Angie could kiss the woman and her yapping dog too. “He’s a director? For music videos?” she asks, just to be sure.
“Yeah, that’s right. You know him?”
“I think he’s my uncle. Did he say where he moved?”
“He might’ve said something about Melrose? Or maybe it was Highland Park. I’m not sure.” She turns to the dog. “Beau, shush! Anyway,” she says to Angie, tugging on the leash, “we haven’t kept in touch.”
“Thanks for your help,” Angie says, and runs back to the car to tell Sam the good news. He exists! Her Justin, he’s here in LA.
Sam smiles and reaches out, almost as if to hug her, but he ends up patting her leg.
“But how will we find him?” Angie hardly realizes she’s started using “we” instead of “I,” as in she and Sam, as in they’re in this together.
“I don’t know. If he’s a director that lives in the city, there’s gotta be a way to track him down … Maybe you could find someone from the LA Film Fest where he won? Or maybe we could ask Cherry. She works at the radio station, she might have an idea.”
“Of course!” Angie exclaims. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. There was this article about him online, on the blog for KCRW…”
“Cool. We can ask her tonight,” Sam says. “In the meantime, I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Angie realizes as he turns off Fedora Street. “Did you want to go to the beach?”
“Naw. It’s past five and we’re already near the apartment. Let’s just chill.”
“Frozen pizza?” Angie ventures, with a cautious smile.
“I’m down,” Sam says, his voice neutral.
At Vons they get three small frozen pizzas—Newman’s Own, the brand that Mr. Stone had always stocked at Sam’s—and then start exploring the aisles for toppings.
Salami, olive, and jalapeño will be the first; it was one of Angie’s more successful creations from back in the day.
For the second, extra cheese—cheddar—and apples. Angie stands in the produce section, carefully selecting the apples the way her mom taught her: Gently press on the top and hold it to your ear. If you hear a snap, the apple will be crisp and sweet. She thinks of how her mom would often bring fruit salad for potlucks at Angie’s elementary school. They never knew—the other mothers, the fathers, the teachers—how carefully Marilyn had picked every single piece of fruit, listening to the apples, smelling the skin of the mangoes, knocking on the watermelons. But Angie did.
* * *
They decide they’ll top the third pizza with whatever they can find at Miguel’s, in the spirit of their old game. It turns into a taco pizza—ground beef, sour cream, and shredded lettuce—one of their best creations yet. When they’re stuffed, sitting on the couch and laughing, Angie realizes that for the past hour, she hasn’t thought of anything but being with Sam; in this strange city, alone with him, she feels at home. She wants to say it out loud, but doesn’t dare.
Instead she asks, “Do you still play soccer?”
“Not officially. I quit the team.”
“Really? When?”
“After we broke up.”
“But you loved it. You were so good.”
Sam shrugs. “It wasn’t the same as it used to be when I was a kid. It lost the purity.”
Angie remembers going to watch him at Eldorado High, sitting on the metal bleachers with Lana and Mia eating nachos, the smell of fall leaves in the air, the rush of pride she felt when he’d score. He was a rising star by sophomore year, playing varsity, same as her.
“I’m not like I used to be, Angie.”
I know, but you’re still Sam, she wants to say. I still see the you I knew.
Instead she replies, “Neither am I.”
He only nods. The silence starts to pool around them.
“I bet I can still beat your ass, though,” she says.
A smile spreads across his face. “Bet not.”
He gets up and a moment later returns with a ball. “You’re on.”
* * *
Angie and Sam walk through the crowded dusk, populated by car horns and the scents of dinner wafting out of apartments, ice cream trucks and vendors selling clothes from the backs of vans, until they arrive at MacArthur Park. Even in the middle of the city, it smells like summer nights and fresh-cut grass. Families feed ducks at the edge of the huge pond, kids race by on scooters, men play soccer on a field while others watch from lawn chairs tucked below palms. Angie and Sam find an empty stretch of grass and choose makeshift goals between trees. They lose themselves in their game, running, kicking, sweating, their bodies locked in a dance. Angie notices Sam frequently coughs and bends to catch his breath—it’s the pot, she thinks. But he always pops back up, matching her speed.
First to ten wins, and they’re tied at nine. He kicks. She runs, slides, and catches the ball before it goes into the “goal.” And then she’s dribbling back across the field. He runs at her, but she kicks just in time and the ball sails over his head.
He grins. “I forgot how good you are.”
Angie laughs. Sam lies down and she follows, the damp grass soaking through their shirts, the sounds of the city singing a distant chorus, tiny scattered pinpoints of stars appearing above.
“Did you know the earth is four and a half billion years old?” Angie asks.
Sam looks at her and tosses the ball into the air.
“Humans have only been here for twenty thousand. When you look at the time line of the planet, we’re too small to see on it,” she adds.
The ball lands with a thud in his palms. “It’s all a question of perspective, isn’t it?” he says. “From where I’m lying, we’re as large as life.”
“We’re as large as life,” Angie says back to him in a whisper. Those words feel like the solution to an equation she’s still searching for. Their eyes lock. And then.
She does it because there are seagulls circling in the night sky, because there are palm trees rustling in the warm breeze, because the moon is almost full and huge between the buildings ahead. She does it because she’s just beaten him at soccer, because he’s still the best friend she’s ever had, because she can feel the blood rushing through her body. She does it because a feather floats through the air and lands in his hair, because amid all of her uncertainty, his smell is sure. She does it because when she showed him the picture of her parents, he understood. Because he makes her feel less alone. She does it because she’s trying to outrun her fear that she will never recover her parents’ once-upon-a-time happiness—she does it without thinking. She kisses him.
He tastes like he always has and more: like her first kiss, and like there’s something new and foreign hidden under his tongue. A sweet musk, a lemon drop, a teardrop. Salty. Clean. He tastes like a memory and a beginning.
He pulls her closer, and they’re tearing at each other, at once fierce and gentle. She runs her hands under his shirt, across his narrow waist, the muscles of his stomach. He shivers. They come halfway undone on the grass in the night, the city swarming around them.
* * *
When they get back to Miguel’s apartment, Angie and Sam find him popping beers in the kitchen, still in his board shorts, and Cherry lying on the couch. Angie thinks she looks even prettier with her lightly burned cheeks and hair dried into messy waves.
“Cuz!” Cherry cries.
“What’s up, Soda.”
“We missed you,” Miguel says.
“Sorry,” Angie answers. “It was my fault.”
“You find him?” Miguel asks.
“Not yet.” Angie glances at Sam. She feels suddenly off balance.
“Cherry, you ever heard of a guy named Justin Bell? Directs videos. He did the one for Fly Boys?” Sam asks.
“Don’t think so,” Cherry says. “Why?”
Angie tentatively goes to sit beside her at the edge of the couch. “He’s my uncle. I think. Could I show you the video? In case you recognize it?”
Cherry sits up and
looks at Angie. “Your uncle you think? You’re not sure?”
Angie tells her and Miguel the story of why she’d believed both her dad and uncle were dead, and why she now thinks Justin is alive, here in Los Angeles, and maybe even her dad too. She’s never been one to open up, but something about the way they act as if her find-my-ghost-dad project is completely normal soothes her.
When she plays the video, after a few moments Cherry says, “Oh my god! Right. That one. Yeah. I work as a production assistant for Malcolm sometimes, and I remember him playing it for me after it came out.”
“Is there any way … do you think he has Justin’s number or email or something?”
“I have work tomorrow, so I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows him. Maybe there’s a chance his contact info’s in our system, if he’s ever come in for an interview,” Cherry says.
“That would be—amazing.” Angie can almost feel the earth rotating—how quickly, how strangely, everything spins around. She’s been in LA for a single day, and already she feels as if she’s made a thousand revolutions around the sun.
* * *
Before bed, Angie remembers her promise to her mom and types I’m safe into her phone, then slides under the covers that already smell like Sam. After the kiss in the park, the prospect of sleeping beside him has taken on a different meaning. If she lets herself slip back into their old intimacy, will she know how to sustain it this time? And if she lets herself fall into Sam, will she lose the self-possession she needs to discover what she’s come for? She’s afraid that she will not find her father, and, she realizes for the first time, afraid that she will—afraid that he will not want her, that there will be a tidal wave of anger at him for whatever caused him to leave her.
“Sam?” she whispers through the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Can we just … lie together?”
“Okay.”
She scoots closer to him. The weight of his arm around her is comforting, and she lies as still as she can, for fear of disturbing what feels like the fragile peace between them, the tenuous bridge of connection. She listens to his breath long after it deepens into sleep, and tries to match hers to his. The city leaks into the room in little sounds—cars passing, snippets of songs, voices from the street. She thinks of her dad, her mom, Justin … until it all becomes an abstract entanglement of feeling, lines crossing each other, loves crossing each other, hopes and fears and deep uncertainty carrying her late into the night, and finally into dreams she cannot remember when she wakes the next morning.
When Cherry comes in the door from work at four in the afternoon, Angie pauses the TV. She and Sam are still in their pajamas, three and a half episodes into Neil deGrasse Tyson’s Cosmos on Netflix. (Angie’s already seen the whole series more than once; it’s like her comfort food.)
“Listen. I’ve got good news and bad news,” Cherry says, dropping her keys on the counter.
Angie gets up from the couch and follows her into the kitchen. “Bad news is no one at work’s got your dude’s contact info. I mean, no one knows him personally. Good news is there’s a party tonight I can get you guys into.”
That doesn’t sound like good news to Angie. She needs to find Justin, not go to some dumb party!
But Cherry continues, opening the fridge. “There’s a chance he might be there.”
“Oh! Really?” Angie’s heart picks up speed, starting to gallop forward in her chest.
“Yeah. The LA Film Fest starts tomorrow. This is like a kickoff thing hosted by one of the directors on the board. He’s a big sponsor of KCRW, so he sent over an invite for everyone there. Despite the fact I don’t get paid, that includes me, and since I was the one to RSVP with the names, I emailed back the assistant this morning and asked him to add you guys to the list. He has no idea whether or not there’s actually a Samuel Archuleta Stone or an Angela Miller who works at the station.” Cherry starts eating yogurt from a container, and continues between mouthfuls. “You said that Justin won something at the festival last year, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I read,” Angie says. “He won best short film for the video I showed you.”
“Okay, so, there’s no way they wouldn’t have invited him to the party, then. I say let’s go, have fun. There’ll be lots of free drinks and fancy-ass food on little trays, and good music too, ’cause one of the DJs from our station is DJing there. You keep your eyes open, maybe with any luck Justin shows. If not … well, if not, we’ll work on plan B.”
“Thank you so much,” Angie says.
Sam gives Cherry a hug. “That was super cool of you. I owe you one.”
“I’m gonna go home to get ready. You want to come with, Angie? I’ll lend you something to wear. The boys can pick us up in a few hours, yes?”
“Okay!” Angie replies.
* * *
Cherry’s cream-colored Beetle weaves in and out of traffic on Sunset Boulevard. She speeds through a yellow light, ashing her cigarette out the window, “Partition” blasting on the stereo. Here, Angie thinks, is a version of “growing up” she could almost imagine.
“Are you from LA?” Angie asks over the music.
Cherry laughs. “No. I’ve been in this city for five years, but sometimes I still feel like a tourist. I mean, in certain moments, in my head I’ll still be like, I’m driving on Sunset Boulevard! Wow! Look at those palm trees! There’s the Hollywood sign! And then, also, I still have moments where I feel totally lost—despite the help of my Waze app—where it’s like I can barely get through navigating traffic or dealing with the parking lot at the grocery store.”
“You look like you’d be from here. I mean, you seem so—so much like you belong.”
“That’s one of the great things about LA. Anyone can look like they belong here. It’s a place where you can reinvent yourself, or invent yourself in the first place, maybe, if you know what I mean. I’m from Kansas. I went to school at Occidental, and stayed in the city afterwards. I miss those crazy skies. I miss the thunderstorms. I miss my brothers. But missing something is okay. It’s better, anyway, than feeling stuck somewhere. I’ll take longing over boredom any day.”
Angie watches Cherry as she changes lanes, tosses her half-smoked cigarette into a glass Pressed Juice bottle.
“Me too,” Angie says. “I mean, I’d take longing over boredom too.”
“Do you know where you want to go to college yet?”
“No,” Angie admits. “But I like it here. Maybe I should come to LA too…”
They turn onto a residential street, where purple flowers rain over the parked cars.
“What do you wanna do?” Cherry asks. “What are you into?”
“I’m not sure,” Angie says. “My problem is I can’t picture any of it. I can’t imagine myself in the future. Not even for a second.” She looks to Cherry, suddenly self-conscious. “How did you know—you know, what you wanted to do, or, like, how to become a grown-up?”
Cherry laughs. “I’m not sure that I do.” She backs into a parking spot and shuts off the ignition. “I think growing up is something that keeps happening, that’s always happening, at least if you’re living an honest life. And look, you’re already on your way. You made the choice to come here to try and find your dad. Good or bad decision, I don’t know, but you did what you felt like you needed to. Do the next right thing—someone said that to me once. I find it comforting to think about things that way.”
As Cherry opens the car door, Angie looks at the chipping red polish on her hands, at the cherries tattooed on the inside of her wrist, at the cigarette left in the juice bottle, and she sees that Cherry’s right, she’s not Grown Up, not with capital letters at least. She thinks of her mother and wonders if maybe she feels the same way Cherry does sometimes; maybe her mom is still growing up too.
They walk up to a stucco building with pink awnings on Beachwood Drive. Cherry unlocks a door on the side and leads Angie into a tiny studio apartment. The whole thing is as big, probably, as
Angie’s bedroom back home. She takes in the collections of objects: seashells laid out in a row on the windowsills, along with the same kind of votive candles her mother loves. Wood shelves stained red, holding jars of ink and slim journals and books—Isabel Allende and Sandra Cisneros and Elena Ferrante. The single bed carefully made with Aztec print sheets, colorful scarves for curtains, fairy lights strung everywhere, giving the room a magical glow.
“So, this is home,” Cherry says. “First place that’s all mine.”
Though the image is blurry in her mind, Angie can almost picture walking into an apartment like this one, an apartment of her own. She can imagine stepping over the threshold of the door, alone, hanging her bag on a hook, flipping on the twinkling lights, turning up her music. She wonders if this is a sign—the first time she’s been able to really imagine a piece of the future, even in a small way.
“What size shoe are you?” Cherry asks, interrupting her thoughts.
“Eight and a half.”
“Perfect. I’m an eight. I’m sure I’ve got something you can fit into.”
Angie tentatively takes a seat at the edge of the bed as Cherry strips down to her underwear, starts rifling through her closet. She’s surprised by how comfortable Cherry is in her own skin, and perhaps a touch jealous. The other girls on her soccer team are as timid as Angie herself, expertly putting on their sports bras under their T-shirts, going into bathroom stalls to change their bottoms. Cherry, though, simply pulls her bra off and throws it on the bed, stepping into a little leather-fringed dress.
She frowns into the mirror. “What do you think?”
“It looks great.”
“Here, try this,” Cherry says, tossing a long, shiny black T-shirt out of the closet, its back scooped out all the way down to the waist. Angie tentatively takes off her own shirt, quickly pulling Cherry’s over her head. Luckily she’s wearing her only actually nice bra—black and scalloped.
“It totally works with those cutoffs,” Cherry says, and hands Angie a pair of high black heels with ribbon laces.
“I’m so tall already…” Angie says uncertainly.