I grab a spare magazine and lean back on the rattan lounger. It’s a balmy eighty degrees without a cloud in sight, weather that all but demands a good mood. But I’m nothing but sullen, riddled with emptiness. I wanted to see him today. I wanted our last Saturday to mean something. I wanted to go out with a bang.
Instead, he blew me off.
Like I mean absolutely nothing.
There’s a chance he’s telling the truth. And he should be. That was the agreement. But at the end of the day, I really don’t know him. And at the end of the day he doesn’t owe me a damn thing, not even the truth.
Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe he was looking for a week of sex and debauchery only to find himself sorely disappointed. Maybe he was hoping one thing would lead to another and I would be a crazy fling that he could walk away from, but somewhere along the line I think he realized that in a perfect world we would be good for each other.
Not that I’m in the market for a boyfriend.
But if the stars aligned and the opportunity was there and he wasn’t about to leave the country, I might have been willing to explore the possibility of something more.
“So what are you going to do today?” Melrose asks. “I mean, you took the day off. I guess that’s what happens when you drop everything for a stranger with a pretty smile.”
Today of all days I’m not in the mood for her snide comments and signature snark.
“What are you going to do if he calls you and changes his mind? Like do you really think something came up or do you think he’s just blowing you off?” she asks a moment later, tossing her magazine aside.
“I don’t know what I think.”
“I don’t know why you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You knew he was just some charismatic ass like the rest of them.” She sighs. “Maritza, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he just wanted a piece.”
I exhale. Melrose and her lack of compassion are getting on my nerves and I’m two seconds from going back inside the house, changing into sweats, and watching Netflix by myself.
“I don’t need a lecture, Mel. Believe it or not, I don’t regret the time I spent with him. I told him from day one I didn’t want a relationship, that I didn’t want romance or attachment of any kind. If he’s done with me, I have no right to be upset with him—and I’m not upset with him. Just disappointed.”
Melrose exhales, grabbing a Vogue next and flipping it open before reaching for a bottle of Fiji water on the table beside her. “All lecturing aside, he is really fucking hot and it would’ve required superhero strength to turn down the chance to spend a week with him. Anyway, I’m not judging you. I’m just protective of you. And I hate to see you sad.”
I stand, eyeing the house.
“You going back inside?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I just don’t want to sit around being annoyed. I need to do something. I thought I’d feel better if I sat by the pool and relaxed, but I’m just sitting here stewing.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say.
She laughs. “Yes, you are. And it’s fine. You should be upset. He’s a jerk for cancelling your plans.”
“I’m going to head inside and see what Gram’s up to.” I toss a magazine on the lounge chair and head toward the sliding glass door just off my grandmother’s kitchen.
“Maritza!” Seated at her kitchen table, dressed in a Versace caftan and sipping her signature oolong from a floral tea cup, she lights up when I walk in the door. “I haven’t seen you all week, love. Come have a seat.”
I take the chair beside her, feeling the weight of her stare as she examines me.
“Something’s off,” she says, taking a sip, eyes focused in my direction. She’s always been good at picking up on non-verbal cues and nuances, which is probably why she’s had a decades-long career as an Oscar winning actress. She’s always said much of how we communicate has nothing to do with what we’re saying. “You seem … blue. What is it?”
She rests her taut jawline against her smooth hand. My grandmother in all her self-assured glory has refused to age gracefully. Instead, she has a top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon on her payroll to keep each and every wrinkle and age spot at bay. As much as she talks about not wanting to be known solely for her beauty, she has a hard time walking away from something that’s become so imbedded into her identity.
You can take the screen siren out of Hollywood, you can’t take Hollywood out of the screen siren.
“I made a new friend this week,” I tell her, reaching for a single white rose in the elaborate bouquet that anchors her table, running my fingertips along its velvet petals. “At least, I thought we were friends.”