door holding up Neighborhood Watch pamphlets, and then attempted to wheedle her way into the house. The day I moved out alone, she rang the bell with a petition to ban parking on our street, casually asking if we were leaving. I viewed her as my personal hello, good-bye committee.
I stopped at the corner to turn, and saw her wave through my rearview mirror. I made a half-hearted return wave thensped off. I needed to get home to let Stan in. And the unpacked box on the passenger seat preoccupied me. Deep down, I knew filling my bookcase wasn’t important—I wanted complete closure from my old life. No more leaving boxes behind. Jarret and I would be better friends after a clean break.
The traffic was still ugly when I reached Ventura Boulevard. I opted to go straight up Sepulveda and get on the 101 Freeway East, a risky decision in the no-win morning rush. Wrong move made too late. The jammed freeway crept bumper to bumper, too slow to hope for a break, and I was too trapped to worry. I tried Stan’s cell without luck and left a message. My dashboard clock hit nine as I passed the Laurel Canyon ramp and took the 134 split south to exit at Tujunga Avenue.
Stan’s new Ford F-150 white pickup sat in my driveway. He and Angel perched on the open tailgate under the blazing morning sun, both bare-chested and smoking. They stood, crushing their cigarette butts on the cement as I parked and got out of the car.
I spread my hands. “I’m so sorry. I got stuck in traffic. Did you get my message?”
“No worries, honey. Angel and I caught some rays while we were waiting for you. It’s going to be another hot one today.” Stan rolled a white T-shirt over his head. “Your tub should be ready for pick up tomorrow, princess. Soon you’ll be soaking in a bubble bath.”
“Hallelujah. You just made my day.”
“I live to see you smile,” Stan said.
I chuckled, doubtful. Stan might live to see guys on Santa Monica Boulevard smile, but I was pretty sure Stan lived tosee
me
write him a check at the end of the week. I opened the passenger door of my car and reached for the box.
“Let me help you, Miss Liz.” Angel took the carton off the passenger seat and followed me up the brick path to the porch.
“You can set the box on the floor by the fireplace. Thank you,” I said, following them in.
Erzulie waited in the center of the living room floor to greet me. At the sight of a man with a box heading her way, she jerked back, did a fake to her right, then swerved to her left, doing a low belly scramble around the sofa and into the den beyond the living room.
Though I was eager to get to work on emptying the box, my rumbling stomach had another idea. My lone Dodger dog at the game was my last meal.
Stan dropped his toolbox at the foot of the stairway, and then started back outside.
I stopped him at the door. “I’m going to run over to Aroma for breakfast. Do you want me to pick up some food for you and Angel? Lattes? Croissants?”
“No, thanks, we caught breakfast on our way and had coffee while we were waiting for you. We’re good. You go. I want to get to work,” he said.
“Running over” in L.A. speak meant getting in my car and driving the four blocks to Aroma, the popular café nestled in Tujunga Village amid artsy shops, yoga studios, and restaurants. With luck, I’d find a parking space nearby. Given a miracle, the line outside wouldn’t be too long.
After I circled the block twice, a space opened in front of Two Roads, a sixty-seat local theater down the block on Tujunga. Only four people waited in line outside Aroma.Before long I sipped a creamy latte, people watching while I waited for an Aroma Panini to be delivered to my sidewalk table.
Just as the waiter set the plate of focaccia filled with scrambled eggs, cheddar, tomato, avocado, and smoked bacon on my table, my phone rang. I checked caller ID. Area code 404—Atlanta. Ugh. Laycee? She had the nerve to call me after last night? To tell me she
I stopped at the corner to turn, and saw her wave through my rearview mirror. I made a half-hearted return wave thensped off. I needed to get home to let Stan in. And the unpacked box on the passenger seat preoccupied me. Deep down, I knew filling my bookcase wasn’t important—I wanted complete closure from my old life. No more leaving boxes behind. Jarret and I would be better friends after a clean break.
The traffic was still ugly when I reached Ventura Boulevard. I opted to go straight up Sepulveda and get on the 101 Freeway East, a risky decision in the no-win morning rush. Wrong move made too late. The jammed freeway crept bumper to bumper, too slow to hope for a break, and I was too trapped to worry. I tried Stan’s cell without luck and left a message. My dashboard clock hit nine as I passed the Laurel Canyon ramp and took the 134 split south to exit at Tujunga Avenue.
Stan’s new Ford F-150 white pickup sat in my driveway. He and Angel perched on the open tailgate under the blazing morning sun, both bare-chested and smoking. They stood, crushing their cigarette butts on the cement as I parked and got out of the car.
I spread my hands. “I’m so sorry. I got stuck in traffic. Did you get my message?”
“No worries, honey. Angel and I caught some rays while we were waiting for you. It’s going to be another hot one today.” Stan rolled a white T-shirt over his head. “Your tub should be ready for pick up tomorrow, princess. Soon you’ll be soaking in a bubble bath.”
“Hallelujah. You just made my day.”
“I live to see you smile,” Stan said.
I chuckled, doubtful. Stan might live to see guys on Santa Monica Boulevard smile, but I was pretty sure Stan lived tosee
me
write him a check at the end of the week. I opened the passenger door of my car and reached for the box.
“Let me help you, Miss Liz.” Angel took the carton off the passenger seat and followed me up the brick path to the porch.
“You can set the box on the floor by the fireplace. Thank you,” I said, following them in.
Erzulie waited in the center of the living room floor to greet me. At the sight of a man with a box heading her way, she jerked back, did a fake to her right, then swerved to her left, doing a low belly scramble around the sofa and into the den beyond the living room.
Though I was eager to get to work on emptying the box, my rumbling stomach had another idea. My lone Dodger dog at the game was my last meal.
Stan dropped his toolbox at the foot of the stairway, and then started back outside.
I stopped him at the door. “I’m going to run over to Aroma for breakfast. Do you want me to pick up some food for you and Angel? Lattes? Croissants?”
“No, thanks, we caught breakfast on our way and had coffee while we were waiting for you. We’re good. You go. I want to get to work,” he said.
“Running over” in L.A. speak meant getting in my car and driving the four blocks to Aroma, the popular café nestled in Tujunga Village amid artsy shops, yoga studios, and restaurants. With luck, I’d find a parking space nearby. Given a miracle, the line outside wouldn’t be too long.
After I circled the block twice, a space opened in front of Two Roads, a sixty-seat local theater down the block on Tujunga. Only four people waited in line outside Aroma.Before long I sipped a creamy latte, people watching while I waited for an Aroma Panini to be delivered to my sidewalk table.
Just as the waiter set the plate of focaccia filled with scrambled eggs, cheddar, tomato, avocado, and smoked bacon on my table, my phone rang. I checked caller ID. Area code 404—Atlanta. Ugh. Laycee? She had the nerve to call me after last night? To tell me she
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