saw inFifty Shades of Grey.”
He looks at me dead-on. “The most accurate representation of our city I can think of. Great work.”
Jake starts the car, and we drive up to Sunset, and then over to Hollywood Boulevard.
Hollywood is, in my opinion, the worst part of Los Angeles. Each side of the street is lined with star plaques, it’s normally crammed with tourists, and is home to such iconic locations as the Madame Tussauds exhibit and the Hard Rock Cafe. Tonight there are droves of teenagers, and a few families in matching oversize T-shirts that have things likeSTEWART FAMILY VACATIONprinted on them. A couple poses for a photo, crouching to the ground, pointing at a star, the name of which I can’t make out. Dolly Parton is a major attraction. I say that to Jake now.
“Do you know she has two stars on the Walk of Fame?” he says. “Not many people do.”
“I did not,” I say. “All I know is that Hollywood is the Times Square of LA.”
“True,” he says. “Although I don’t know a ton about New York. I’ve been only a handful of times, and the last few trips I never left Brooklyn.”
“I like Brooklyn,” I say. “I wanted to live there, but I just never made it.”
“We can’t do it all, right?” He changes lanes. “How was growing up here?”
I consider the question. Some people tend to think growing up in Los Angeles is like growing up in Hawaii—or a constant episode of90210. Days spent shopping the palm-tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills, nights spent around bonfires at the beach. In truth, there were both of those things, but when you live here, Beverly Hills is just the suburbs, and the beach is just the place you were least likely to get in trouble for drinking.
“My parents live in the Palisades,” I say, gesturing with my hand behind us. “I went to school in Brentwood. It was normal, I guess. They worked hard to make it normal—my parents. But it was definitely still a town full of rich kids.”
“Were you a rich kid?” Jake looks over his shoulder, then makes a left onto Fountain.
I can tell the question isn’t leading, and he’s not attached to a particular answer.
“No, not at all. I mean we didn’t struggle. My parents could always pay our bills, as far as I knew. But we went on road tripsfor vacation, and I wasn’t getting Prada bags if I got an A, if that’s what you mean.”
Jake smiles but doesn’t say anything.
“Not that they would have done that even if they were loaded. They’re not super fancy people; I guess it rubbed off on me.”
