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“I’m not asking you to do anything crazy. Go home after you’ve had a few weeks to relax and recover. Let everyone back home wonder how you spent your time on the other side of the country. They’ll never guess that I had you behind a desk from nine to five.”
Clara chewed on her thumbnail. “It’s not that I’m scared.” Not only that.
“Well, then, what is it?”
Why did L.A. insist on ripping off all of her emotional Band-Aids at once? “I can’t drive.” The expense of taking a car forty miles each way, Monday through Friday, was doable, but certainly extravagant.
“Since when? Didn’t your dad buy you a Beemer in high school?”
Clara couldn’t help but crack a faint smile. “He did. Technically I have a license, but I prefer not to get behind the wheel. In New York, it wasn’t an issue. I took public transit or walked most places. But here . . . I think I could catch a bus, but I have to imagine it’d take a while?”
Jill raised her eyebrows. “You’re omitting an obvious third option.”
“That’s by design.” Clara grimaced. It smarted to show another weak spot to this family member she barely knew. To arrive with so many broken parts and missing pieces and still expect acceptance.
Her aunt leaned in and hugged her. Somehow, the squeeze released all the shame and fear of the last few days.
“I get it. I do,” Jill said. “But maybe it’s worth giving driving another shot? Like it or not, you moved to L.A., kiddo. You’re smart and capable. I know because I hired you.”
Clara shook her head but couldn’t stop the surge of pride that warmed her chest.
When Jill spoke next, her words took on gravity. “Some fears kill us. They drain us our whole lives, and we die filled with regret. But this isn’t one of those fears. Make a plan. It doesn’t have to be now, but you know the only way to get better at driving.”
Clara tried to dust off whatever sense of conviction she’d tapped into a few weeks ago when, drunk on a combination of red wine and nostalgia, she’d decided to move to L.A., changing the course of her future.
Her answer resounded like a dumbbell tossed into her gut. “Drive.”
Jill tapped her chin with a single finger. “I don’t suppose your new roommate has a car?”
chapter eleven
CLARA’S PLAN HINGED on her ability to make pancakes.
Batch four had the right color, golden brown, versus anemic batch two. But batch three had a better texture, less cakey and airier. She tightened her ponytail. After spending the entire ride back from Malibu plotting, she had to get this right.
The smell of roasted meat filled the small kitchen. At least popping bacon in the oven was foolproof.
She attempted to see down the hallway to Josh’s door while keeping an eye on the half-cooked pancake in front of her. Having passed his car on the way in, she knew he was home. As Clara considered banging a few pots and pans in summons, Josh emerged from his bedroom, rumpled as usual.
Her heart hammered in her chest as her gaze dropped immediately to his hands. Hands that he’d had all over her last night. The plane that should have carried her far, far from their last, mortifying interaction had taken off over an hour ago. She lowered her shoulders away from her ears and gathered her resolve.
As she hastily hid the evidence of her failed batches under the sink, Josh sank onto a well-worn bar stool at the island. Clara attempted to hum casually.
He swiveled to survey the scene of her culinary implosion. “What happened in here?”
Clara gestured to her army of pans and filled her voice with false cheer. “I thought I’d make dinner. Last night was rather awkward, as I’m sure you know.” She winced. “I figured we could start over. Wipe the slate clean, as it were.”
“You decided to wipe the slate clean by making the kitchen incredibly messy?”
She might have called the playful quirk of his lips shy if she didn’t know better.
“I don’t actually have a ton of gastronomic experience. I thought breakfast for dinner would be easy.” She dabbed at the raw egg dribbling down the front of her apron with a wet paper towel. “I may have miscalculated.”
“That’s funny. I . . . ah . . . actually bought you some apology pastries this morning.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “But then you weren’t here when I got back. Anyway, they’re in the fridge.” He coughed into his fist. “Most of them are still in the fridge.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Clara tapped her batter-smeared fingers on the countertop. “You’re an extremely talented performer and I appreciate what you did for me. I’m the one who . . . well, let’s just say I got a bit skittish.” Raising her eyes, she took in his guarded expression. “I’m better now, at any rate.”
