“It’s not that long. At least not yet.” She laughs, a tinny sound through the speaker, and I smile just to hear her voice.
My heart beats triple time as I try in vain to think of something clever to say. Makes me think of the first time I ever took Alex on a real date, of how dopey and awkward I felt in the car on the way over to his place. My hands have the same clammy texture right now, and I can think of nothing—absolutely nothing—witty to say at all.
“Keep growing it,” I finally suggest in a husky voice. “You’ll get there.”
“Or I could use the stairs,” she suggests, and I look up to see the curtain shift overhead, then her blonde head brushing past the window. My golden girl, lost in her Beverly Hills turret.
***
Wow. That’s the one word, almost a kind of musical note, that sings right through my brain when that garage door lifts, revealing a skimpily clad Rebecca O’Neill. Little black dress. Magic words coined by some famous designer along the way. Halston or Gucci, or maybe Coco Chanel, not even sure who said them originally. Don’t really care, either. All that matters in my world is the satin material ending about halfway up her shapely, sexy thighs. She’s got on a miniskirt, with a black knit halter-top affair, and it shows me what kind of curves we’re really dealing with here. I’ve underestimated, that’s for damn sure.
God, she’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen so much of her before, and as she swings one foot out onto the pavement, I get my first real look at how leggy even a small girl can be in a pair of strappy slides.
Ah, perfection.
I stammer something nonsensical at her, something that comes out like one giant unintelligible compliment, and she giggles, blushing a little as she brushes at her hair. Taking her hand, I hope to God my palm’s not as sweaty as this nervousness makes me feel, and we walk down the driveway together. She stops when she sees my truck, eyeing it uncertainly, and it’s the first time I’ve thought about the logistics of wedging a five-foot-tall enchantress up into the high cab of the damned thing. “Uh, problem,” she alerts me, wiggling one high-heel clad foot by way of explanation.
“Yeah, reckon so.” We stand there a moment, assessing the situation together like a pair of builders out on a job site.
“Let’s take my Honda,” Rebecca resolves, grinning up at me. She’s got such a lovely smile; it’s different than all the pasted-on Hollywood veneers I usually see. It’s real and complex, hinting at something much deeper than what most of the women out here possess. That it’s quirky because of her scars only makes it all the more fascinating to me.
“You sure?” I ask. “I could always hoist you onto my shoulder and stuff you in there Conan-style.”
“Gee, and that sounds so appealing.”
“Good, let’s go for it.” I grab her hand like I mean business. She squeals playfully, tugging herself free.
“No, no! Honda.”
“I’ll drive, though,” I insist, the old testosterone kicking in. See Michael date. Maybe I am capable of a Conan moment after all.
“Okay,” she agrees easily. “Sure. I’ll give you the directions to Cat’s house.”
And just like that, we’re on our way. All on our own, like certified grownups, out for a night of true romance.
***
Cat’s trendy house in the Hollywood Hills is crammed full of trendy people having trendy conversations in trendy clothes, and the twenty-something crowd reminds me that thirty-nine feels like Methuselah in this town. Hadn’t really analyzed the age gap between Rebecca and me until tonight, but as I watch her work the party, it’s hitting me that I’m practically another generation. Well, “work” the party is probably an overstatement, with her semi-reserved manner, but she kisses a load of appropriate people outfitted with store-bought suntans and The Look. I, on the other hand, try like hell to fade into the set dressing, finally fleeing to the balcony for some air, after momentarily mistaking one of Cat’s younger sisters for J-Lo.
Only a few people are out here on the deck, and I stare down at the lights of Hollywood, a golden-lit roadmap spread below me. There’s the rushing white noise of our city, like a scalloped seashell pressed against my ear. Listening for an awe-inspired moment, I wonder if maybe I’m getting too old for this town. Too old for a girl like Rebecca, who refers to musty clothes as “vintage” when I just think they look out of date. Thing is, she’s still firmly planted on the low slope of thirty, with friends even younger still; it’s less than six months until life clicks another decade past on my odometer.