“No problem. Maybe one of these days when you’re finished shadowing, we can grab lunch at my place.”
For a second I think she’s talking about her house, but then she adds, “Sorry, I mean The Orchard. I own it, that’s why I called it my place. It’s a restaurant. Sort of.” She waves her hand around and laughs. “Anyway, I’ll see you soon.”
She retreats back into the house and I go to my car. When I climb in, Libby scurries into my lap. She’s part beagle, according to the vet, and a few other breeds. He said if I really want to know, I could get a DNA test, but I don’t want to. I already love her, knowing her heritage isn’t necessary. I considered putting up lost dog signs, but I can’t list my name or phone number. For now, it’s just me and Libby.
And Warner.
Who is apparently having trouble with Anna, the woman he dropped his kids off with. I can see this whole situation like a storyline, and it sounds as intriguing as the soap opera my parents starred in.
***
I’ve never had so little to do before. Or so few people to do it with.
I’m sitting on the back porch, my feet propped on the railing, when I make the decision to go into town. I’m hungry, and cooking for one is making me sad. I’ve spent the last two years cooking for two, or getting takeout for two, or considering another person in general. With Tate gone, I only need to think about myself. I know it’s a healthy thing to be able to be alone, I just don’t like it very much.
Once inside the house, I lock the door leading to the back porch and place my empty glass of iced tea in the kitchen sink. I change my clothes and coax Libby into the crate I bought yesterday at the pet store, which she definitely does not want to do. I feel bad for crating her, but this isn’t my house. To make up for it, I drop in two of the toys I picked up when I bought the crate.
“Stop with the puppy eyes,” I instruct her, but she doesn’t listen. If anything, she turns on the pitiful look even more. “I’ll bring you back a treat,” I tell her, sticking two fingers through the skinny bars and scratching behind her ears.
It’s a nice night and an easy drive to town. The air is a little cool, though the day was warm. I learned yesterday that there can be up to a thirty-degree difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures in the desert, so I tied a long sleeve shirt around my waist before climbing into Pearl. I also pulled on a hat and wound my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. I don’t have security right now, largely because I refused them when my dad suggested it. The last thing I wanted to do was show up in a sleepy small town with two big, burly, scary-looking men going everywhere with me. Sticking out like a sore thumb was not my goal. And, as I meander through the downtown area with its cute streetlights and stores, I think I made the right call.
When I see the reddish pink lit-up sign for a diner, I pull into a spot and kill the engine. Though I don’t know that I really need it, I keep the hat on my head. Better safe than sorry.
The diner is dated and smells like French fries. It’s perfect.
I choose a booth at the back of the small room and slide in. I could keep my back to the place but I don’t think that will be necessary. There are only two other families in here right now, and they didn’t even look up when I walked in.
An older lady approaches me, her bottle-dyed red hair pinned on either side of her head with copper-colored clips. “Hey, darlin’,” she says, sliding a plastic menu across to me. “Cute hat.”
I touch the brim. “Thanks.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Oh, um…” My fingers bump over the embroidery. “It’s the Japanese symbol for salvation.”
She winks at me. “Well, it’s cute. My name’s Cherilyn.” A sparkly deep purple fake nail taps the plastic name tag clipped to her shirt. “What can I get you to drink?”
I pick up the menu and scan it. Dried ketchup blocks the bottom of the list of shake flavors. “Chocolate malt, please.”
“Sure thing.” Cherilyn walks away and I look back to the menu. I have no business eating a cheeseburger, or drinking the malt I just ordered, but my trainer isn’t here and thanks to this being a town without paparazzi, he’ll never know.
A group of teenage girls walk in the diner at the same time Cherilyn is carrying over my drink. I pull my hat lower and look down at the cracked seat. The only thing worse than being recognized by teenage girls is having a stalker. I know both from experience.
“Here you are,” Cherilyn says cheerily, setting the treat in front of me. “Do you know what you want to eat?”
“Cheeseburger and fries,” I say, trying not to draw any attention to myself.
Cherilyn looks back at the entrance where the girls are standing, glancing over a menu. She looks back at me and leans down. “Honey,” she says in a low voice, “I knew who you were the second you walked in here. Your secret is safe with me.”
Then she walks up to the girls and corrals them, leading them to a table that’s as far from me as they can get without being seated on the street.
Cherilyn meets my eyes and I mouththank you.
When my dinner arrives, I dig in with gusto. Until today, the peach candy has been the only treat I’ve had in months.
I’m halfway finished when the door opens and more people walk in. I keep my head down, but the excited whispers are impossible to ignore. The door opens, one, two, three, four times, until it becomes too much to keep track of.
The chattering sounds like a buzz swirling around me. I’d forgotten how terrifying it can be, that feeling of being watched. In LA, only tourists are excited to see actors and actresses. Aside from paparazzi on the street, for the most part we’re left alone, or maybe asked for an autograph a couple times. I lift my head just slightly, trying to see the room through my eyelashes.
