“It’s not like we don’t have the room,” Veronica continues, raising her voice so that June can hear her over the sound of Cinta and Colin warbling an extended version of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” at the top of their voices. “Louie’s going to be traveling. You’d be doing me a favor. I get weird when I’m alone too long. I start talking to the cats.”
“You talk to the cats regardless,” Lou says mildly.
Lilly smiles. Veronica and Lou have always been a stark contrast to her own parents: how much they seem to like each other, the two of them always holding hands and teasing each other with little inside jokes. Lilly remembers staying at their apartment in New York back when she was fourteen or fifteen and realizing one of them had written a dirty little note to the other in the magnetic poetry kit on the stainless-steel fridge.
“Anyway,” Veronica says now, “you should think about it. You too, Lilly.”
Lilly shakes her head. “That sounds amazing, but I should stay here and get some work done,” she says, which is true, though it’s not the only reason: She likes to have everyone in one place, where she can see them. She likes to be able to make sure everyone is whole.
“I’ll go!” Olivia pipes up from the other end of the couch, stillin her red and white bikini. Veronica, reaching for her wineglass, politely pretends she didn’t hear.
***
Lilly gets up early the day after Christmas and drives to Charlotte’s house in Silver Lake, a cheery yellow bungalow with a riot of lavender and rosemary growing in a wild tangle outside the front door. “I fucked up,” she announces when Charlotte answers.
“You did,” Charlotte agrees, stepping back to let her in.
They look at each other for a moment, wary. Charlotte is wearing a Johnson & Wales tank top and a pair of reindeer antlers, her bright red hair a thick rope of braid slung over one freckled shoulder. “Come on,” she says at last, antlers bouncing as she nods toward the kitchen. “There’s coffee.”
Lilly follows her down the hallway. She loves Charlotte’s place: the airiness of it, the arched doors and clay tile and hundreds of cookbooks lining the shelves in the living room. A bright pair of screen prints hangs above the sofa; a quilt Charlotte’s mother made at a women’s retreat in Taos slouches over the back of the chair. Lilly thinks she’d like to have something similar, if she ever manages to get it together enough to move out of her childhood bedroom again—not the specific décor of this place so much as the feel of it, like an actual adult woman lives here complete with her own set of wineglasses and several potted plants.
“I’m sorry,” she says, once Charlotte has handed her a mug—smooth, heavy pottery, hand-thrown by a ceramicist Charlotte knows through work. “You’re my best friend, and I love you, and you deserved better than my shitty behavior. No matter what baggage I have around Colin, there was no reason for me to be...”She trails off, waving her hand vaguely, but Charlotte only tilts her head to the side.
“Go on.”
Lilly sighs loudly. “A cranky old bitch, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
“Yes,” Charlotte says immediately. “That’s actually exactly what I want to hear.”
“Fine,” Lilly replies. “In that case, I’m very sorry I was a cranky old bitch to your boyfriend and also, you know.” She winces. “Accused him of sexual assault.”
Charlotte presses her lips together, like possibly she’s trying to hide a smile. “You did do that, didn’t you.”
“I did,” Lilly says grimly.
“Yeah.” Charlotte sits down on a stool at the kitchen island, wrapping both hands around her mug. “He’s going to Joshua Tree after New Year’s, and he asked me to go with him,” she confesses, her voice quiet and almost shy. Then, without waiting for Lilly to comment: “I told him I’d love to.”
Lilly blinks. “Wow,” she says, struggling to absorb that information without making a retching sound like the bratty little brother in a 1980s family comedy. “What about the restaurant?”
“We usually close for a couple of weeks in January anyway, remember? It’ll be fine without me for a little bit.” Charlotte shrugs. “You should come out and see us for a few days,” she suggests. “The place Caitriona’s assistant found for him has a little guest cottage out back by the pool, so you’d have plenty of privacy.” Her lips twitch, mischievous.
Lilly snorts. “Noted.” The idea of purposely subjecting herself to a desert vacation with Colin is only slightly less appealing than that of curling up in a sand pit and waiting for a lonely rattlesnaketo find her and make her his bride; still, the naked hope on Charlotte’s face makes her feel like the worst person in the universe. They’ve been friends for a long time. “Maybe,” Lilly hedges.
“No maybe,” Charlotte counters. “If anybody could stand to blow this town for a little while, you could. Besides, Colin’s teaching a writing seminar while he’s out there that I really think you’d get a lot out of.” Then, when Lilly only stares at her: “I’m kidding! Oh my god, Lilly.” She sets her coffee down and takes Lilly’s face in two hands, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. “I’m kidding. I forgive you. And I’m happy, okay? Try to be happy for me, if you can.”
Lilly nods. “I’m sorry,” she says again—putting her hands over Charlotte’s, feeling herself flush. “I am. I’d love to come out.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte says, letting go. “In the meantime, I’m going to get dressed and you can come to the Grove with me. My mom did all her Christmas shopping with Rebecca Barnes this year and I have like four different ruffly Victorian nightgowns I have to return.”
Lilly grins. “I’d love to,” she repeats, more truthfully this time, and finishes the rest of her coffee.
Chapter Twenty-One
Olivia
Olivia’s frenemy Jocelyn is dating a guy who works as a sound tech at EastWest, which is how Olivia and Kit wind up at a hipster pickleball court in Santa Monica late Friday night celebrating the album release of a tatted-up underwear model from Michigan who’s currently reinventing himself in the ethical reggaeton space. Olivia is nibbling a vegan grilled cheez the size of a postage stamp and wondering about the feasibility of doing something in music, or at the very least music videos—do people even still make music videos anymore? Olivia hadn’t thought so, but they’re projecting the ethical reggaetonist’s latest offering onto the wall at this very moment, so she guesses she was wrong—when all at once she catches sight of a familiar face across the room. “Shit,” she says, gesturing with her chin in the direction of the bar, “isn’t that Nick?”
“Lilly’s Nick?” Kit asks distractedly, barely looking up from her phone. She’s been seeing this new girl from Eagle Rock who makes bespoke lampshades or some other unbearably boring thing, and the two of them have been texting nonstop all night long.
