Everything Leads to You

“That sounds great!” she says. And then, I swear, I see her blush.

She gathers her purse and hands me back my script and slips out of the apartment. I wander onto the patio and listen to her car door shut, the engine start, the sound of her driving away, and then I go back inside where Charlotte is working on her laptop and probably will be for hours more, and even though our dishes are scattered across the counter and I have merchants to beg and plans to review, I change into my pajamas. Ignore Char’s surprise. Wash my face and brush my teeth and climb into bed, thinking the entire time of Ava’s voice speaking those lines, of her hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes wide and hopeful. The way her entrance into our lives was as breathtaking as any great film’s heroine’s. The way she looks at me sometimes, which I think is different from the way she looks at other people.

I am almost sure that it is different.

“Good night,” I call to Charlotte, and ignore her when she calls back, “Seriously?” I rest my face on a pillow. Close my eyes. Because all I want is eight hours to dream about Ava Garden Wilder.

~

Then, the next afternoon, standing in a garment-district textiles store, as I’m deciding between blue and green fabric for the curtains in Juniper’s apartment, my phone rings and it’s her.

“I know we’re scheduled to hang out tomorrow,” she says. “But I’m wondering if you’ll do me a favor today.”

“Sure,” I say. “When?”

“Well, now, actually. It’ll take a few hours. Are you busy?”

“I’m just finishing up,” I lie. I am nowhere close to finished, but I’m the kind of busy that feels eternal, the kind where you can’t say I’ll be done in a few hours because the truth is you will never, ever, be done.

“Should I meet you somewhere?” I ask.

“I can pick you up in Venice.”

“Okay. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll explain everything on our way.”

“On our way?”

“To Leona Valley,” she says. Then, as though she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if she stays on the phone, she says good-bye and hangs up.

I choose blue. An underwater, electric blue.

“Nice choice,” the manager says, and I thank her again for giving me a hefty discount in exchange for a thank-you in the credits.

“Yes & Yes,” she says, “right?”

I nod. “You’ll hear about it. It’s going to be a beautiful movie.”

Back outside, I consider what to do about Charlotte. I know she’s busy with a family thing today, but it would be a major omission not to mention that I’m heading into the desert with Ava. So I take out my phone, and I let her know. Hmmmm, she writes back. Followed by !!! And, finally, Remember: slow.





Chapter Eleven



When I pull into Toby’s driveway, I find Ava perched on the hood of her car, reading a thick paperback. She hops off when she sees me and says, through my open window, “It might be a better idea to take your car if that’s okay.”

She’s smiling but I can tell she’s nervous. Worry darts behind her eyes.

I don’t even turn the car off. I just say sure and she lets herself in. She looks a little different today, a thin line of shimmering gold eyeliner making her eyes even greener. Pink faintly smudged on her lips. She catches me looking.

“I have a tendency to put on makeup when I feel nervous,” she tells me. “And then I don’t like the way it looks so I end up taking most of it off.”

“Why are you nervous?” I ask her, thinking of the blush on her face when she left us last night. It returns now, and she twists a strand of red hair around a finger before answering me.

“A few reasons, I guess,” she says. “Going back to Leona is one of them. Taking you there with me is one of them. Jamal ended up working a double shift so he couldn’t come with me.”

“I’m happy to help.”

“Do you know how to get there?”

“I assume the 405 to start,” I say.

I’ve hunted for furniture in almost every city in Southern California, so I know the urban sprawl well. The sad cities that call themselves part of LA even though they feel so distant from it; the rough, flat, gritty neighborhoods; the sterile suburbs with perfectly mown lawns; the wealthy, mysterious, unattainable hills. I never got as far as the desert, but when you need to get out of LA, the 405 is what takes you away.

She nods yes. I pull out of the driveway and onto the road.

I assume that she’ll explain why we’re going, what we’re going to do once we get there. I’m trying to be patient and let her get to it eventually, but instead she tells me about Marilyn Monroe.

“This book was in the donation box at the shelter, and I immediately thought of you. I mean, does it get any more tragic?”