Nick opens a mango Jarritos. “My dad’s side of the family is from Mexico City. He moved to California for college, met my mom in grad school, and I was born in San Bernardino. Grew up speaking Spanish with his side of the family.” He waits for her tograb a chip to avoid a clash of hands. “You’re from here too, you said in class?”
“Well, Lancaster. But we moved to LA when I was twelve, so I think I can call myself a native.”
They fall into silence, the only sound the crunching of chips, as Nick realizes he has no fucking clue how to talk to someone in Ramona’s economic bracket. He hops up to grab their order when it’s called out, almost too eager.
And then tries to process the utter absurdity of eating burritos with Ramona Wilder.
In the car, she pulled down the sun visor and touched up her makeup—just as Audrey’s mix transitioned into “Regret Me.” Her brows shot all the way to her hairline as Nick hastily switched the music to classic rock. “I love Jefferson Airplane” was all Ramona said while he stumbled through an explanation about the playlist, ears burning with embarrassment.
She’s calmer now, no longer shaky. Straighter posture, hair back in place, glossy waves cascading across her shoulders and down her back. Not a single stray thread on her oversized sweater. She seems too polished for this landscape, like she was plucked from a runway and dropped into concrete suburbia.
And the way she looks at him with her intense dark eyes, as though he’s an optical illusion and she’s searching for some hidden message—he’s not used to that at all.
From anyone.
“How often can you go out in public without something like that happening?” he asks once they’ve absorbed themselves in the first few bites of perfection. “Not the bathroom—the getting recognized.”
She shrugs. “It’s easier than it used to be, but everyone’s eagerto capture the mental breakdown I’m supposedly having, the botched surgery I’m hiding, or the secret baby I had.”
He nearly chokes on his carne asada. “Secret baby?”
“It’s one of the theories,” she says, completely straight-faced as she dips another chip into salsa.
Jesus.He can hardly conceptualize there being theories out there about her retirement, but he supposes that’s what it’s like, to live a life others are so wrapped up in.
He tries his best to relax into this tentative peace between them. They are two wild animals lowering their hackles, still not trusting that the other won’t lunge for their throat.
“Is it strange, not performing? Or recording, or—any of the other things you’d usually be doing right now?”
She takes a while to answer this, and for a moment he’s worried he’s overstepped his boundaries. He doesn’t want this to feel like an interrogation, but he’s suddenly so goddamn curious about her.
“I don’t miss performing,” she says slowly. “Or promoting. And god, I hated shooting music videos. Really, anything that involved interacting with other people.”
“Consider me shocked.”
Her mouth drops open in faux outrage as she swats his arm with a napkin. It’s almost too casual, and he has no idea how to process it. “But I haven’t been able to pick up a guitar since I quit, actually. So I do miss that part, but it’s impossible for me to separate the music from…the rest of it.”
Nick can tell this isn’t easy for her to talk about,the rest of it, this vast black hole of fame. “That must be tough.”
She dabs her mouth with the napkin, briefly covering that trio of freckles he shouldn’t be staring at. “I meant what I said inyour office. I quit because I wanted a chance at a normal life, whatever that looks like for me at this stage. I just couldn’t picture doing what I was doing forever. Especially if I wanted to have a family.”
“Celebrities have kids all the time.”
“That get photographed without their permission,” she says. “You’re giving someone this very public life they can’t possibly consent to.”
“A life with a hell of a lot more privilege than most of us get.”
Ramona goes quiet, which he interprets as her acknowledging that he has a point there. And it’s bizarre, isn’t it, talking about celebrity with someone who is an actual celebrity.
He has a feeling there’s more to her history, but since they’re not exactly about to become friends—this is clearly just a onetime thing—he’ll have to be okay with never knowing.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she finally says. “I don’t want to do that to anyone else.” Then, as though ready to move on from talking about herself: “What you do in the classroom is kind of a performance.”
He considers that for a moment. “I’m not exactly under a spotlight.”
“Maybe not in the literal sense, but everyone in that room is watching you, completely captivated. You have to beon, presenting this information in a way that’s not only interesting but that makes people remember it. If that’s not performing…”
Captivated.That’s not the word he’d use, but she sounded so sure of it.
