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The woman shrugged. “No biggie.” She swiped to a new level. Another kitten flew across the screen.
The dressing room door opened and the mother came out, holding the clothes she’d tried on draped over one arm—only a minute had passed; she must have really hurried. Her gaze fell on her daughter. “All done, monkey.” She looked at the auburn-haired woman. “Thank you for dealing with her,” she said gratefully.
The woman straightened up and smoothed down her skirt. “It was really no trouble. She’s very sweet.”
The mother took the little girl’s hand and led her to the checkout line. Halfway there, the girl turned back to Lenna and the woman with the phone and waved, shyly, at both of them.
“What a cutie,” Lenna murmured as she waggled her fingers. “Bye!”
Then she looked at the auburn-haired woman again. There were tears in her eyes. “Are you okay?” Lenna blurted out, startled.
The woman’s mouth wobbled. She nodded but then seemed to change her mind and shook her head. It was all very subtle; no one else in the line even noticed. Then she dropped all the clothes she’d chosen onto the discard shelf next to the dressing room. “Are you busy right now?” she asked Lenna.
Lenna looked around. “Me? I guess not….”
“Want to get coffee? I’m Rhiannon.”
The line at the Starbucks in the Beverly Center was too long, so they went across the street to the restaurant at the Sofitel hotel. Lenna didn’t want to tell Rhiannon that this was the first drink she’d ever had with someone else in Los Angeles since she’d moved here six months before. She went out by herself sometimes—always at a nearly deserted bar, and always only for one drink, andusually when a baseball game was on, as these days the Dodgers were the number one topic of conversation with her dad.
But this was her firstsocialdrink. When she was alone, there was no one to judge her self-soothing quirks. Like the coasters on the bar right now: If she were alone, she’d straighten the stack nearest her, and then the stack a few stools down, and so on, until the whole room was neat as a pin. People would look at her strangely, but then she’d finish her drink and leave, so she didn’t have to suffer the discomfort for long.
“They have a great ginger mule—if you’d rather get a cocktail,” Rhiannon said as she looked at the menu. Her tears were gone, but the tip of her nose was still red. She was talking in a boisterous, forced way like she was maybe pretending it had never happened. Which was strange, because Lenna figured she wanted to get a drink in order to unburden something to a stranger. Perhaps she still would?
“They make their ginger beer in-house using a ginger bug,” Rhiannon added.
A couple at the other end of the bar got up, leaving their coasters askew. Lenna’s fingers twitched.
“I think I will have a cocktail,” she decided, hoping it would settle the itch.
They went through normal pleasantries: which part of the city they lived in (they both lived in apartments to the east), where they’d come from (Lenna, farther up the coast; Rhiannon, Nevada), and how long they’d been here (Rhiannon for two years, Lenna for six months). Lenna was twenty-eight, Rhiannon twenty-nine.
Lenna was trying to figure out if she should ask Rhiannon again if she was okay—sheteared up randomly in stores, often thinking about her mom, but she’d never come upon anyone else who did that. But then Rhiannon pointed at Lenna’s tote. “You’re a writer?”
“Oh.” Lenna’s tote was so threadbare and well-worn, she had kind of forgotten that it readUSC Journalism Program.She sighed. “No. I mean,yes,I’d like to be, but this…” She touched the tote. “I went there for the first few weeks. But I couldn’t make it work.”
“I’ve heard conflicting things about journalism degrees.”
“No—Iwantedto do it. I loved the program.” Lenna disliked the notion that someone would presume she’d quit because she couldn’t hack it. “But there was this thing with my mom, so I had to withdraw. I never got around to going back.”
Lenna reached out for the coaster stack in front of them. She could at least organize these without it seeming too strange. “Areyoua writer?”
“Well, I work for this magazine, but I’m more of an editor.” Rhiannon named the magazine she was working for, a publication calledCity Gossip.Lenna had heard of it. It was a weekly paper that documented scandals taking place in Hollywood, though celebrities’ publicists paid for most of the stories.
Lenna must have unconsciously made a face, because Rhiannon added, “It’s not a bad gig. They have awesome benefits. And you overhear some interesting gossip.”
“I’m not judging,” Lenna said quickly. “I’m just at a textbook publisher, so who am I to have an opinion? A gossip magazine sounds more interesting.”And,she added to herself,probably a step in a good direction toward loftier publishing dreams.
“Totally true,” Rhiannon said. “I’d love to run my own magazine someday. Either that or run away to an intentional community. No in-between for me!”
Lenna blinked. “You mean like a commune?”
“More like a work-live farm. It’s hard to find a good one, though. I tried this one farm up north right out of college, but it was kind of weird.”
“Aren’t theyallkind of weird?”
Rhiannon looked into the middle distance. “If you found the right fit, it would be so idyllic, I think. A built-in family. I’ve never been one for traditional marriage—or even relationships, really. Romantic ones, I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had flings…it’s just, I like my privacy, you know? I like my life solo.” Lenna nodded, though mostly because she figured that was what Rhiannon expected. “But a community of some sort,” Rhiannon continued, “that feels right.”
Their drinks came. Lenna took a tentative sip, reflecting on what Rhiannon had just revealed. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone who flat out didn’t want a romantic partner. She decided to change the topic. “That little girl in the store was so cute. I nannied for a little bit before college. Kids are a lot of fun.”
