Dark Wild Night

  “I would totally let you do that,” Joe says, “but I have a date. Oliver can have my share, though.”

  It’s like an elephant has been dropped in the center of the room, and everyone suddenly finds something to study, intensely.

  Joe groans. “Please,” he says. “I don’t know why you two are fighting this. You’re never going to be just friends.”

  And with that, he reaches for his Greenpeace key chain from behind the register and walks out the door.

  Nobody says anything for what has to be the most awkward ten seconds in history.

  Finally, Ansel clears his throat. “So . . . lunch. Lola, would you like to join us?” he says, smiling sweetly at her.

  Her eyes go wide and she looks at me as if for guidance. I smile, hoping it looks better than it feels because inside I am a giant ball of uncertainty. I want her near me, but I want her to figure her shit out first.

  Lola’s phone chimes in her hand and she glances down, reading. We all watch as her shoulders slump and she exhales a quiet “Fuck.”

  “What?” I ask, the whiplash instinctive protectiveness roaring to life.

  “It’s Greg,” she says, turning off the screen with a sigh. “Ellen broke up with him.” Looking at Ansel, she says, “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got a couple of calls to make then I need to go over to my dad’s.”

  “I hope everything is okay,” I say, and Finn and Oliver quietly echo the sentiment.

  She throws me a tiny, shy smile, holding up the bag. “Thanks again, Oliver. This means so much to me.”

  The bell over the door rings again as she leaves and the three of us watch her make her way down the footpath.

  I’m a tangle inside, hating to see her walk away, wanting to be close to her even when I’m angry, but still feeling the need to build a cage around my heart.

  Turning back to my friends, I say, “Remind me to fire Joe the next time I see him,” I say, scratching the side of my neck.

  The store is empty, the afternoon is dead. I reach for my keys and turn the sign to read CLOSED, and motion for them to lead the way.

  * * *

  WE WALK THE few blocks to Bub’s near Petco Park and are led to a table near the patio.

  “How are things with Lola?” Finn asks, looking at me over the top of his drink. “You guys seemed . . .”

  “Tentative,” Ansel finishes for him. “Which, I’ll tell you, is really strange to watch.”

  “It’s about the same.” I stab at my ice water with the straw. I haven’t really felt like talking about it much since the conversation went down, but I’ve told them both enough to know things with Lola aren’t great. “We’re still ‘on pause.’ ” I hesitate. “I think she wanted to unpause, though. She asked me to come over, last night at Fred’s.”

  The waitress stops at the table and we each order a burger and rings. When she steps away, they’re both looking at me expectantly.

  “I mean, of course I said no,” I tell them.

  Silence rings around the table.

  “Because obviously she needs to figure her shit out,” I say.

  “She can’t do that with your penis in her mouth?” Ansel asks, and Finn punches his shoulder. “What? That was a serious question.”

  Finn lifts his chin, asking, “Has the thought occurred to Lola that she might be even busier in four months? They aren’t even filming yet. I mean, I go a week at a time without seeing Harlow, and it sucks, but I know it won’t always be this way.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t pretend to know what’s going on in her brain right now.”

  “I always felt like you two had a secret language,” Ansel says.

  “Me, too,” I admit. Our server sets the giant basket of onion rings down in the center of the table. “And because I’m a total asshole, I made things worse by going out with Allison Wednesday night.”

  Ansel’s eyes widen. “Hard Rock Allison?” I nod and he lets out a burst of air and reaches for his beer. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Shrugging, I admit, “It was just an impulsive thing. She came by and asked if I wanted to grab dinner. I was pissed at Lola and said yes.”

  “Did she think it was a date?” Finn asks.

  “Yeah. She did.”

  Finn studies me. “You didn’t fuck her.”

  “No,” I say quickly, “I clarified where I stood as soon as we sat down. But I still feel like I cheated because I knew it would make Lola jealous if she knew. I wanted to rip my skin off by the time I got home.”

  “And if Lola had done the same thing?” Finn asks.

  My skin flushes hot again at the idea of Lola with anyone else. “I’d want to rip his skin off.”

  “Does Lola know?” Ansel asks, wincing.

  “Yeah, she came here looking for me. Fucking Joe the brain surgeon told her.”

  “You would have told her, though,” Ansel says, and then furrows his brows. “Right?”

  “Of course,” I tell him, giving him an exasperated look. “I nearly called her in the middle of it because I felt so guilty. But then I didn’t, because I thought, What if she’s working and actually gets pissed off at me for calling her to confess that I’m having a platonic dinner with another woman?” I run my hand over my mouth. “It’s a mess. Clearly I am more concerned about all of this than she is. I don’t know how to interact with Lola anymore, and that just feels . . . wrong.”

  “You’re both idiots,” Finn says. “Lola is a mess, too, for what it’s worth.”

  “But that’s what falling in love does to you, okay?” Ansel says, grinning. “I’m a happy idiot because of Mia.”

  “I . . .” I start to say, and feel laughter bubble up inside me. Despite everything, being around Ansel is infectiously uplifting. “Lola is hands down one of the smartest people I know and I fear she is, to borrow a phrase from Harlow, extremely relationship-dumb.”

  “Mia mentioned that Lola tends to always put her comic stuff first,” Ansel says, folding his arms in front of him. “That she’s been that way even when they were teens.”

  Protectiveness tightens my chest, and I defend her: “She had a rough time. It wasn’t easy for her, that’s all.”

  “Well, shit, Oliver, maybe that’s the point,” Finn says. “Maybe she needs to know that this . . . thing between you isn’t all-or-nothing. That you’re not cutting her off completely just because she’s still figuring it all out.”

  I grab an onion ring and give him an amused smile. “It’s nice to hear you sounding so wise on the topic, Finn.”

  He lifts his chin to me, grinning back. “It’s nice to see you guys fucking up, too, Oliver.”

  * * *

  THE SKY IS getting dark by the time I manage to wrap up at the store and get to the loft. I’m relieved to spot Lola’s car almost immediately—she hasn’t left for her dad’s yet—and I pull into the first guest spot I see before I get out and make my way to the main door.

  Their lobby is usually busy by now, the elevators full of people getting off work or headed out for the evening, but it’s strangely quiet tonight. I’m alone in the lift as the floors tick up on the illuminated dial overhead, alone with my thoughts as I try to figure out exactly how to have this conversation.

  I’m still not really sure what I’m going to say. I just want to see her. Maybe simply apologize again about Allison; that was shitty, especially since I was pretty sure Lola would hear about it somehow. Maybe just tell her, now that I’m calmer, how—even though it wasn’t what she intended—it was brutal to be so immediately shuffled aside, a distraction, an obstacle.

  I don’t think we’re ready to jump back in to where we were before everything melted down. I just need her to talk to me. As terrible as it sounds, it was good to see her so upset at Fred’s because at least I could tell it was hard for her, too. I used to feel completely safe with Lola; even without talking about our feelings, I knew where I stood with her by how she sought my company, my opinion, or even just eye contact.
She was the first American woman I’d never had difficulty reading. Lola’s always been deliberate in her decision making, and it was no different when it came to us. So I was blindsided when she ended it sort of hysterically right after I felt things click for us.

  I know I hadn’t been the only one deeply in love that last night at my house.

  I know I didn’t imagine how profound it was in bed, all night, in the shower.

  My steps are light as I move along the concrete hallway and I stop when I hear Lola’s voice through the sliding steel door. I pull out my phone to check the time. I didn’t see London’s car outside and it’s definitely late enough that she’d be at work. Harlow is supposed to be in Del Mar all day, and I might be wrong but I think Mia teaches around this time. So who could she be talking to? Her dad? Benny?

  I stop just outside the door and am trying to decide if I should knock and run the risk of possibly interrupting her with someone, or whether I should come back all together, when she gets louder.

  “I know,” she says, with a definite edge to her voice. “And we talked about this last week. Like I told you then, I’ve got deadlines of my own to meet. I’m sorry you feel like this is going to cut into your schedule. But if you and Langdon would have actually engaged in this conversation every time I attempted it in the meeting I took an entire week off to attend, you’d have heard me telling you the same thing I’m telling you now.”

  I feel frozen in place. I’ve never heard Lola talk this way to . . . well, anyone. The logical part of my brain is telling me to turn around and call her later, and that nobody ever heard anything they liked while eavesdropping. But a larger part of me is intrigued, dying to know who she’s talking to and fascinated by this side of her.

  There’s a rhythmic thump on the other side of the door, the sound of her boots as she paces back and forth across the wooden kitchen floor. I’m just about to leave when the sound comes to an abrupt stop.

  “No, I absolutely understand what you’re saying. But what I’m saying is that Razor wouldn’t do that. I know there’s a certain feel you’re going for, but it’s in direct contrast to anything the main character would do.”

  My eyes widen and my stomach evaporates into nothing. She’s talking to Austin. Holy shit. There’s a minute of silence punctuated by “Uh-huh” and “Yeah,” and “I see,” and I’m holding my breath, wondering if she’ll stick to her guns or let him turn the conversation around and manipulate her into getting what he wants. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I briefly worry she’ll be able to hear me from inside.

  I didn’t realize until right now how badly I needed to see her take charge of her career again. It was eating her alive. It was changing her.

  “Listen,” she says, and I can hear the forced calm in her voice, “I feel like I’ve been really accommodating about a lot of the changes you’ve asked for, and like I told you, I understand where you’re coming from, I do. You make movies. I don’t. But what I do do is write stories and create characters and build worlds, and the two characters in this world are not in love with each other. There’s no romance angle to play up, no sexual tension. Change that and Razor’s motives and every one of his actions can be called into question. He does the things he does because he sees what she can become, not because he’s in love with her.”

  I press my hand to the doorframe and feel my chest unwind. And despite everything that’s happened between us the last few days, I’m smiling, knowing Lola is fighting for the things she loves. She can take care of herself. If Lola can handle a studio full of film executives, she can fight her way back to me.

  Finn’s words replay in my head and although he made a few good points, I know Lola. She might be inexperienced when it comes to relationships but when she wants something, she knows how to fight for it. She doesn’t need saving. If I went in there now and tried to walk her through everything between us, I’d always wonder if she’d have come back to me on her own.

  I have to believe she’ll fight for us, that I’m not wrong about her. I have to believe that I want to be there for her, always, but that she doesn’t need me to be.

  I move away from the door and turn back toward the elevator, the sound of her voice growing fainter and fainter with each step.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Lola

  IT’S BEEN SO long since I’ve slept in my childhood bed that it takes me a full five seconds to figure out where I am when I wake up.

  It’s the glass knob on my closet door that clues me in. Every single door in this house has these giant, crystal knobs. Mom bought them on a whim during one of Dad’s deployments, and spent an entire weekend furiously swapping out the generic brass ones for these. They’re heavy, and seem to glow like an eye at the perimeter of each door. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about this old Craftsman house: everything feels so sturdy, even when the human contents seem to fall apart with the slightest breeze.

  A small knock sounds on my door. “Lorelei?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  He pauses and then the knob turns and he pokes his head in. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  “I came to check on you but you were already sawing some pretty serious logs. I’m not surprised you didn’t hear me.”

  He laughs stepping into the room and I see he’s holding two mugs of coffee in one hand. “I don’t remember the last time you slept here.”

  “Me, either.” I sit up and pull my hair back from my face. A glance at the clock tells me it’s only six. Dad has always been an early riser from his days in the Marines; he considers this letting me sleep in.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

  Taking the coffee from him, I say, “I wanted to. It’s been a while since you liked someone as much as you liked Ellen. I want to see you happy.”

  Dad looks at me skeptically. “You hated her.”

  “Okay, maybe I didn’t like her, but maybe I also wanted to be here for you, jerkface.”

  “I’m okay.” He grins. “Maybe you needed a change of scenery.”

  I inhale the steam, and let it help wake up my brain. “Maybe.”

  Dad sits on the corner of my bed near my feet and sips from his mug, staring at the wall. I can sense the looming start of a conversation, the moment when he talks about Ellen, or asks me more about what’s going on with work, with me. I feel restless in my skin, like I’m not sure I want to be here, but I don’t really want to go home, either.

  To be honest, it’s how I feel about every single thing in my life right now: I want this career I’ve created but I want it to be smaller, simpler, more manageable. I want Oliver, but I don’t want to need him so much. I want to be able to breathe without feeling like my chest is bound with rope but everything is dialed up to eleven right now. And most of all, I want to know how to fix what I’ve done. The prospect feels overwhelming.

  Dad’s eyes flicker to my duffel, obviously hastily packed and sitting open in the corner. “You know, we talk, but we don’t talk,” Dad starts. His voice is weak, sort of reedy, and this is always what happens when we get emotional. Neither of us knows how to do it. It’s like putting a kid on a bike for the first time. They’ll stare at the pedals and then look up like, What am I supposed to do?

  That’s us, talking about feelings.

  “We talk almost every day,” I remind him.

  “I know everything you do, but not much of what you feel.”

  I groan into my coffee. “I thought we were here to talk about you and Ellen.”

  He ignores this. “You’ve been on a work bender,” he guesses, turning to look at me. “I’m serious. I want to talk to you. You’re a mess.”

  My dad knows every one of my best and worst choices. He knows every part of my story and so I always assumed he knew what I felt, too, simply because he knows me. But he’s right: we don’t dive deep into our feelings. We never have. We crack jokes and use sarcasm to make each other laugh, but we don’t label emotions. I’m
not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that I do the same thing with Oliver.

  “Come out in the kitchen and let’s have breakfast. Let’s talk.”

  I look around the room to see where I’d strewn my things as I crashed into bed last night. “Actually, if you’re sure you’re fine, I should head home. I have a mountain of work.” I close my eyes, swallowing down the bubble of panic already working its way up my windpipe.

  “No,” Dad says, and he has a sharp, level tone that I’m not sure I’ve heard since I was a little kid getting into trouble. It makes my brain itch, makes me long for open air and more physical distance.

  I put my mug down on my bedside table and get out of bed.

  “Kitchen,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

  * * *

  “YOU LOOK LIKE hell, kid.”

  “You said that already.” I walk past him to start another pot of coffee. “I just have a lot going on with work. Tell me what happened with Ellen.”

  He settles on a barstool and spins in small arcs as he speaks. “Apparently she started seeing some guy she works with.”

  “Are you using the term seeing loosely?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, facing him.

  “Out of respect for my daughter’s delicate sensibilities, yes. More accurately, she was fucking some guy at the bar.”

  I wince. “Did she tell you?”

  He laughs, drawing out the single word with a twist in his voice: “Nope. I saw her with him when I went to surprise her after her shift. She was leaning across the bar with her tongue halfway down his throat. They looked pretty familiar.”

  “Want me to punch her?”

  Laughing again, he shakes his head. “I want you to make me your special eggs and tell me something good.”

  I turn toward the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he laughs. “How’s Oliver?”

  I shrug, grateful that I’ve got my back to him as I grab the bread. “We’re doing about the same as you and Ellen.”