Everything Leads to You

“I can see why,” I say.

“We don’t have any cups, though,” Jamal says. “I had to go to five different liquor stores till I found one that didn’t card me, and all that time I didn’t think about cups.”

Charlotte and I both have water bottles, so after Jamal accidentally sends the cork ricocheting off the roof, he fills our tins and then he and Ava pass the rest back and forth between them.

“How did you get this place?” Charlotte asks. “Didn’t you need rental histories and references?”

Ava takes a swig out of the bottle.

“Clyde was right,” she says.

“How so?” Charlotte asks.

But I know what she means: “Money can open doors,” I say.

She nods.

“I told the manager I could write him a check for the full year right now, and then he went to the bank and deposited it and called me back and said the place was mine. It was good timing. Terrence and I just finished the bank paperwork this morning.”

“Bank account in the morning, Chateau Marmont in the afternoon, penthouse in the evening,” I say.

“Yeah, if Terrence is watching my money, he’ll be impressed,” she says. “But I didn’t have much of a choice.”

I don’t trust myself to say Why not? in a way that’s even remotely convincing.

Instead I say, “Show us the inside.”

She takes us on a tour of the penthouse. One by one, she flicks on the lights. I can imagine what it must look like from above: a glass house, lit up and glowing in the night. Inside, it looks like it’s sprung from the pages of Dwell or Architectural Digest. Pure white walls, high ceilings, thick-planked wood floors. A bedroom with a closet the size of Toby’s old dorm room. A bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and a shower that takes up half the room and has no door. A modern, airy kitchen opens onto the living room.

“Isn’t this the best kitchen you’ve ever seen?”

I nod, but I actually like my kitchen at home better, and even Toby’s tiny kitchen. I understand that this is full of nicer, more expensive appliances, but without pots and pans, cutting boards and mismatched mugs, bowls of fruit, and magnets on the refrigerator it feels too sterile.

“If you need any more locations for filming,” Ava says, “you’re welcome to use any rooms you want.” She’s standing in the middle of the cavernous living room under light wood beams and the yellow glow of recessed lighting.

“That’s so nice of you,” I say, but the truth is that the place has no soul. I haven’t seen a single scratched floorboard.

“Don’t you think it’s great?” Ava asks me a little defensively, and I don’t want her to be defensive, because doesn’t she deserve this? After everything she’s been through, shouldn’t she end up with a dream house on the rooftop of one of the most exclusive buildings in Venice?

“It’s beyond great,” I tell her. “We just need to get it furnished. Let’s go look at the view again.”

Back outside, everything feels less sad. The skaters are doing tricks on the street below us; the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier spins and spins; from somewhere in the distance comes laughter.

“Can you believe it?” Ava asks. “Last night I was living in a shelter. A few months ago I was living in my car, sleeping under overpasses, hoping no one would find me.”

“You were untethered,” Jamal says.

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess. I never thought of using that word before.”

“Marcy used it on me,” he says. “I hadn’t thought of it either.”

“Who’s Marcy?” Charlotte asks.

“One of the counselors at the shelter.”

“The only nice one,” Ava says.

“Not the only nice one. The least strict one. The youngest one.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ava says. “We never have to go back.”

“So you’re going to live here, too?” I ask Jamal.

“Nah,” he says. “She wants me to, but it’s not in the master plan.”

He smiles when he says it, looks out over the ocean. I don’t question him until later on, after Ava has fallen asleep on one of the outdoor sofas and Charlotte has taken a chair on the other end of the roof to e-mail one of her future professors about something. Jamal and I are sitting together a few feet away from Ava, still looking over the water.

“So explain this to me,” I say. “You could live in a shelter or you could live here, and you’re choosing the shelter?”

“This place is crazy nice,” he says, “but it wouldn’t be real for me.”

“But you could live here for free, right? Quit your job? What would you want to do if you could do anything?”

He smirks. Shakes his head.

“What?”

“Not everyone’s like you,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“We’re friends now, right? So I can tell it to you straight.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, trying not to feel hurt already.