Page 13 of The Irresistible Distraction

It’s almost ten.

Maggie’s sleep is already so disturbed, I don’t want to text, just in case. I’ll see Vera again in approximately seven hours, meaning I really shouldn’t text her.

I glance at the edge of the receipt peeking out from under the lamp on my bedside table, pick up my phone, swipe away Jesse’s unread message from earlier, and allow myself to be . . . impulsive.

ME: Clark?

CLARK: Raquel!

CLARK: Kidding. I know you’re my Diner Rita. But there’s a movie⁠—

ME: I get it. You’ve seen Shawshank Redemption.

ME: The first poster was Rita Hayworth. Then Marilyn Monroe.

ME: Then Raquel Welch.

CLARK: I also read the novella. Horror phase.

Staring at the phone, I wonder what, exactly, I’m doing, texting a random stranger movie trivia late at night. If I fall asleep right now, I’ll barely get those requisite six hours. If I’m too wired to sleep, there are multitudinous chores and Serious Things to think about. But the phone rings a moment before I’m about to set it down, and instead of ignoring it, I answer quickly. Between Sebastian and now Maggie’s imminent due date, the ringer’s never off.

“How old-fashioned.” My voice is breathless.

“I asked myself, What would Clark Gable do? Pretty sure that generation couldn’t text or FaceTime.”

In the background, I hear loud music that’s gradually fading as a door opens and closes. “What kind of distraction can I provide?”

“Not sure. Not even sure why I texted.”

“I’m an irresistible distraction, a vacation in human form. Or maybe . . . you sensed a disturbance in the Force, felt me thinking of you.”

“Not a Star Wars fan.” Jesse definitely was a George Lucas fan. I sat through hours of movies, spin-offs, and television shows, pretending interest.

But because Sexy Tourist is not Jesse, I finally feel free to admit my disinterest.

“Me neither. Definitely never overpaid to participate in Disneyland’s Build Your Own Lightsaber at Savi’s Workshop. Also would never independently remember that name or store said toy in a special-edition box. But how great is it that a film neither of us likes can serve as conversational shorthand? It’s one hell of a legacy.”

Though I remind myself this entire not-relationship is based on a certain lightness, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is that what you want? A legacy?”

I can almost hear the shrug in his voice as he answers. “Thought so, at one point. Have since realized I enjoy a certain amount of anonymity in my life.”

I think of the framed OC Register article the Williamses keep of Jesse, when he rescued a tourist. It was a tiny local news story, but the Williams family memorialized it as an auspicious sign, believing bigger and better was surely around the corner. “You’ve thought about this before?”

“Not to be too cliché, but yes, I have previously tried living in the limelight. I’ve learned privacy is priceless.”

“You sound more surprised than convinced.”

There’s a small pause, a deep chuckle that warms me. “That’s an astute observation. But yes, life has been full of surprises lately.”

You and me both, I think.

Jesse, the prodigal son, returning. Potentially engaged.

Meaning it’s so much safer to have Sexy Tourist talk about himself. “Want to share?”

“Always. But in this case, nothing particularly unique. Turning thirty. Learning to reprioritize.”

He lets out a rueful chuckle, and I wonder if he’s still in Lake Arrowhead, if he’s driven to Big Bear, or has left the area entirely.