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“Halloween is probably a more appropriate time for dress-up.”
“Anytime is a good time for dress-up.” Gigi swings her arm toward her bedroom and dramatically pronounces, “To my closet. We shall dress for dinner in feathers and pearls!”
So, we play dress-up before we go for Indian food. I fall so deeply in love with Gigi’s cherry-red feather boa that she insists I take it home to live with me and promise to do wicked things with it.
And I’m so glad I do.
When Jesse lets himself into my place with his key a month later, takes one look at me posed at the kitchen table in that boa and nothing else, and drops his luggage with a thud, every minute spent shivering in the cold apartment air is worth it.
“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he says, scooping me up and charging through my tiny living room to the bedroom.
“Same,” I agree, laughing as he tosses me on the mattress.
But I’m not laughing three days later when he has to rush back to L.A. to address some problems with the vintage race cars on the set of a new biopic.
We’re good at managing the distance—staying in touch and in sync and falling more in love with every passing day—but every time we say goodbye it gets a little harder.
I don’t want to stand on the sidewalk in front of my building and wave as his Uber lurches into traffic.
I don’t want him to go.
The end of spring is tougher. It’s even cooler and rainier than usual, and the flowers bursting into bloom in the park don’t lift my spirits the way they normally do.
But every time I’m tempted to blow my nest egg on a last-minute flight, I remind myself that, soon, Jesse will be home for an entire month. He’s taking June off so we can relive all our greatest hits from last summer. We’re going to hit the beach, try a bunch of new restaurants, paint at the graffiti festival where I was lucky enough to score an entire six-by-eight chunk of wall for our next masterpiece, and head upstate to give camping another go—this time at a glamping campground with swanky tents that feature adjoining bathrooms.
I’m not sure how you put a bathroom in a tent; I’m just glad I won’t have to brave the woods to pee in the middle of the night and that we’ll be roughing it on five-hundred thread-count sheets.
It’s going to be the best summer ever.
And then he’ll go away again, my inner voice mutters, but I shut that pity party down before it can get started.
Yes, a lot of my business is tied to being in New York—my window-painting side hustle is now at least a third of my monthly revenue—but I can design menus and album covers from anywhere. If it gets too hard to be without Jesse, I can pack my bags for the West Coast.
He’s made it clear I’m welcome any time—that he would love for me to shack up in his Hollywood Hills bungalow with him, in fact.
But he never pressures me. He knows Gigi and I are closer than ever and that I’ve never gone more than a few days without having dinner—or at least pie—with my parents.
I love Jesse with all my heart, but I love my family too.
I hate that I might have to choose between them someday soon, but as Jesse’s arrival date draws closer, I put the thought out of my head.
I’m determined to enjoy every second of our summer adventure—and our one-year anniversary.
We made it. An entire year of loving so well that we prove life is best when it’s a bright, shiny one.
And these days? Mine is pretty damn shiny.
HIS EPILOGUE
Jesse
California has been everything I hoped it would be.
Profitable. Successful. Bursting with sunshine.
And my mom’s out for a visit. We’ve just had an incredible sushi dinner before wandering the streets of Venice in the cool evening air.
When she asks, “So, are you loving it here or what?” the answer should be easy.
A yes ought to roll off my tongue.
Instead, I weigh her question, my gaze drifting to the yoga studio up ahead, then to the small-batch ice cream shop next to it and the quirky card shop on the corner that also sells wall clocks and hand-crafted ukuleles.
Last time Ruby was here, we wandered these blocks for hours. She checked out card after card in the corner store. Then, we grabbed cones and walked along the beach. That night, we returned to my Hollywood Hills home, where I bent her over the kitchen table, and we both finished a perfect day with a perfect bang.
I do love Los Angeles.
And yet . . . I don’t.
“Mostly,” I finally answer. That feels like the truth. Mostly.
Mom hums thoughtfully, like she’s mulling that over as we pass yet another yoga studio, this one with a yogini etched on the window. There are probably more yoga studios in Venice per capita than there are coffee shops in Seattle.
