“‘Blouse an’ skirt!’”
We laugh, mimicking our parents’ favorite expressions of surprise.
“Can you imagine them flying private? To Coachella?!”
“I can barely imagine them flying premium economy.”
“No, but seriously, cuz. That was crazy. This is really your life now? You live in a bubble. You’re a bubble person.”
“Not exactly.”
“But it will be, you will be if you stay here.… It’s just a matter of time. A second house in Malibu, a staff, a home theater, a chef, Botox… Also, did they hire the token sister to make an appearance?”
I laugh, but for a moment my mind is elsewhere. The idea of staying in the States. In California. On the Westside of LA, a bastion of conspicuous consumption. Our lives changing irreparably. That I, we, could lose perspective. Already so much had happened. Anouk. And now this thing with Minnie, whatever it was. Perhaps insignificant, and yet it had affected me.
Jane is quiet for a second, staring out at the water, the traffic on the PCH. And then, “I went to see your pieces at the armory.”
“You did?”
“They’re really beautiful, CeCe. Emotional. Dark. You say so much with so little.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened? Those photos. François. What happened with you two?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to lie to her. But I’m still not ready to talk about it.
“Okay,” she says after a beat. “Well, when you’re ready to share, I’m here. I’m always here.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Which brings me to… what exactly is going on with you and Anouk Ferrand?” Her hazel eyes dance.
“What?”
“Are you, like… Is there something there?”
“Something like what?” I fight to keep my poker face.Fuck.We’d been so careful.
I can feel her staring at me as I navigate the intersection at Topanga Canyon. My hands tense on the wheel. “Something like what?” I repeat.
“Something like maybe you two are more than just friends.”
I laugh at that. It’s fake, forced. I’m not prepared to have this conversation. With Jane. Or anyone. I don’t know that I’m prepared to have it with myself.
“I can assure you. We’re just friends.”
Much later that evening, after dinner andThe Lego Moviewith the girls, I slip into the guest room to find Jane. She is propped up in bed, writing in a notebook.
“Hey. You journaling?”
“Trying to.”
“Dear Diary, Los Angeles is full of crazy, rich women and I fear my cousin has become one of them,” I dictate.
She laughs, closing the leather binder. “I didn’t call you crazy. Exactly.”
“‘Exactly’?” I smile.
