“He’s fine, aren’t you, buddy boy?” Anders gently pushed the puppy off the sofa. “He can shit in the cactus if he needs to.”
Yaayaa turned back to Santiago and looked at him again with her steady, serpentine gaze.
“And you are a model?” Santiago asked.
“Yeah. But I make clothes too.”
“She’s starting her own line of kaftans,” said Anders.
She nodded. “And crochet bikinis.”
“Right on,” managed Santiago.
“That’s why my girls are here. We’re heading out to Joshua Tree tomorrow to take mushrooms and do a photoshoot. Anders is lending us his car.”
One of the models looked up from her phone and emitted a lackluster whoop.
“This one’s actually one of her designs,” said Anders. “Go on babe, stand up. Show him.”
Yaayaa rolled her eyes, but a moment later she was spinning before him, her arms outstretched so he could see the shimmering material and, beneath it, her. What must it be like to be so unselfconscious in one’s body? His eyes traveled the long line of her tapered waist to the curve of her small breasts. The dark areolas of her nipples were just visible beneath the thin material. Anders was smiling like a pimp watching her. But in truth, Santiago was not attracted to her, nor to any of these women.
He thought of Dominique talking proudly about running her first 10K. Once, when she was bending forward, he had seen the pale stretch marks that streaked the surface of her ample breasts like fissures of lightning. Dominique’s body had character and a story. It was substantial like her, generous like her. Seeing the beauty in her made him feel like someone could one day see the same in him. Anyone could see the beauty in Yaayaa.
“What do you think?” asked Anders.
“Que linda,” he said softly.
“I wish I spoke Spanish,” Yaayaa said.
“What about Danish?” said Anders.
A wrinkle of her freckled nose. “A little less useful.”
“Did you grow up here?” Santiago asked.
“My parents are from Ghana, but I was born here. I lived in Paris for a while, then I came back here for college.”
“What did you study?”
“Business at Stanford.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Anders.
“You never asked,” said Yaayaa.
“Well, we haven’t known each other that long.”
“Santiago’s only just met me, and he asked.”
Santiago’s stomach rumbled, and he tried to cover the sound with a cough.
“Anyway,” Yaayaa continued, “I dropped out after my sophomore year because Black models were finally starting to get some attention, and my career took off.”
“I always worked with a ton of Black girls,” said Anders. “And that was in the eighties.”
“Babe, cover up,” she said, patting his bare chest. “Your whiteness is blinding me.”
Santiago snorted a laugh before he could stop himself. He’d never heard anyone talk to Anders like that. Anders narrowed his eyes at him across the fire pit.
“Sorry, I’m being a bad host,” he said suddenly. “You want to go take a shower, man? I bet you stink.”
The next two days were so busy, Santiago hardly saw Anders at all. Between setting up the pop-up and the endless meetings, meals, and phone calls with potential investors he was obligated to take (the “swine and dine,” as his sous-chef called it), he simply had not had the time. He returned late each night to an empty house, Anders still out at whichever party or event he had chosen to attend that night, to find Thor at his post in front of the door, awaiting Anders’s return with hopeful agitation.
Santiago would wearily unhook the leash from its peg and take the overexcited creature for a walk along the boardwalk, where Thor would delight in snuffling through piles of trash or sticking his nose into the lap of one of the many itinerants squatting along the beach. Thor relished in the pungent squalor of Venice, while Santiago felt more conflicted, both afraid of and concerned for the legions of homeless who populated the area. He was ashamed of how eagerly he wanted to turn away from them, to wipe the images of bare, cracked feet swarming with flies from his mind. He tugged Thor home to the comforting glow of Anders’s house with a mixture of sadness and relief.
On his last day, he made sure to ask Anders if he wanted to spend the afternoon together. Anders surprised him by suggesting they grab juices, then drive up to Malibu with Thor to hike Sandstone Peak. Clearly, Santiago thought, it didn’t take long for LA to change a person. But he was glad for the distraction of an activity, not only because it meant he would definitely reach his ten thousand steps that day.
He had given up on finding out anything from Anders about Cleo. Anders either knew nothing about what he had done to make Cleo so upset with him or he did not trust Santiago enough to share what had happened between them. Short of an out-and-out confrontation, which appalled Santiago’s gentle nature, he must accept that he was simply not close to Anders anymore. They were growing in different directions. Santiago was looking for love, the kind Anders would not, he imagined, value or understand. At least he could enjoy a nice walk before heading home.
They left the car nearby and walked to where the trails began. It was midday on a weekday, and the carpark was empty save for a few other dusty vehicles. One of them had a novelty plate that read SP1R1TUAL1ST.
“We’ve got a couple of options here,” said Anders. “There’s short and steep or longer but easier.”
“Short and steep,” said Santiago. “I can handle it.”
Anders slapped his back gamely. “That’s my man.”
They set off up the narrow path in single file, Thor bounding ahead. A stark blue sky stretched luxuriously above them, unscarred by clouds. They crossed a short wooden bridge, then began their ascent into the hills. Wild morning glory, honeysuckle, and spiky sagebrush draped over the banks surrounding them. Everywhere Santiago looked, the mottled green was punctuated by clusters of frothy white, sharp-cheddar-yellow, and magenta-pink wildflowers. The dusty path was smooth except for the occasional jutting rocks, one of which Santiago tripped over when trying to get a better look at an orange butterfly teasingly flitting just ahead.
“You doing okay back there?” Anders called behind him with evident amusement.