“Oh, come on now! Show him now, come on! Show him!” the woman in front of me yells at the court. Apparently, this isn’t the place for deep introspection. I focus on the game. Wasn’t I supposed to be sitting next to Daniel’s parents? Since I’ve never been to a basketball game, I don’t know if there’s some kind of VIP seating. If that’s the case, why aren’t I there? I look around at the crowd some more. On the other side of the bleachers, I see a group of kids wearing the same shirts and cheering. I focus in. UCLA. Hm. I look at the people around me—a lot of orange paws painted on faces. So, that means I’m sitting on the—
“Go, Bearkats! Go, Bearkats!” the girl to the left of me screams. Shit. I’m surrounded by Sam Houston Bearkats, not UCLA Bruins. I didn’t even think about it. Who doesn’t know that the coaching staff would be set up in front of their own crowd, behind their own players? I just wanted to get a good view of Daniel and not have to walk behind the court. I scan the crowd on the opposite side of the auditorium. It doesn’t take long. Marilyn and Nick. Front-row center. The man is a dead ringer for Santa Claus. He’s wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt under a light jacket and jeans. Daniel’s mom looks like Mrs. Butterworth, all soft and cushiony. This is ridiculous. I clap as the Bearkats make a three-pointer. The girl next to me smiles. I notice Daniel looking over at his parents during a time-out. They make some sort of motion, like they don’t know where his flake of a girlfriend is.
The clock ticks down, and it’s finally halftime. The crowd disperses, and I make my move over to the other side, then grab my purse and walk down to the court. My mouth goes dry as I approach Daniel’s parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan?” My voice cracks. Dammit. I subtly wipe my hand on my skirt and extend it to them. They look up and take me in.
“Elisabeth?” Daniel’s dad says.
“Oh my goodness, we thought something must have happened to you, sweetheart,” Daniel’s mom says as she stands and takes my hand.
“I sat on the wrong side,” I explain, taking Mr. Sullivan’s hand.
“Oh, well, that’s worse than we could have imagined,” Mr. Sullivan jokes. His belly—it is like a bowlful of jelly.
“Oh, now, Nick, let the poor girl sit down.” Daniel’s mom scooches over and pats the bleacher. I already feel calmer.
A group of cheerleaders hop and bounce out on the court. There are lots of “Okays!” and “Let’s gos!” yelled at the crowd. The band plays some unrecognizable song as the cheerleaders dance and form pyramids—you know, rocket science. Nick and Marilyn clap. They each have a little Bruin pillow under them, along with a foam finger resting up against the bleacher. There is a travel-size cooler between them. How much time have these two spent watching basketball? They are professional parents, right down to the accessories. I again remember what Daniel said about figuring out what was important. They built ramps around the house. Adorable.
“So, tell us, Elisabeth—Daniel says you’re a great cook,” Nick says, leaning over to me as the cheerleaders whoop and holler themselves back to the sidelines.
I blush. “I can hold my own, Mr. Sullivan,”
“Oh, please call me Nick, little one,” he says. Oh. My. God.
“You know, we always wanted Daniel to settle down with a nice girl. He just works so darn hard, we thought we’d never see the day,” Marilyn confesses.
“Oh, now, don’t embarrass the poor girl, Marilyn,” Nick prods. My eyes fall to Marilyn’s hand, and as usual, my Jewelry 101 training overtakes my better judgment. She’s wearing a tiny solitaire diamond engagement ring along with a simple gold band.
Marilyn sees me looking. “Oh, this.” She covers her hand. “Nicky and I got married real young. He had this beautiful car . . . What was that car, hon?” She tugs at Nick.
“It wasn’t a car, Marilyn, it was a GTO,” Nick corrects.
“Well, he sold the GTO to buy a ring—this ring. We never had the heart to upgrade.” Marilyn pats my hand. My entire body melts. The pompous-asshole voice in my head is officially shamed into submission.
Nick offers me a “pop” from the cooler. I take it and crack it open. Halftime ends, and the UCLA team runs back out onto the court to the roar of the crowd. Daniel trots behind the team. I see him look toward us, and it’s beautiful. Our presence registers. His face completely folds into itself as he smiles. He quickly focuses back on the team, clapping and huddling up with the boys.
“Watch the fouls, ref!” Nick calls out. Marilyn looks to see what the infraction was. I look at these two and can’t help but soften.
“Danny needs a new suit, don’t you think?” Marilyn whispers to Nick during a time-out.
Nick looks at Daniel. “Oh, don’t embarrass the poor boy in front of his girlfriend, hon. He’s fine.” I guess adults do still use the word “girlfriend.” Nick pats her leg and makes a face at me. I just want to go sit on his lap. Hop on up there and ask for the world. I want a home with a fireplace in it, Santa. And can you put happiness and love in my stocking? How about adorable little buttercream-icing-eyed babies under the tree this year, Santa? I’ve been good, I promise. Well, I’m trying . . . I’m doing my best.
For the first time, I feel like the light at the end of the tunnel is actually within reach. I mean, this person who sits here today has a shot. I allow my brain to float up into the clouds a bit. There I am: sitting on the deck, reading a good book, a cup of tea steeping on the teak table. I look up in time to see Daniel glide down the driveway, gracefully flipping the ball in the basket for another two points. I look away from the game and get lost in thought.
“Oh, come on! Traveling! He might as well as have a passport for that trip!” Nick stands, yelling with his fist pumping. Daniel glances back at his dad and then finds me again.
Flash.
That’s the image I want to remember forever.
“I’ll have the . . . uh . . . Northshore?” I hand the menu back to the waiter at Islands, a Hawaiian-themed chain restaurant located on nearly every beachy corner in Los Angeles. The waiter won’t take it from me; he points to the place on the side of the table where the menus are supposed to stay. Daniel takes my menu, smirking as he slips it into the designated spot. How convenient, I think. Why don’t we set up a trough and we can all eat from that? God, I sound like Chef Canet. Enough—no more pompous ass. It was shamed into submission, remember? Marilyn orders a salad that has “Wiqui Waqui” in the name, while Nick and Daniel order burgers.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter asks. He’s wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt with shorts. It’s so cold outside you can see your breath, and this poor kid has to wear a short-sleeved shirt and shorts.
“Diet Coke, please,” Marilyn orders.
“Can I get a hot tea?” I ask.
“What do you have on draft?” Daniel asks.
“Bud, Coors, and Heineken,” the kid says. Please choose Heineken. Please choose Heineken. At least it’s imported.
“I’ll have the Heineken,” Daniel says. Pompous ass. Pompous ass. But I breathe deeply.
“I’ll have the Bud,” Nick says. The waiter writes down our order and walks away.
Daniel straightens his tie. “What did you guys think of the game?”
“The reffing was pretty nonexistent,” Nick says. Kids have continually slowed down as they pass our booth. They can’t help themselves. One little boy is staring at Nick from across the restaurant. But Nick seems used to it. Hey, it’s not so different from going out with my family.
“Well, the better team won. That’s all that matters,” I say. Daniel looks over and smiles. My arm is situated underneath his so my body melds under him, protected by him. I lean in to him, and he pats my leg under the table. Nick and Marilyn are talking about the hotel, and I take my opportunity.
“You were great out there,” I whisper.
“How can you tell?” Daniel presses.
“You looked happy. In the zone,” I say, trying to use a sports reference to help my street cred.
“In the zo
ne, huh?” Daniel smirks, squeezing my hand under the table.
“Tell us about this television show,” Marilyn says to me.
“We got picked up for the entire year, so we’ll shoot twenty-six episodes. And it’s definitely a lot calmer than working at the restaurant,” I say.
“Where will they do the filming?” Nick says.
“I just love the Food Network. I love that Paula Deen,” Marilyn exclaims. Daniel keeps his hand on my knee under the table.
“The first bit of the show is going to be like a field trip around L.A. Then the rest will be filmed in a kitchen,” I say.
“I always wondered if those were real kitchens or not,” Marilyn says, sipping her Diet Coke.
“Most of the shows are filmed in New York on a set at the Food Network. Rachael Ray. Emeril. But because my show is all about L.A., we had to find a kitchen that was out here. Stuff kind of fell through, but luckily, my brother is moving to Montana, so we . . . I . . . we transferred his house into my name yesterday. And now we’re doing some renovating . . .” I trail off and sip my tea.
Daniel whips his head around and looks at me. “You bought Rascal’s house?” His voice is low and calm. Marilyn and Nick are quiet.
“Oh, that’s adorable. Your brother’s name is Rascal?” Marilyn gushes.
“I can’t believe you’re buying Rascal’s house. How long was I in Oakland?” Daniel asks. His ears are turning red.
“Now, now, son, it sounds like it was just for work,” Nick says. Right. Right. Like you, sir, investing in a nice red suit and maybe eight flying reindeer.
“They were saying I’d have to move to New York and film on a set they’d built there. I didn’t want to leave L.A., so I thought of this,” I say, looking up at Daniel. He’s not looking at me. My visions of barbecues, graceful two-pointers, and steeping tea are starting to fade.
“Oh, well, isn’t that sweet. See, now, honey, she didn’t want to leave L.A.,” Marilyn says to Daniel. Daniel nods to his mom, clearly as gently as he can manage.
“Can you . . .” A tiny girl approaches the table and presents Nick with a place mat with a big Santa colored on it—this one dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, like the one Nick is wearing. She has tried to write what she’d like for Christmas around the picture of Santa. But since she’s only five or so, the writing looks more like circles and lines completely unconnected. The little girl’s mom stands behind her, nervous and hoping the gamble will pay off.
“Oh! Ho! Ho! Ho!” Nick says, twisting around in the booth and swooping the little girl up on his lap. She wriggles with delight. The entire restaurant lets out an audible “awwwww.” I watch the little girl and then turn to Daniel. His head is down, and he’s staring into his beer. I put my hand on his leg under the table. He looks at me.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier,” I whisper as the little girl asks for an American Girl doll and an invisible-ink pen that writes and then disappears—so her little brother can’t read it, she explains.
“Are you going to live there?” he whispers back.
“That’s the plan. They wanted me to move to New York, and I . . . just . . . I guess— Well, I realized what was important,” I say, trying to recall our conversation.
“Finding out what’s important doesn’t usually involve buying property,” Daniel says.
“It does when it means staying. Altering your life,” I say, once again using catch phrases to try and trigger something in him that would make him see that I did this for us.
“Altering your life. Altering our life is more like it,” Daniel says. My stomach has that hollowed-out feeling. I was right. I was completely right. The cost of this house will be too high. Wait. Have I horribly miscalculated what Daniel and I have? Was he some kind of philosophical stepping-stone of a relationship so I’d stop pining for Will? No. No. What am I missing here?
“It’s a beautiful house. It wouldn’t be the worst house to move into, and if I’m paying the mortgage there, I might as well live there.” I move my head so he has to look at me, make eye contact with me. “I didn’t want to leave you.”
“This is about the whole slaughterhouse thing, isn’t it? God, you joked about it before, I just never thought . . . We should have talked about all of this. I should have been in on this.”
The little girl gives Nick a quick peck on the cheek and hops down. Nick waves at the mom, and she thanks him. The little girl waves and waves and waves as she walks out of the restaurant.
“Everything okay?” Marilyn asks Daniel and me.
“Yeah, yeah—let’s talk about Dad’s big day, huh?” Daniel announces.
Nick lights up, but Marilyn looks over at me, concerned. I didn’t even think about telling Daniel before I decided about that house. It never entered my mind. Two steps forward, one step back. Sounds a bit too familiar. And it didn’t sound all that bad when I was working it out in my head. I make a decision that relies simply on what’s important, and I get bitch-slapped for it? This isn’t going quite the way I planned. All I knew in that moment was I didn’t want to divide my time between New York and Los Angeles; it’s not that I wanted Daniel to move in with me or anything. Well, I kind of did, but not officially. I just thought he’d fall in love with the place and decide to stay, night after night. I guess this is an example of the conversation I should have had with him rather than rattling it around in my own head. I’m slowly realizing what a Lord of the Flies kind of life I’ve been leading—looking out for myself, killing my own pigs, and never showing weakness.
Daniel and I are quiet as we walk down that slaughterhouse of a hallway. It seems all the more ridiculous. For the first time, we don’t make love, even after the long week apart. Lying in bed later that night, I can’t sleep. The chill between us is haunting, and I can’t shake that I’ve maybe made not so much the wrong decision but the far riskier one. Though I don’t see how making a decision that will keep us in the same city could be an infraction I should be ashamed of.
“You up?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Daniel answers.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the house,” I say again.
“I know,” Daniel says, turning over to look at me.
“Are we done then? Over?” I quietly ask, assuming he wants nothing further to do with me.
“What are you talking about?” Daniel asks.
“Well, I—” I start.
“Elisabeth, I just want to be in the loop. It’s nothing to break up over.” Daniel almost laughs.
“Oh. I just . . .” I trail off.
“You didn’t buy any other houses while I was gone, did you?” Daniel jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Something about this hits me right in the gut. I close my eyes and try not to see it: Rascal’s black eye. Try not to hear it: the constant ringing cell phone of a father attempting to apologize for what he did. Try not to feel it: this pain. The pain I’ve been running from my whole life.
“No, no more houses,” I whisper.
“It was a joke, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Daniel says, propping himself up on one arm.
“I didn’t . . . I don’t have any houses to tell you about, but I . . . think I might have some other stuff,” I say, crumpling over. The burning in my throat, the desperate attempt to swallow it—breathe through it.
“What happened?” Daniel asks. I look into his eyes in that second, my eyes used to the darkness of his bedroom. The bluish shadows that fall across his arms and body, the black shadows dipping in the space between us.
I try to force a smile. “I don’t know whether to start or end with Dad giving Rascal a black eye,” I say.
“You might want to start with it,” Daniel says.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I walk into Beverly bright and early the next morning. I can’t help but feel this bizarre civil war of weightless and unburdened, versus vulnerable and exposed. Something about sitting in Daniel’s bed and telling him everything has made me uneasy and off balance. I no long
er wear my usual suit of armor. There’s nothing that Daniel doesn’t know. There’s no question that I need him. There’s no question that I love him. He knows it undeniably. I’m officially in uncharted territory.
I have a busy day—nothing to do with the restaurant. I confirmed that Chef Canet will be in today. Samuel and I agreed to meet here, quit together, and then go over and see the progress that’s been made on the house. Mom told me she hired the perfect designer for the kitchen and can’t wait to introduce us.
I walk through the dining room. The beautiful dining room. It really is stunning. Louis gives me a small wave. I make it a point to flash a giant smile and an even more gigantic wave. I’m not carrying a flat of anything. No baskets. I push open the door to the kitchen.
“Elisabeth!” Chef Canet stands in the corner with Michel. They’re going over the specials for the evening.
“Yes, Chef,” I say, walking up to him in my street clothes.
“What’s this?” he asks, flipping the lacy collar of my sweater.
“May I speak with you privately, Christian?” I ask. Michel looks absolutely stunned that I would deign to use Chef’s first name. Christian, however, immediately senses what’s coming and motions for me to step into the back room.
“What is it, Elisabeth?” he asks. His voice is low. I’ve lucked out. I’ve somehow managed to get the happy, backslapping Christian on the day I planned to quit. Samuel turns the corner, his eyes scanning the room for us.
“Chef Decoudreau, we are speaking privately. Can you excuse us?” Chef asks.
“This concerns me as well,” Samuel says.
Now Chef looks downright scared. “Both of you, eh?” he asks.
“Yes, Chef,” I say.