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I can’t even remember the last time I had a homemade meal at all, least of all something as delicious as a lasagna.
“So, Britt, Sarah tells me you’re a professional model now.”
I feel myself blushing, not just because of what Lily has just said, but because my phone is vibrating in my pocket and since everyone I know in the world is either in this room or passed out on the couch too drunk to text from home, I know it can only be from one person.
“First photo shoot Friday morning 6 A.M. Come without makeup. Let me know if you need anything beforehand. -Simon”
“That’s cute,” Sarah says into my ear, which terrifies me.
She’s been reading the text over my shoulder.
“He’s so old he still signs his name at the end of text messages,” she says with a laugh. “He’s also so old he still has an Android. Or worse… a Jitterbug.”
“Shut up,” I say, slapping her playfully. “He is distinguished.”
“Who is this?” Lily asks.
“Oh, just Britt’s new boss who she’s got goo-goo eyes for.”
“The photographer or the agent?” Lily says, clearly knowing more about the intricacies of my life than even I do.
“The photographer,” Sarah and I say in unison.
“Ooookay, okay,” Lily says. “I’m a cool mom. You can talk to me about boys.”
“Oh, God,” Sarah says. “Even you aren’t that cool, Mom.”
“What?! Why not?”
“Well, because you’re still a mom,” Sarah says. “And you’re my mom, at that.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Lily protests. “Plus, I’m not Brittany’s mom, so she can talk to me. Tell me about him. What’s his name, at least?”
“Simon,” I tell her with a smile. “And it’s true, he is very much a zaaaaddy.”
Lily’s expression goes blank, then confused.
She looks up at the crown molding.
“Um… uh- uh- what?”
“Oh, a zaddy,” Sarah informs her. “It’s like when an older guy is so hot that you can hear him sizzling as he walks by, so you kind of have to shout out to him, ‘Zaaaam zzzzaddy!’”
Lily looks at her daughter quite sternly, then to me, then to the lasagna.
“Okay, you were right. I am not this cool.”
“I thought that might do it,” Sarah says with a single nod before grabbing the entire lasagna dish. “C’mon, let’s go eat in my childhood bedroom.”
“No sauce on the carpet, Sarah!”
“Mom, I’m an adult!”
“Sarah, you’re nineteen and living back in my house. You didn’t even stay out long enough to make it to adulthood.” I hear her sigh. “And please don’t talk about any sex stuff in front of my lasagna, even if you do have to hide in your room so that I don’t overhear you! My lasagna has feelings too, you know.”
I laugh, but Sarah just rolls her eyes.
“So, what’s on your mind, Britt?” she asks me, as we make our way into her room and shut the door.
“Lots,” I confess. “But I’m kind of wondering… do you think we could still get our apartment back if it’s vacant? I mean, who could’ve possibly moved into it during a pandemic?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah says. “A tribe of hobos seeking shade and safety from the pandemic?”
“Well, other than them. I mean… I’ve got this new job. You’re going give it a try. Maybe we can swing it.”
She gets quiet for a minute and then finally asks, “Did he do something to you, Britt?”
“My dad?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says.
I sigh and look at the ground. I’ve never been able to lie to Sarah. As long as she didn’t ask, I could keep the secret.
But now that she has, I tell her, “He slapped me across the face the other day.”
She takes in a loud breath of air.
“Yeah,” she says. “We gotta get you out of there.”
Chapter Six - Simon
Even as April is still present and despite the fact that it’s only 5:30 in the morning, I can tell that summer looms near. The morning air is unusually thick and humid for an LA springtime sunrise and I’m beginning to sweat under my clothes.
Part of that likely has a lot to do with the fact that I’m nervous about whether or not Brittany is going to be here on time. The company we’re shooting for today is paying a lot of money for these photos for a major perfume ad campaign.
I know the rep will be here at exactly six because I’ve worked with him more times than a few and punctuality is damn near his middle name.
A shitty little Scion pulls up to the curb, but before it can even come to a complete stop, the back passenger side door is flying open.
“Ma’am!” I can hear the driver shout.
“It’s my first day and you made me late, asshole,” Brittany says to him as she pulls her bag out of the car and slams the door.
She jogs up beside me.
“I’m sorry. I scheduled it last night to pick me up at five, and he didn’t show up until 5:15.”
