Everything Leads to You

She laughs, incredulous.

“I have to go. But wait! Let’s take a picture first. Who would have ever imagined that my life might change while digging through art bins at Goodwill?”

She reaches into her purse, saying again how she can’t believe this is happening. But I can. This is what was supposed to happen, what needs to happen. It’s one of the steps that leads to the happy ending I imagined for her at the Chateau Marmont, the character doing what she didn’t know she was capable of, an early hint that the film you’re watching is of the life-affirming kind.

And I’m wrapped up thinking of the scenes that will follow: Ava on set, embodying Juniper. The press conferences and business lunches. The red carpet and first screenings. Some minor setbacks to temper the triumphs, moments of stillness and of action. She’s the perfect person to be cast into this life: so beautiful and kind, so sad beneath all of that charm. Ava’s holding her phone out in front of us, not just celebrating a moment but making it into a scene the way a perfect character would.

But.

A character in a movie doesn’t startle you with a tight grip on your waist when you imagined she’d have a lighter one; she doesn’t smell like the morning, or press her soft face against yours, so close that you feel her eyelashes against your cheekbone as you pose for a photograph together, tilting the phone up for the best light, pulling it farther back to get the setting, working on the composition so the clutter of the shop frames the photograph but together, in the center, are both of you.





Chapter Fourteen



“Do we need real dinner?” Ava asks when she appears in my doorway a few hours later. “I feel like baking a cake.”

A grocery bag is propped on her hip. I peer inside: flour, olive oil, eggs, baking soda, strawberries.

“A celebratory cake,” she adds, grinning.

“It’s official?”

“I was the only one they called back.”

“I knew it!”

I take a step back and let her in, saying, “Cake is clearly the perfect choice for a celebratory dinner.”

“I’m so glad you agree.”

“So tell me about it,” I say as we head into the kitchen.

“I don’t even know what to say. All we really did was fill out some paperwork but it was still one of the most exciting afternoons of my life. Just think about it. Less than two weeks ago I was knocking on your door with no idea why I was here. Now I’m acting in a film with famous people. I’m SAG eligible.” She shakes her head. She scans Toby’s apartment. “I have friends,” she says. And then, more quietly, “I feel like I belong here.”

“That’s because you do,” I say. “Acting is in your blood.”

“It still feels unreal.”

She steps over to the sink and turns on the hot water. She washes her hands slowly, her eyes the kind of far away that makes it easy to stare at her without fearing getting caught. Her hair is still in its side ponytail, but this time every strand is perfectly in place. I wonder what Theo thought when she walked in his door, whether she looked as luminous to him then as she does to me now.

“Before I left Leona Valley, when I pictured my ideal life, this sort of thing never even entered into it.”

“What did you picture?” I ask her, leaning against the kitchen counter while she rinses strawberries.

“Well, I was trying to be smart about it. I thought I could get a job in LA and commute for a few months until I earned enough to be able to rent a room somewhere.”

“Commute from Leona Valley?”

“Yeah. It would have been really long but it would only have lasted a few months. Then I would have moved out the right way, with money in my bank account and a place to show up and work five days a week. Maybe a couple of friends here already.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I thought I would find a job at a bakery, because baking is something I’m good at. And the hours would be crazy—the shifts start so early in the morning—so I thought I would save time on the commute and it would also be a good escape because I would be out of the house before Tracey got up.”

She’s put all the ingredients in a neat cluster on one side of Toby’s counter and is now finding measuring cups and spoons.

“Let me know if you need any help,” I say.

“Cake pan of any kind?”

I nod and find one we thrifted from the Rose Bowl a couple years ago. We bought it because it was this great coppery color, not because we had any intention of using it. I hope it works because it’s all Toby has.

“Great! I’ve got it from here.”

I hop up onto the counter, out of the way of her prep area.

She’s quiet for a moment, taking stock of everything she has, and it dawns on me that she’s making this cake without a recipe, which is not something I even knew was possible.