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Violet flops onto her belly, and Vince gives her a belly rub.
“Vee, is being away from you the only shitty part of a tour?” he asks rhetorically.
Violet whines.
“Affirmative,” Vince coos.
“Don’t worry; I’ll make it up to you this week. We can go hiking if you want, or to the beach. Your pick. Although you’ve got to stop eating sand, it’s not good for you. It’s not for puppies.”
Violet huffs in contentment as Vince continues to pet her. She moves her head onto his lap and makes a human-sounding sigh.
“They’re inseparable,” Leah explains.
“Can you believe some fucking asshole was working her to the bone? Making her race five days a week? Then, he ditched her at the fucking pound when she got arthritis like an asshole. I was looking for a cat, actually, but she caught my eye, and the rest is history.”
“How long have you had her?” I ask.
“Five years. She’ll be nine in May. She’s not as spry as she used to be, but she still loves to run for like a mile. You’ll see,” Vince says adoringly.
“Oh, Violet Micaela Exter,” he coos.
“Micaela? She has a middle name?!”
“Of course, she does. She’s distinguished.”
“That dog lives a better life than ninety percent of L.A.,” Leah scoffs.
“She deserves it!”
Leah laughs. “She’s a sweetheart. Okay, if you’re home, I’ll head out for the day.”
“Sounds good. The good news, we both get the week off. Then, the tour starts up again a week after Friday.”
“So, October 21st?” Leah asks.
“Yes?” Vince looks over at me for confirmation, and I nod.
“Perfect. The two of you have fun. Nice to meet you, Lyndsey.”
“Nice to meet you!” I call as she walks out the front door.
“So, can Violet and I give you a tour?” Vince asks.
“Uh, sure!” I’m still taking in the scope of the place.
There’s a difference between knowing mentally that someone is rich and seeing undeniable physical evidence of someone’s wealth as a sprawling mansion.
Logically, I know Vince and the Imposters have sold millions of albums. This tour alone is raking in nearly four million dollars in ticket sales, but Vince seems so casual about everything.
He’s nothing like the pompous L.A. tech millionaires who try to woo Allison with promises of Rolex’s and beach vacations. His wealth is unassuming.
He told me last week that he mended his pants until he was thirty to avoid buying new ones. The majority of our first month together was spent in a rotating cast of gas stations and laundromats, where he would fist pump with glee if he saw Slim Jims were on sale. To be honest, Vince’s sprawling backyard with a view of the literal canyon in the distance gives me whiplash.
I think of Allison’s mom’s cottage in Pasadena, with the same faded moss-green carpet that’s been there since I was five and her eclectic collection of thrifted kitchenware. Briefly, I consider asking her to call off Thanksgiving or lying and saying that Vince has an unexpected family engagement back in the UK. Our lives seem paltry compared to his, with the most cursory glance.
Vince grabs my hand and leads me to an open-concept kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances. He points to a cavernous refrigerator. “Do you want sparkling water or anything?”
“Uh, sure,” I sputter.
