“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Max says. He starts to close the door, and although I know I’m supposed to be polite and let the old man nap, it’s like watching the door close on that collection for good.
“Wait!” I put my foot in the doorway, holding it open. “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave without begging you one last time. I know this is an incredibly sentimental collection for you, but that’s the point of this show. It’s what I’m trying to capture. All these things: the movies, the props, they’re not just things, are they?” I demand. “I know some people don’t understand, they look at objects and just see the materials right in front of them.” I give Jake a look. “But you and I, we know, there’s more than that. It’s like you said, there’s a little stardust that lingers. The stories they tell matter, and sometimes those stories are the only things that keep us holding on. Believing in a glimpse of that magic, even when the world seems determined to prove us wrong.”
I know I’m babbling now, and basically spilling all of my own emotional issues right here on the gleaming marble floor, but maybe my desperation works, because Max pauses.
“Please,” I add again. “Your collection is to commemorate your wife, so why not share that with the world? Share your love, and everything that brought you together. Don’t just keep it in the basement, let the rest of us be inspired, too!”
Max pauses, and I can see the deliberation in his face. “You promise to take good care of them?” he asks, his watery gaze searching mine.
I nod wordlessly, too nervous to actually speak.
“All right then,” he says with a smile. “You can have your pick. As long as they’re returned to me in perfect condition. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes!” I cry, and I can’t help it, I throw my arms around him in a hug that nearly knocks us both down.
Max coughs, and detaches himself. “I’ll have the museum call tomorrow,” I tell him. “And send a list of the pieces we need. Thank you!”
“Thank you, my dear.” He smiles. “You’re right. Everyone needs a little stardust.”
21
Jake
We get back in the car and Lizzie gets straight on the phone to New York to proudly tell Morgan we’ve secured the collection.
“That’ll show her!” she gloats, hanging up. “She’s been waiting for me to fail since I started this thing, well not today, Satan!”
I chuckle. “Good job back there,” I tell her. “That ‘bigger meaning’ routine was the perfect approach. He ate it up.”
“It wasn’t a routine,” Lizzie says, but then she realizes we’re not heading back to the hotel. “Wait, where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I tell her. I didn’t plan on taking a detour, but it’s a gorgeous day. Plus, the longer we spend outside, in public, the less likely I am to do something stupid—like fuck her in the middle of that king-sized hotel bed.
She’s driving me crazy.
I swore I’d keep things professional, but when she got all scared on the flight, I couldn’t help myself. I just meant to distract her from all the turbulence, but once I got started turning her on . . . I couldn’t stop. Those eyes of hers dilated, and her lips parted, and the way she was wriggling in her seat told me that if I’d just slipped a hand down her jeans I would have found her pussy hot and wet and waiting for me.
Goddamn, it was hot. And totally off limits. But maybe that’s why she’s got me with a permanent hard-on these days. The thrill of the chase, right? We always want what we can’t have, and with Lizzie on strike, there’s no way she’s giving it up, not for me.
But that just makes me want her more. She’s sexy, and smart, and fun, and . . .
Easy there, tiger. I stop myself. Don’t shit where you eat, remember?
Except I do remember eating Lizzie. Vividly.
I drive for a while through neighborhoods lined with palm trees, then turn up a long curving hill flanked by trees and craggy rocks. There’s even a cute little organic café at the base of the hill where joggers in spandex sit outside drinking coffee and checking their iPhones. As I’m craning my neck out the window to get a better view, I catch a sign that says Griffith Park.
“I’m not exactly dressed for hiking,” Lizzie points out. She’s wearing a vintage sundress and heels, and she looks fucking adorable.
“Sure about that?” I ask. “You could totally hike in that if you wanted to.”
“Right,” she laughs. “Just me and my heels, hitting the trail. Seriously,” she adds, looking around as we drive deeper into the woods. “Did I mention I hate nature? They have bears out here. And coyotes.”
“Patience,” I say as we drive up and up the winding road. Finally, we emerge from the trees, and just like that, there’s all of Los Angeles spread out in front of us, shimmering in the midday sun like a mirage.
“Is that the observatory from Rebel Without a Cause?” Lizzie gasps, looking up the hill. The big white dome-shaped building is propped on the hill, surrounded by lawn.
I nod. “Now, there’s a movie we can agree on.”
We park, and follow a sidewalk up to the observatory. “This is where they shot the famous fight scene,” Lizzie squeals, looking around. “James Dean and Natalie Wood were right over there, right where that girl in the blue yoga pants is standing!”
I laugh, and she blushes. “I’m a dork, I know,” she says. “But this kind of stuff really does make me unreasonably happy. And is that the planetarium over there?”
“Yup.” I smile, watching her. I had a feeling she’d like this place, and it feels good to do something to make her happy.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she beams. “This is really cool.”
“No problem.” I act casual, but she gives me a puzzled look.
“I can’t figure you out. You sneer at me for caring about this stuff, then turn around and do something nice like bringing me here.”
“I guess I’m a man of mystery,” I quip, trying to deflect the praise. “Anyway, congrats. You pulled it off with Danforth, I thought that guy would never agree.” I think of him, alone in that fucking tomb. “Creeps me out, the way he has that shrine to his late wife. I mean, I’m all for keeping the memory alive, but that was weird, right?”
“Weird but touching,” Lizzie says with a dopey smile.
I shake my head. “He’s living in the past, clinging onto all that stuff like it can bring her back.”
“I think it’s romantic,” she argues. “Those possessions mean something to him.”
“Romance . . .” I groan. “Are we really back there again? Wait, don’t even answer that. You’re still drinking the Kool-Aid as far as roses and chocolates are concerned.”
Lizzie pauses.
I turn, and she lets out a sigh. “I don’t know,” she says, leaning against the railing. “I’m beginning to think you might be right.”