six, I had spent the majority of my formative years being bossed around and out-shouted at every turn. “I really am not. You should have seen me try to work up the courage to tell my parents I wanted to study abroad.”
“Yeah,” she said, pointing at me with her fork. “But you did it anyway, didn’t you? Being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid of something, you know. It means you do it anyhow.”
I spread guacamole on a tortilla. I gave her a grateful smile. “I guess you’re right.”
“What’s your verdict?” she asked, gesturing around. “Is this place authentic?”
I managed not to roll my eyes. People were always asking me that question, like my heritage made me some expert in Mexican cuisine. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone when I told them I’d never actually been to Mexico and my dad preferred Tex-Mex to anything else. “I don’t know about authentic, but it’s really good.”
It was really nice, sitting outside enjoying good food, an unending view of the ocean in one direction, the beach filled with sun worshippers in the other. “I could get used to this,” Imogen said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back toward the sun.
“Me too. We don’t get many days like this in London.”
“Weather aside, how are you enjoying L.A. so far?”
I added some more steak to a tortilla, thinking that over. “I like it.” Even in my own ears my voice didn’t sound terribly convincing. Imogen raised her eyebrows. “It’s different,” I said after a moment. “A little lonely.”
She made a face. “I hear that.”
I felt bad, complaining. Imogen was just as far away from her home as I was—at least I was lucky enough to have Thomas with me. And the Malibu house was, of course, completely amazing. Imogen was staying in a little apartment a few miles inland. She didn’t even have the sounds of the waves to brighten her days.
“How are you and Thomas doing?” she asked, her expression taking on the familiar wide-eyed look I had long come to associate with conversations about my boyfriend.
Imogen’s star worshipping had taken a strange turn when it came to me and Thomas; she seemed to have this idea that we were the perfect famous couple, a concept so preposterous I had laughed out loud the first time she confessed it to me, over our second bottle of wine back in my flat in London on one of our occasional girls’ nights.
“No, really, Lizzie,” she had said earnestly, her glass of cab threatening to spill on Charlie’s breakfast bar as she leaned toward me. “He’s this over-night success story—”
“I would hardly call nearly ten years as a working actor an over-night success,” I muttered, but she plowed on without listening.
“And now, all of a sudden, he’s one of the most famous men in London. The paparazzi and the fans hounding him all the time. His picture always in the paper. And the way you stuck by him through it all.” She sighed happily, a dreamy look on her face. “It’s so romantic.”
“Imogen,” I had said, slightly alarmed. “You know that Thomas is a real person, right? Not some tabloid-created fairytale?”
I think once she sobered up she was slightly embarrassed by her admission, but I still caught that same dreamy look coming over her face whenever the conversation turned to my relationship. Like it had now.
“Thomas and I are fine.”
“It must be so nice for you, living together after all that time on opposite ends of the city back home.”
“It is.” I paused. “But he works so much here. So far this week it hasn’t felt much different than being in separate flats, honestly. I haven’t seen him much.”
“But you guys have had so many events already!” she argued. “I should know, I scheduled them. That party at the Getty Center—wasn’t that romantic? And the dinner the other night with Jenner Collins.” She sighed again. “God, I would give anything to have dinner with Jenner Collins.”
“I’ll make sure to
“Yeah,” she said, pointing at me with her fork. “But you did it anyway, didn’t you? Being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid of something, you know. It means you do it anyhow.”
I spread guacamole on a tortilla. I gave her a grateful smile. “I guess you’re right.”
“What’s your verdict?” she asked, gesturing around. “Is this place authentic?”
I managed not to roll my eyes. People were always asking me that question, like my heritage made me some expert in Mexican cuisine. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone when I told them I’d never actually been to Mexico and my dad preferred Tex-Mex to anything else. “I don’t know about authentic, but it’s really good.”
It was really nice, sitting outside enjoying good food, an unending view of the ocean in one direction, the beach filled with sun worshippers in the other. “I could get used to this,” Imogen said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back toward the sun.
“Me too. We don’t get many days like this in London.”
“Weather aside, how are you enjoying L.A. so far?”
I added some more steak to a tortilla, thinking that over. “I like it.” Even in my own ears my voice didn’t sound terribly convincing. Imogen raised her eyebrows. “It’s different,” I said after a moment. “A little lonely.”
She made a face. “I hear that.”
I felt bad, complaining. Imogen was just as far away from her home as I was—at least I was lucky enough to have Thomas with me. And the Malibu house was, of course, completely amazing. Imogen was staying in a little apartment a few miles inland. She didn’t even have the sounds of the waves to brighten her days.
“How are you and Thomas doing?” she asked, her expression taking on the familiar wide-eyed look I had long come to associate with conversations about my boyfriend.
Imogen’s star worshipping had taken a strange turn when it came to me and Thomas; she seemed to have this idea that we were the perfect famous couple, a concept so preposterous I had laughed out loud the first time she confessed it to me, over our second bottle of wine back in my flat in London on one of our occasional girls’ nights.
“No, really, Lizzie,” she had said earnestly, her glass of cab threatening to spill on Charlie’s breakfast bar as she leaned toward me. “He’s this over-night success story—”
“I would hardly call nearly ten years as a working actor an over-night success,” I muttered, but she plowed on without listening.
“And now, all of a sudden, he’s one of the most famous men in London. The paparazzi and the fans hounding him all the time. His picture always in the paper. And the way you stuck by him through it all.” She sighed happily, a dreamy look on her face. “It’s so romantic.”
“Imogen,” I had said, slightly alarmed. “You know that Thomas is a real person, right? Not some tabloid-created fairytale?”
I think once she sobered up she was slightly embarrassed by her admission, but I still caught that same dreamy look coming over her face whenever the conversation turned to my relationship. Like it had now.
“Thomas and I are fine.”
“It must be so nice for you, living together after all that time on opposite ends of the city back home.”
“It is.” I paused. “But he works so much here. So far this week it hasn’t felt much different than being in separate flats, honestly. I haven’t seen him much.”
“But you guys have had so many events already!” she argued. “I should know, I scheduled them. That party at the Getty Center—wasn’t that romantic? And the dinner the other night with Jenner Collins.” She sighed again. “God, I would give anything to have dinner with Jenner Collins.”
“I’ll make sure to
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