Tess scanned the room. “Huh, she’s not here. I didn’t even notice. That’s a first. Was she with a guy last night? I’m curious who she’s dating.”
“No guy. She was with one of the female members from here—the streaked blonde who rode the elliptical in front of us Monday morning. I don’t know her name.”
Tess laughed. “You’ll get to know everyone. Streaked blonde? Maybe you mean Gloria? Did she have an attitude? A little full of herself?”
“Let’s say she exuded self-confidence. Works out with a trainer with a shaved head?”
“That’s Gloria. Comes here about three or four times a week. She works in television doing something that requires her I’ll-snub-you-before-you-snub-me defense.”
“To be fair, I didn’t talk to her much.”
“Don’t bother,” Tess said. “Gloria wears a nasty vibe like a designer label.”
I felt honored to be on Tess’s good side. “Another psychic read?”
“You didn’t pick up on her prickly aura? She doesn’t warm up to women. I’m surprised she and Gretchen are friends.”
“They seemed like they were having a good time together last night at the game,” I said.
“Go figure. Did you run into Kyle there?”
“Literally. I backed into a full cup of beer he held while I talked with Laycee.”
“So is he dating Miss Atlanta or what? What’s her story?”
“Lonely housewife.” I cranked up my treadmill speed to avoid answering in depth.
My late rise set me back a half hour. I finished my workout and shower with an impossible five minutes to make it to Jarret’s before he left at eight for his morning run. But aside from rushing to meet Stan at my house on time, I was in no hurry to see Jarret. Knowing him, he would be hung-over and cranky after drowning his loss on the mound.
Kyle still hadn’t come to the gym by the time I left. I wondered if he spent the night with Laycee. Wouldn’t surprise me. Both of them were users. Both had agendas. How fitting they found each other. How sad for her husband, who thought she came out to visit me.
Traffic moving west on Ventura Boulevard crawled along at a stop and start pace again. I made the turn off Sepulveda Boulevard into Royal Oaks a little past eight-thirty, driving along the deserted streets through the tunnel of trees toward Jarret’s. I turned into his driveway, drove up the hill, and parked at his garage door. Just in case he was home, I rang the front doorbell. No answer.
I went to the garage and tapped 0118, Jarret’s birthday, on the security keypad. The door rolled up and back, exposing the carless garage. I crossed to the door in back and entered the kitchen.
His blender pitcher and a glass sat in the sink, both filled with cloudy water and remnants from Jarret’s morning power shake. Two half-empty glass flutes along with two empty bottles of champagne stood at the end of the counter. So the party came home with him last night. I checked myself. None of my business. The quarter-folded cardboard box labeled “Liz books—3 of 4” waited for me on the cooking island. I lugged the heavy carton to my car, closed the garage door, and left.
At the bottom of his driveway, I made a fast left turn past the middle-aged woman walking a tottering black-and-white spaniel along the street. The neighborhood busybody whose name I never remembered. The day Jarret and I moved in, she knocked on our door holding up Neighborhood Watch pamphlets, and then attempted to wheedle her way into the house. The day I moved out alone, she rang the bell with a petition to ban parking on our street, casually asking if we were leaving. I viewed her as my personal hello, good-bye committee.
I stopped at the corner to turn, and saw her wave through my rearview mirror. I made a half-hearted return wave then sped off. I needed to get home to let Stan in. And the unpacked box on the passenger seat preoccupied me. Deep down, I knew filling my bookcase wasn’t important—I wanted complete closure from my old life. No more leaving boxes behind. Jarret and I would be better friends after a clean break.
The traffic was still ugly when I reached Ventura Boulevard. I opted to go straight up Sepulveda and get on the 101 Freeway East, a risky decision in the no-win morning rush. Wrong move made too late. The jammed freeway crept bumper to bumper, too slow to hope for a break, and I was too trapped to worry. I tried Stan’s cell without luck and left a message. My dashboard clock hit nine as I passed the Laurel Canyon ramp and took the 134 split south to exit at Tujunga Avenue.
Stan’s new Ford F-150 white pickup sat in my driveway. He and Angel perched on the open tailgate under the blazing morning sun, both bare-chested and smoking. They stood, crushing their cigarette butts on the cement as I parked and got out of the car.
I spread my hands. “I’m so sorry. I got stuck in traffic. Did you get my message?”