THEY HURRIED DOWN THE STREET.
“I hope it’s not a terrible inconvenience,” she said. “I know the Greek Theatre is out of the way.”
“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it. I’m right here.” Julian pointed to his black Mercedes AMG two-seater with its top down, parked just around the corner on Larchmont.
“Oh, swerve! Look at your car,” she said, impressed. He held the door open for her, closed it behind her, walked around. “Must be smoking fast out in the desert.”
“It’s smoking fast everywhere,” Julian said, “and the City of Beverly Hills never lets me forget it. They haul my ass into court every few months.” Slowly he drove up Gower, debating whether or not to take Fountain. “Are you visiting from New York?”
“Me? No. I live here now. A transplant. I moved out west a few years ago. Why do you ask? Oh, because of Invention of Love? I couldn’t pass up the part. Marty told me it could be a career break. Marty’s my agent. I was there for two months. But when my contract ended, I came back. That was less than a week ago. But I think I have a good shot at the Mountain Dew commercial and now this Paradise in the Park thing at the Greek. Plus a horror movie I’m auditioning for on Thursday . . .”
“You live in L.A. but don’t drive? How do you get around?”
“My roommate drives me, or I take the bus, or a cab, or I walk. I walk everywhere. My female roommate,” Mia added. “Her name is Zakiyyah. She’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.”
“Is that safe, walking everywhere?”
“It’s fine. I keep meaning to get a car, but I can’t afford the payments yet. Soon. Maybe if I get this Dante gig and I don’t go to London. I know it seems crazy to an Angeleno, but in New York I never needed a car.”
“But you’re not in New York,” he said.
“Old habits die hard,” Mirabelle said. “Did you know that Ray Bradbury lived his whole life in L.A. and never got a car? He took the bus everywhere.”
He drove, and she didn’t stop talking. “Where do you live, Julian?”
“I’m up in the hills.”
“That’s pretty swanky,” she said dreamily. “I like going up in the hills. I have a place I sometimes hike to . . . which way do you face?”
“Every which way. We’re on a mesa that we’ve cleared on all four sides. Plus we have a roof deck.”
“Ah, a roof deck,” she said, suddenly subdued. Her mouth tightened. “Who’s we, your fam, your wife?”
“No. Me and my friend Ashton.”
She continued to look disappointed; at first he couldn’t figure out why. “I mean, my actual friend Ashton,” Julian said, getting it eventually. “It’s not a euphemism.”
“Are you over thirty?”
“Yes, just—why?”
“You’re not allowed to have a roommate if you’re over thirty.”
“Says who? And didn’t you just say you had a roommate?”
“I’m not over thirty, so there.”
“Technically, Ashton and I are not roommates,” Julian said. “We bought two adjoining lots and built two houses, connecting them by a pool and a common patio. So, together but apart.”
“I know what you mean,” Mirabelle said. “When we lived in New York, me and Z shared a studio not much bigger than your car. Our two twin beds were separated by a privacy curtain, so we too were like together, but apart. And I guarantee, we paid more in rent than you pay for your spread. But then again, we were in the best location, Theatre District, 46th Street between Broadway and Eighth. What does Ashton do, is he a boxer like you? What’s the Treasure Box? You have a prop store, too? You’re a busy guy, aren’t you? That sounds like amazing fun though, running a prop store. Nothing but joy every day.”
“Ashton is a lucky guy,” Julian said. “He only likes to do what he loves.”
“Welcome to the human race,” Mia said. “I must check it out. I like haunted houses. I used to love your blog, you know.” There was hardly a pause between sentences.
“Thanks, but why past tense?”
“Well, like I said, I got busy, plus you went dark a while back. What did you do, write a book?”
“Actually, yeah,” Julian said. “I kind of did.”
“Did you really!”
“That’s why the blog’s been quiet.” The book had been on the bestseller list in the self-help section for the past seventy-two weeks. Because of that, he now taught a survival course at the community college, traveled sporadically around the country giving motivational speeches, and offered consulting services on movie sets needing survival experts. He had almost no time for boxing, which is why he got up at dawn every day.
“I’ve never met a published writer before, wow,” she said, assessing him in cheery wonder. “What’s the book called? Cruz’s Compendium of Clever Creations?”
“Cute—but no. Tips from a Boxer and a Know-it-All.”
“That’s good, too. I actually wrote to you a few times. I was one of the lonely hearts.” She hadn’t put on her seat belt. It kept beeping every 15 seconds, to which she was utterly oblivious. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” She didn’t stop smiling. Or looking at him.
“Sorry. Did you sign as yourself or use some other name? Most people use . . .”
“I signed as Gotham Girl.” Her body was turned all the way to him in the passenger seat.
He kept his eyes on the road. Her laser focused attention was slightly disorienting. “Did I ever write back?” He didn’t remember a Gotham Girl. But so many people wrote to him.
“You sure did! We went back and forth. I heartily disagreed with your assessment of my personal situation.”
“What did you ask me?”
“One was why, if I was so talented and so gifted and was doing what I was meant to do, blah-di-blah, was I always so flipping broke.”
“And I said . . .”
“You quoted Marlon Brando. Never confuse the size of your paycheck with the size of your talent.”
Julian nodded in understated self-approval. “And the second?”
“I asked how a girl could tell if a guy had a thing for her.”
“To which I . . .”
“Told me to run.” She laughed. “You actually said that. You said if you have to ask, he doesn’t.”
“Ouch.”
“You’re telling me. Then you asked if he’d seen my favorite movie.”
“And?”
“That’s it. I really took that apart. And you kept writing back, repeating, but has he seen it? You were very annoying.”
Julian vaguely recalled that exchange. The girl had been insistent, writing to him several times a day, presenting bags of evidence, but refused to answer his basic question and one day went radio silent. “Well?” he said. “I never did get an answer from you. Had he seen your favorite movie?”
She threw up her hands. “Do you see now why I stopped writing to you?”
“Why, because you don’t like answering questions?”
With the top down, the wind blew about her hair. Julian pulled over to the curb. She looked worried for some reason, like he was going to throw her out of the car or something. He nearly reached out and stroked her flushed cheek to reassure her. “I want to put the top up,” he said. “You don’t want to be a wild Beatrice for your audition, do you? Probably best not to be too disheveled.”
Her face melted at him, confounding him.
At the Greek Theatre in Griffith Park, she asked him to come in with her instead of waiting in the car. He checked his watch, texted Ashton to take the Fox meeting without him, and followed her into the amphitheatre.
With a spring in her step she hopped up onto the stage when her turn came, waited for her cue from a man with the clipboard, nodded to Julian, and began. She was well prepared. She was phenomenal.
After his eyes had sought the starry guide,
they turned again into the light.
“Tell me who you are,” he cried.
And thus I answered:
“A while ago the world possessed me.
Had my time been longer,
Much evil that would come,
Had never chanced upon me
Because you loved me well, and had good cause:
For had my sojourn
Been longer on this earth,
The love I bore you in return
Would’ve put forth
more than blossoms.”
The producer sat mutely, like Julian, but less open-mouthed. Then he said, “Miss McKenzie, what was that? Was that Dante? Because I cannot find it in my book.”
“It was from memory, sir,” she said. “I rewrote it a little. Condensed some lines.”
Silence from the front row. “You rewrote Dante?”
“Yes, sir. I wanted to do my best.”
“Thank you, Miss McKenzie. We’ll be in touch. Next!”
“That was excellent, Mirabelle,” Julian said as they walked to his car across the street. “Really. If it was my play, I would’ve given you the part on the spot.”
“You would have given me a part in your play?” Her whole face lit up, even her little nose. “Like a walk-on? Or a lead role?” She laughed when he could find no response. “I’m just teasing you.”
“I know,” he said.
“And would I first need to tell heaven from hell?”
“No, just a smile from a veil,” he said.
She high fived him for the musical wordplay. “The being-prepared, I learned that from your blog, you know,” she said. “You can’t over-prepare, you wrote. You said always do your best but learn to accept that it is probably not going to be enough.”
“I sound like a real pill. Did I ever say anything remotely cheery?”
“So many wonderful things. Lessee, you said to always go out into the world dressed like you were about to meet the love of your life.”
“That’s not too bad, I suppose.” They squinted at each other, him in his suit, her in her mini skirt. “Can I give you a ride somewhere, Mirabelle?”
“Like where? Maybe the Vietnamese food truck by Freddie Roach’s?” She smiled.
“You’re funny. Right now, I’m afraid I have to run.” It would take him a while to drive home in rush hour. And Ashton commanded him under penalty of death not to be late. Riley and Gwen were coming over for dinner. They had announced they needed to talk to the men about their relationship status. Julian was forbidden to leave Ashton high and dry.
Mirabelle gave him her address, and Julian drove her home. She kept talking, telling him about the other auditions she had lined up, and how after New York she couldn’t get used to L.A. weather, always so sunny and mild, but her friend Zakiyyah took to L.A. like fish to water, but on the other hand had terrible taste in men (Julian was going to ask Mirabelle if she too had terrible taste in men but couldn’t find a spot to interject), always picking the worst guys, “like she’s sort of seeing this guy now named Trevor, and if his name isn’t bad enough, we went out the other night and he orders a Sloe Gin Fizz! I said to her, Z, your new boyfriend drinks Sloe Gin Fizzes? Does he wear flip flops, too? This is who’s going to be your rock in times of trouble? Is he going to put down his green drink before he sandal straps your assailant—”
Abruptly Mirabelle stopped talking.
Julian had been driving, catching the breath of her words, until there was nothing to catch. “Please continue,” he said. “I’m fascinated by Zakiyyah’s romantic travails.”
Mirabelle was staring at him with a peculiar expression. Like troubled disbelief. “Julian . . . why did you bring me here?”
Blinking, coming to, he looked around. “This isn’t where you live?”
“No, I told you, I live off East Hollywood, on Lyman.”
“Sorry,” he said, putting the car into reverse. “I must’ve misheard.”
“Julian, wait.” She reached over and touched the top of his hand. An electrical charge went through him. His fingers, gripping the gearshift stick in the middle of the console, twitched. “Why did you bring me here?”
He wasn’t sure where here was. The Hollywood Freeway was on the next block, but he’d never driven down this street before.
“I brought you to the wrong side of the 101,” he said. “Sorry.”
“That’s not what I mean. You brought me to Normandie Avenue. Why?”
He looked around. “I don’t know. You don’t live here?”
“No!”
“Weird.” He couldn’t get off the road fast enough.
“That’s not the weird part,” she said. “The weird part is that Z and I used to live here. You pulled up to our old house. The neighborhood was so bad, somebody was always getting whacked, so we moved.”
“See, so you did live there.” Julian didn’t wait for the light to change before he made a right on Melrose and sped away under the 101. If his hands were clenched any tighter around the wheel, one or the other would break. He tried to be casual but couldn’t turn his head into her flummoxed gaze. With tremendous effort he straightened his tense fingers, took one hand off the wheel—the left one—and drove on.
“I did live here,” Mirabelle said, “but how could you have known that?”
Julian could not explain it. “You must’ve given me the old address by mistake and not realized it.” But he didn’t remember her saying Normandie. She had said Lyman. He was sure of it. And she shook her head like she was sure of it, too.
Baffled, incredulous, she stared at him for a few more moments. Julian kept his eyes on the road. Something inside him started to hurt, and he didn’t know what it was.
They dropped it, because what else could they do? But the conversation, so delightfully free-flowing a minute earlier, ground to a halt.
It took him ten silent minutes to drive down East Hollywood. Lyman Place was sleepy and gum-lined. The girls were renting the top half of a small two-story blue stucco house, covered by overgrown foliage. “Well, here we are,” Julian said fake-brightly. “Is this the right place?”
“Yes,” she said. “Would you like to walk me to the door?”
Hers was a private entrance off to the side. On the upstairs patio bloomed some well-tended yellow petunias in two large plant pots. She pulled out her keys. “Do you want to come in for a minute? Z is not home from work yet.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m already late.”
“For a very important date?” She smiled, but there was tension in her previously carefree grin, a new puzzled concentrated intensity. “Are you sure? I can make you something to eat. I’m not the best cook, but I can . . .”
“I really can’t. Thanks, though.”
They stood awkwardly.
“You said to always end on a joke,” she said.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“What do you call a pile of kittens?” She paused. “A meowntain!”
When he laughed, she extended her hand. “Well, nice to meet you, Julian Cruz.”
And he, without thinking, brought her soft hand to his lips and kissed it. Afterward he became even more awkward.
“They teach you that in boxing school?” she said breathily.
He couldn’t return her warm liquid gaze. He stumbled back on the steps.
“You sure you don’t want to come in?”
“Another time perhaps,” Julian said.
“Okay, when?” Mirabelle said. “Or were you just being polite?”