“DID YOU KNOW THE AVERAGE age of a woman when they finally find true love in Los Angeles is thirty-four?”  I ask, pushing the menus down that cover the gorgeous faces of my best friend, Myla, and my sister, Montgomery. We call her Monty for short, but her adoring fans call her Montgomery.

“Don’t uncover my face, dear sister. I’m not wearing any makeup, and you never know who is skulking about this early in the morning. Damn paparazzi.” She pulls out a mirror from her purse and checks her face before using it to see who’s looking at her from behind our table.

“Whatever. You’re naturally gorgeous, and you know it.” Myla throws her the customary compliment that comes with being my best friend. Ever since we were seventeen and Monty got her first role in a movie at the ripe age of eleven, we’ve learned to throw them out casually to soothe her now vacant soul. Hollywood has corrupted her youth and outlook on the world.

“Naturally gorgeous, my ass. And so what about your age,” she whines and sighs heavily before closing the menu.  “You’re two years past the average..big deal. Maybe now you can simply settle for lust instead of love. Lust can be fun.” She gives me a mischievous look from the side of her eye, and I know that’s her experience talking.

“Lust in Los Angeles is scary. I’m so tired of men who only want to talk about the size of their bank accounts, the size of their real estate investment portfolios, or the size of their dick. Trust me, many of them are lying about one and some about all three. It’s exhausting,” I complain. “And the ones that aren’t lying about any of it, have been around LA so long, they’re dirty, both physically and professionally might I add,  and jaded. I don’t want that in my life.”

Both of their jaws drop open in shock at my words, but only Myla dares to ask out loud, “You don’t want a rich man with a large dick?”  She strains across the table and feels my forehead for a fever.

“Oh, Myla, stop it. No, I don’t. I don’t know exactly what I want yet, but the one thing I do know is that I’m not going to find him here in this city.”

“What are you saying? Mom and I both have set you up with some fine men in this city,” she waves her pointer finger at me like a nun with a ruler. She’s just waiting to burn the back of my hands with a hard smack.  “You have a problem with follow through. Sometimes a first date fuck is necessary to get to the second date.”

“And there you go. No more set-ups from my mommy and little sister.”

“Noa, even you must admit I’ve saved you from some drop-dead gorgeous men this past year.” I glare at my best friend from across the table.  Big mouth. If I were more awake and not starving, my death stare would have melted her face off by now.

“See?” My sister shrieks and throws her hands in the air in frustration. Drama queen. “These dates are not always easy to set up. I’ve had to make some not-so-glamorous concessions to line up these dates for you, and now I find out you’re ditching them on purpose. Well, not anymore. You’re going to have to find your own man from now on.” She squirms out of the booth and waves backward at us as she leaves, throwing her purse over her shoulder.

“Why the fuck would you say that out loud, especially in front of her? The code is now broke.”

“It’s not broken.” Myla drops her head in shame. She knows she fucked up, but I can’t stay mad at her for long. We’ve been through way too much shit together to be mad over a minor error in communication. “I claim heat of the moment insanity? Sorry. Sometimes I forget that she’s a drama queen and we have to censor ourselves around her. I’m sorry, Noa.”

“I know you are. It’s okay. She’s going to run home to mom and tell on me. She fucking owns a $12 million dollar home and spends all of her time at our parent’s place. Pathetic.”

“But now you’ll have to listen to your mother’s guilt-ridden lecture about it, and that’s what I’m most sorry about.” She squeezes my hand in moral support. “You need to get away from here, and start your own life.”

Just then, the waitress comes over and after staring at our hand-holding scene for a moment asks “Was that Montgomery Knight sitting in this booth? Do you know her? Why did she leave? I wanted her autograph.”

We both roll our eyes exasperated. Fan adoration is very old to us. “No, that wasn’t her. She’s just a stand-in for her to fool the paparazzi. Sorry,” Myla snides, throwing her a sugary-sweet smile in apology. 

“And besides, Montgomery Knight is much prettier and nicer than that woman.” We snicker at my words before giving her our orders.

“Seriously, Noa. You need to get away. Find a job in another city. Join the circus or something. Anything. Just get away from your family. They are choking the life out of you.”

“But if I leave, that means I leave you too. I can’t do that. I’m too old to start over with a new best friend. They won’t know my quirks, and we won’t have any shared history to laugh at so hard we pee our pants.” She smiles softly at the bonded memories before her eyes go wide with a bright idea.

“Ooh, I could train her. Teach her all of our stories and what the punchlines are.” Suddenly her shoulders sag and lips purse as realization dawns on her, “Nah, that’s not going to work. It won’t be as funny. I guess I’ll have to run away with you.” Her smile lights up her face again, and I sit in awe staring at her. She’s always been able to do that— smile and instantly change my mood.

“Oh my god. Are we really thirty-six years old and talking about running away from home?”

“Yes, we are. Now, who could use a Hollywood seamstress and a sports medicine doctor as a package deal?” She taps her finger against her twisted lips in stern contemplation of her question, making me laugh in the process. She will come up with a plan, and I will go along with it as I always do. It’s how we operate as best friends.

*****

IT’S BEEN A FEW DAYS since the conversation at the diner about running away, but my mind won’t seem to let the idea go. I do need a change from this city...and Myla’s right— some distance from my family. I love my family, but ever since Monty received her Golden Globe award and subsequent SAG nomination, they’ve become excruciatingly hard to bare. No scandals. No drama. For Christ’s sake, we live in Hollywood. How on Earth do you live without scandal and drama?

My mother and Monty’s “Mom-ager” picked our clothes, our schools, our boyfriends, our friends, and even our jobs until we were well into our 20’s. Hell, she still rules over Monty, for the most part.

I was grateful when school chose my internship for me. Marlena Knight is never happy when her power of decision gets taken away. You know what they say when Mom’s not happy— no one is; I believe she found another way to get her way. I’m pretty sure she bribed the governing committee with a donation since I ended up at USC Keck Sports Medicine Center, here in Los Angeles.

Now I only succumb to the torture of her and Monty’s choices as my dates. It’s usually some up-and-coming actor or director. Every now and again I get a producer. They strut me onto the red carpet to keep it all within the family. If you can’t be famous yourself, you might as well be the 3rd wife of someone who is. In today’s social climate, famous sisters only happen to princesses, and we don’t have those here in America.

My mom is building an empire, while I’m ready to wage war against it. And my father, well, he just lets her rule with an iron fist. His motto is ‘Happy wife, happy life.’ I think he’s just content that she leaves him alone to study his charts and graphs. He’s a scientist/researcher for Kaiser Permanente and the ultimate nerd; I clearly inherited my nerdiness from him.

Yeah, I’m a nerd to the largest power of ten. I was a track star in junior-high and high school. I would study the way my legs pushed through different take-offs for the most power and the fastest releases, and I’d study my breathing efficiency with different timing patterns.

Myla was my timekeeper through it all. She’s been my sidekick for forever and a day, always helping and saving me. Yes, as I mentioned before, saving me from my bad dates.

Dating. I hate that word, and I love it at the same time. I’m not a homely looking girl. I have attributes that get a lot of wide-eyed, full-smile looks from men. The problem isn’t the men. They are nice, for the most part. Okay, here’s my truth— I fall in love way too easily. I’m too caring. Yep, I’m the sentimental sap that loves love, wearing my heart on my sleeve. I let the men talk to get to know them and undoubtedly, I fall in love.

It could be the way their hair falls over their eyes creating that sexy mystery that I crave or their open hearts and wallets with their charity work, or the shining passion in their eyes and intelligence of their words when they speak about their next role or movie. Whether it’s physical or spiritual, there is always something that draws me in, and I fall. HARD. Every damn time. 

I always do, until I see the lies veiled behind the insincerity of it all. I don’t know why but God granted me the power of seeing the wizard behind the curtain; some would call it a blessing while others might call it a curse. It usually falls between the middle to end of the second, sometimes third, date. One tiny word or look in their eye sets off my bullshit meter, and with a snap of my fingers, I pull hard on the curtain to see the tiny man behind the megaphone.

I always dare to call them out on their shit. I may have a caring nature and a soft heart for people in general, but I won’t be served a sack of shit and expect to eat it as a meal. I send the coded message to Myla pre-rant, and by the time I finish, she arrives to whisk me away.

My cell phone buzzes, and I see Myla’s wide smile light up my Skype. We are kismet together. I bet she felt me thinking about her. “Hey, Sunshine. What’s up?”

“Nothing. What have you been up to?” I see people milling about and laughing in the background so I know she’s at work.

“I just got out of a three-hour rotator cuff repair surgery, and I’m enjoying the silence of my office. No beeping, no hissing of the oxygen pumps, and no people milling around me giving me vitals. It’s marvelous.”

“Sounds marvelous, my dear. Hey, you know how I’ve been preparing for that upcoming western that’s being produced by Jules Signon? You know, collecting chaps, flannel shirts, spurs and belt buckles galore?” Her green eyes sparkle when she says flannel shirts and spurs. Myla has a thing for cowboys.

“How can I forget? You made me go to Santa Clarita with you to that western wear store to look at snakeskin boots for hours. Why? What’s happened?”

She brings the phone closer to her face, and all I can see are the pores on her nose and her bright eyes while she whispers, “Well, the rodeo is in town this weekend, and I scored some tickets. I’m working on a low-budget film and can’t buy more costumes. What I lack in garb, I have to design and make myself.” She holds the phone back out so that I can see all of her face. “So, do you want to go and scout out some hot cowboy clothes with me? Special emphasis on the ‘hot cowboy’ part for you?”

“You mean special emphasis on the ‘hot cowboy’ part for you,” making sure I use my air quotes appropriately.  “Why not. I’m not on call this weekend, and it gives me an excuse to avoid my mother for a few more days.”

“Great! It’s an all-weekend pass. The bronco-busting is tomorrow night while the bull riding is Saturday night. I need to see both.  I’ll pick you up at 3:30 and hopefully we’ll avoid heavy traffic.”

“Ha. Avoiding heavy traffic in LA is a myth, but I’ll be ready.” I send her an air kiss before she fades off my screen. I open my calendar on the computer and see my last appointment for tomorrow is at 2:00 pm. Perfect; it’s just a surgical follow-up. I love my scheduling team. They know to make my schedule light as the weekend approaches.