But I find that I’m... lonely. In a way I haven’t been in a long time. I want friendship. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time or made the effort to cultivate any. That’s on me. But, I have to believe a person can change their patterns if that’s truly what they want. To quote the late, great Heath Ledger inA Knight’s Tale, “A man can change his stars.” I don’t have to remain cosseted away, afraid to fully soak up life. I’ve been doing that for far too long. All that is required is action.
In that vein, I take a big breath and decide to invite Monica over. Okay, sure, she’s a world-famous movie star and I’m a college student with a somewhat famous fake boyfriend. Details. We’ve sat beside each other for a few games now, and she gave me her number, said we should hang out. I’m going to take her at her word. Besides, Ilikeher.
This is what I lecture myself on, while inside I’m a shaking anxiety ball as I text her. My existential crisis eases a fraction when Monica answers almost immediately to say yes. I give her directions, then promptly go on a tear throughout the house, picking up discarded clothes, a mug in the den—not that I see us going in there—and then clean up the kitchen. There isn’t much. I’m one woman in a big house. An empty house.
It never bothered me before. But hanging out with August is changing me too. I find myself wanting to talk, to sharethoughts that pop into my head, hear someone else’s too. Okay, mostly I want this withhim.
Nothing about our interactions feels fake or forced. I know this. Only, he’s pulled back a bit. Not in any obvious way: He still texts and calls whenever he can. He still teases and flirts. But sometimes it feels...cautious, is the only word I can think of. As though he’s catching himself when he’s beingtoofriendly or too familiar. As though he’s mentally pacing himself in some way known only to him.
“Ridiculous.” I toss the cleaning rag into the sink and set my hands on my hips to survey my now spotless kitchen. “I’m being paranoid and ridiculous. And talking to myself!”
Thankfully, the gate bell rings, pulling me away from a full-blownrantus-paranoius.
“She’s here!” I do a little panic dance and then hit the open button on the security app. My fingers tremble, besieged with “new friend” nerves. I haven’t tried for one in years. “Changing stars. Changing stars.”
Speaking of stars. Monica knocks on my door. I jump like a horse out of the gate and go to answer.
Worry recedes when I open the door and greet Monica. I’m enveloped in her slim arms and a fragrant cloud of Baccarat Rouge 540.
“I brought my bikini,” she says, pulling back. “And cocktail fixings!” She holds up a big black cooler tote with a smile.
“Excellent.” I step aside to make way. “Come on in.”
“You said you just moved in, so I figured you might not have much in the way of liquor.” She stops in the hall and looks at me with wide eyes. “Do you drink? I didn’t think to ask.”
Maybe Monica is a little nervous too. The idea calms me even more.
“I drink. And you’re right, I have nothing here but a few bottles of wine.”
“Not even beer?” She steps in and looks around in interest. “I’d have thought August would take care of that.”
Hell. August probablywouldhave stocked up on beers if he spent a lot of time here. If he was my actual fiancé, I’m guessing we’d spend every night we could together. I know I’d want that. With my fiancé, that is. When I truly have one.
The bottles within the cooler clank as I take the bag from her. “He doesn’t drink much during the season.” God, I hope that’s true. Ithinkhe said so once. I can’t remember. “We ran out.”
I’m explaining myself way too much. The first sign of a liar. My insides roil. I don’t want to lie to Monica. But it’s not my place to tell her. August trusts me to play this part.
Worry pulls at my steps as I lead her farther into the house. I’m trying to make friends with a woman I’m ultimately deceiving. What is wrong with me?
Thankfully oblivious to my turmoil, Monica slows to peer at the framed picture gallery that runs along both walls in the front hallway. She halts before an old black and white in an ebony frame, and her mouth falls open. “Is that... That’s Rita Hayworth!”
“With my Great-grandmother Lola. She wrote a few pictures Hayworth starred in.”
“I love how you call movies ‘pictures.’”
“It’s what they were back then.”
“You look like her. Your G-G Lola.”
“Hmm. Funny, it just hit me that you look a little like Hayworth.”
“Thank you for that.” The glossy curtain of Monica’s hair puddles on her shoulder as she tilts her head, considering the photo. “I’ve been approached about doing a biopic on Rita. Maybe...”
She steps to the next photo. “Get the fuck out, that’s Cary Grant!”
“With Cole Porter, Fred Astaire,” I point them out as I go. “And my great-grandfather, Linus.” The men are hamming it up, crowding around a piano, laughing and smoking cigarettes,as I’m convinced everyone over the age of twelve did back them. Strange times.
“I repeat, Cary Grant is sitting...” She gasps and weakly gestures to the grand piano just visible in the corner of the living room. “He was sitting right there!”
