Walking back to the bakery was quiet and strained. Greta knew, that Jon knew, that she knew that he knew. It was like a bad game of Telephone. Or an exceptionally good one, but either way, she looked the bad guy.
Mostly, she supposed, because she was, indeed, the bad guy.
So much was spinning through her head, and it didn’t help that her head was literally spinning. Their last free twenty minutes were silent and fraught with tension, until Jon suggested a tentative truce. She’d give him all her bread and not for one second consider cancelling on his bit of the date. And instead of the romantic evening he’d hinted at having, they’d have a Talk, about Feelings.
Ugh. Those things were only good in the fiction she read in the bath.
Once back at the workstation, firmly tied back into their aprons, they fell into a rhythm. Greta sprinkled more flour as Jon dumped the now-puffy pieces of dough out. She shaped large loaves and small buns, he transferred them to the baking stone that would go into the wood-fired oven throwing off heat and deliciousness on the back wall.
The older woman working next to them watched silently for a moment, and then leaned over.
“Newlyweds?” she asked.
“Oh dear God no,” Greta replied, as Jon said, “Hopefully soon.”
Oh what in the actual hell. Was he—he could not even be serious right now. She had done nothing but actively try to dissuade the man, and after a handful of dates with no sex he was thinking a wedding was in order? She had learned, as had most kindergarteners, that first came love and then came marriage. She anticipated neither.
Obviously her dissuasive tactics weren’t working. Maybe she was too good a kisser. Maybe she should have chosen a date that would bring her gastrointestinal distress instead of mere respiratory. Certain burger joints had been known to bring that on. As she floundered internally, she noticed Jon wink at her.
Oh. He was joking. Oh.
Well, she didn’t feel disappointed he didn’t want to marry her. Not at all. And it definitely wasn’t because there was something wrong with her. No, something was totally wrong with him. She was fantastic, and didn’t want to get married anyways. So there.
No disappointment at all, just the remnants of her allergy attack giving her that unsettled feeling. Sometimes her breathing affected her heart. Maybe.
“I was telling Henry earlier that if you weren’t already, it was only a matter of time. He said within the year, I said within six months.” The woman smiled sweetly at them, the lines of a life lived well creasing around her eyes and mouth.
“We even went ahead and bet on it while the bread was rising. Guess what I get if I win,” Henry joined in. His wife’s face turned a delighted shade of pink, and she grabbed a wooden spoon to threaten him with.
“Don’t you dare, Mr. King!” Greta grinned despite herself. They were awfully damn cute, but for real, was there something about Greta’s face that made people unable to resist the urge to bet on her? About her?
“What Mrs. King is trying to say, is that you two look just like we did when we first fell in love. There’s a spark when you look at each other. You don’t see it in a lot of young couples these days.”
“Particularly not in any of the girls our sons bring home,” interjected Mrs. King.
“Goes without saying, dear. But you lovebirds are going to make it. You don’t get to our age without being able to see what makes a happy marriage.”
“Like what?” Greta asked. Purely for curiosity’s sake, to test their theory against the couples she knew.
“Well, beyond the spark, you have to enjoy being close. The two of you don’t let more than a couple of inches get in between you, that’s obvious to the whole class. When you stop kissing each other, the rest isn’t far behind. Why, Henry, remember Sheila and Walt? She said his mustache was too tickly, but once he shaved it, she admitted she just didn’t like to kiss him anymore.” Mrs. King laid her arm on her husband, who swiftly relieved her of her wooden spoon.
“They didn’t last more than another two months, after that,” Mr. King agreed.
“Sad to see people divorce,” remarked Jon.
“Oh, no, dear, they died in a car crash,” she said.
“I—I did not think that was where that story was headed,” Greta said to Jon. His vigorous nod told her he felt the same.
“They’d given up. At least this way, their grandchildren never had to see them separate. Do you two have children?” Mr. King inquired.
“Um, no. Not married, remember?” said Greta. She was not entirely convinced these two were altogether in their right minds. A lack of kissing did most certainly not lead to a car crash, or she’d have been dead years ago.
“You don’t need to be married to give your parents grandbabies these days, dear. I tell our sons that all the time, but do they listen? They never have.” Mrs. King looked prepared to wind up into a monologue about babies, so Greta interjected.
“What are the other happy marriage tests?”
“Oh, of course. Working well together. Laughing at each other’s jokes. Appreciating each other’s jobs and hobbies. Arguing respectfully.”
“Because you’ll always argue,” Mr. King put in. “Just remember you sleep next to the person you’re arguing with, and that’s a vulnerable position to put yourself in. Why, Mrs. King has been a gardener for longer than you’ve been alive. She probably knows ten ways to poison my morning coffee.”
“Twelve, dear.” They smiled into each other’s eyes. Greta and Jon were smiling too. Poison. They were a charming couple. Could Greta be wrong, that love did exist after all? That some men enjoyed more than the physical benefits of a marriage? Mr. King certainly seemed to be genuinely happy in his commitment.
“That was how we met, in fact, in my family’s garden. I was planting my tomato starters—”
“And I walked by, on my way to pick up my date to the pictures, when I saw her, the future Mrs. King.”
“He walked up my front steps, rang the doorbell, and asked my father for permission to take me to the pictures the next weekend. Then, after he’d satisfied Daddy that he was a successful young man with honorable intentions, he walked back and introduced himself to me. Then he helped dig holes for my plants before heading off to pick up his date.”
“He still went on the other date?” Greta didn’t see that one coming, either.
“Of course I did,” Mr. King said. “It wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly of me to stand her up, would it? But I told her about Hild while we waited in line for popcorn, and she understood. To tell you the truth, I think she only agreed to go out with me because our mothers were on the Ladies Committee together. She was always sweet on Bobby Thompson.”
“Speaking of couples that are lovely together,” Mrs. King said.
“Did your date marry Bobby Thompson?” Jon was so into this story Greta could have laughed, except that she kind of was too.
“Oh heavens no, Bobby married my brother! Just this past year. They waited all this time, can you imagine?”
“But they followed all the rules, and that’s how they stayed happy,” his wife said. “Now tell us, how did you meet? I do so love a happy beginning.”
“And I love a happy ending,” her husband told her, as she flushed again. It was a good thing she no longer had the wooden spoon.
“We met at a wedding,” Jon started. “Greta, do you mind?”
She did not. It would be interesting to hear his take on their meeting, and besides, she wasn’t entirely sure this old couple would entirely approve of her shenanigans.
“I was sitting in the back of the temple when the most gorgeous creature came waltzing by. I thought to myself, I reckon she’s the best thing that’s happened in this city since it’s been founded. Once I realized she was the bride’s sister, I gathered all the information I could and cornered her in the cloakroom.
“She tried valiantly to resist me, but I won her over with a combination of British charm, this accent, and the fact that she hadn’t brought her own jacket. And aren’t I a lucky bloke, she’s been agreeing to be seen with me in public ever since.” Jon finished and bowed.
Well, wasn’t he the clever one. Not a lie to be had in the whole story, except for the hyperbole of her being the best thing to happen in San Francisco. Everyone knew the best thing that happened in the city was the filming of Harold and Maude. He wasn’t a local, though, so perhaps he didn’t know. She’d be certain to bring it up later, perhaps while they watched said movie, which he likely hadn’t done either.
Wait, wait, wait, she was not in charge of his pop culture education. She was annoyed that he was spinning tales to impress this sweet old couple in his unending quest to convince her that she should fall nose over tail for him.
Annoyed.
Although, as Mrs. King petted her and Mr. King murmured something undoubtedly not quite kosher in Jon’s direction, Greta wavered for a moment. Was this the kind of thing she could look forward to if she let her walls down? Could she spend her golden years enjoying new activities with her best friend, while imparting her hard-earned wisdom on the younger generation?
Generation—that was what it came down to, she realized. It was absolutely something she could have aspired to, were she born fifty years earlier. Sometime in her parent’s generation, there had been a cultural shift.
Mr. King, she could say with utter certainty, was a true gentleman. Possibly the last of them. By the time her father came along, that wasn’t what boys aspired to be anymore. They grew up with television, not with real-life heroes. They thought they were entitled to things, something they then taught their children, and by the time her own generation was born, it was just a hot mess.
Guys were savvy enough to play the game, but the emotions weren’t real. It was all theater, setting the stage for a relationship, but when you moved in, you realized the food was made of plaster and the furniture of cardboard.
So when she considered learning new skills and enjoying activities with her best friend in her twilight—it was Amy and Summer she should be picturing in the role. They fit all the criteria. They were respectful, interested, appreciative, etc. Basically, all the things a husband would be except the sex.
She’d gone this long, though, with merely her left hand for company, and she’d been fine. Granted, the sex tape was hot as hell, but sex was always the first thing to go. Just look at Sheila and Walt.
She would admit this, though—having met the Kings, it was the first time she felt nostalgic for something she’d never really had: true love.
* * *
Jon could tell she was feeling reflective, and possibly even embarrassed as they finally left the bakery, with loads of home-baked bread and the address of the Kings snugly tucked into his wallet.
An address! To which he had promised to mail postcards! It was terribly old-fashioned, in all the best ways. Lovely couple, that.
He’d often thought the fault was in modern literature. There were no good love stories these days, at least not ones men read. Sometime between his grandad’s time and his dad’s, things had changed so far as marketing marriage to menfolk.
Romance was now merely slotted into action stories, giving the general impression that if one merely blew enough things up, or was proficient enough at racing automobiles, a disproportionately beautiful woman would wander through by happenstance and hurl herself, nude and panting, into one’s arms.
He wondered if Greta even knew the kind of love story he liked, or if she, too, was a victim of Hollywood. It could explain her cynicism. Harold and Maude, that was a good one, and filmed here even. It wasn’t about sex or looks or sheer manliness winning out. It was simply the story of two humans, utterly opposite in nature, finding each other and irrevocably changing each other’s lives.
Well, he could bring that up at a later date; right now there was a mystery to solve, and that was why she was so determined to turn all their best dates to rubbish. He supposed if he began with his own last failed relationship, she might feel comfortable enough to relate her own concerns.
“I hadn’t wanted to go to the party,” he began.
It wasn’t at all his kind of scene. Agency shindigs were all about seeing and being seen, while imbibing as much free Dom and CIROC as humanly possible while still staying inside your designer duds. At least while the cameras were there.
If you’d asked him a week later, he’d have wondered why he ever considered skipping it.
If you’d asked him nine months later, he’d have asked you how much for a time machine trip back to have stayed home that night.
But there he was, freshly signed to Rice and Associates, and feeling obligated to RSVP yes to every invite thrown his way.
Feeling entirely star struck, Jon kept to a corner of the room. He wished he could have brought a friend, but he didn’t have quite enough clout at the agency to add a plus-one to his invite. All around him were extremely attractive people wearing fancy clothing. It was uncomfortable.
Jon tugged on his rental tux. He knew full well he didn’t belong here. The only reason he had been signed to such a prestigious group was the fact that Dee Q had invited him to tour, and then repeated the invitation. He could tell there were eyes on him, wondering how he snuck in, no doubt. He did a ferret around to see if anyone he knew even remotely was there.
All he saw were people who seemed sort of like himself, only less edgy. He was beginning to twig that really successful people actually didn’t show to the agency parties when a tiny hand landed on his arm.
“Do I know you?” came a breathy voice. It floated out of an ethereal-looking blonde waif, who was startlingly pretty.
“I sincerely doubt it.” No doubt this was a case of mistaken identity. Jon had often been told he resembled a blond Mark Ronson. But one glorious tour did not a Mark Ronson make. He started to step away when her grip tightened.
“I think I’d like to,” she continued. He gave her another look. That was weird. He’d roll with it. She was definitely the kind of girl his mates would be impressed by. A selfie or two and his evening could be labeled a success by anyone who wasn’t present. What to say back, though? Because he was still rather certain she hadn’t meant to glom onto him. Perhaps she was pissed. He leaned a bit closer to catch a whiff of booze, but nothing. Nothing at all, which was a bit odd too.
Jon had never met a girl that had no scent about her; it had long been a girly mystery from about the time he’d noticed them, why they all smelled so good.
“Well, that’s all right then, innit?” He really didn’t know what else to say. As it turns out, it didn’t matter, because she’d spent the remainder of the evening introducing him to everyone in a rather proprietary manner.
It felt a bit comforting to be herded about.
Hollywood was tough. He was quite more pleased than ever he’d chosen to continue making San Francisco his home instead of succumbing to the siren song of Los Angeles. Up close, a siren song could sound more like a banshee scream.
But here was this perfectly lovely pint-sized girl leading him about as though he were a prize to be won, and the longer it went on, the more chuffed he was. It was a vast difference from the “Please love me” attitude one typically had to assume around industry types. He met a hundred (it felt like) other tiny-yet-tall beauties that evening, and was so pleased at his newfound fortune—or rather, planning just how to spin the tale later—that it wasn’t until much later he recalled how many trips to the ladies’ room Leah had taken.
Her name was Leah, he’d gleaned that second hand, as it hadn’t occurred to her to introduce herself. Leah had always taken the approach that everyone must know her. Most had.
They’d both drunk an inordinate amount of bubbles that evening, as he hazily recalled.
Next thing he knew, she was pulling him into a cab and giving directions back to her place. She shared a decent-sized flat with about eight other girls, all of whom rotated in and out at regular intervals, he’d later learned. Evidently it was part of the agency contract, housing was.
They’d slept together, that first night, on an air mattress in a room where another girl was passed out comatose on another, and an empty one awaited a late reveler.
In retrospect, Jon noticed that the only truly memorable thing about their first time was the room they were in. That and the fact that he was extremely unused to women who looked like her being interested in removing their clothing for an average bloke like himself.
He’d gone to bed (mattress?) single, and woken up Leah’s boyfriend.
The next few weeks, months even, had been a bit of a blur. There was party after party, night after night. About eight weeks in, he’d gotten enough confidence in his paychecks to lease the flat he currently resided in, and then they began to stay there instead.
He’d never asked her to move in, it felt a bit too sudden for any such move, and yet from the signing of the lease, her things had taken up more and more of his space.
Only a week into his new, fancy life, he realized he could no longer utilize the closet, as it was filled with filmy scraps of cloth he was unable to recognize as outfits until she put them on. His bathroom, usually so austere, was cluttered with a thousand products. She insisted on calling them only “product”, something that both confused and amused him. Why not pluralize something that appeared to multiply daily?
At this point, Jon was privy to the fact that cocaine was entirely responsible for her ability to stay up all night, and drink so much champagne. It was her beverage of choice, and in fact one of the more interesting things about her was that she had once slept with a bartender who had taught her to sabre open bottles.
A sabre now resided in his tiny cook space.
It was a peculiar life he was living, and one he wasn’t a hundred percent comfortable with. But Leah reassured him frequently that she didn’t do anything everyone else wasn’t doing, and that anyway he was lucky to have her. She knew him, knew the right people to introduce him to, knew more about this life than he. And who else would have him?
For a while, longer than he’d like to admit, it was easy to believe her.
“So … what happened?” Greta asked, and Jon realized he’d drifted in reminiscence and quietened down.
“I hadn’t wanted to go to the next party, either. Leah had, though.”
“Just for like an hour, Jons, pretty please?” she’d begged, but by now Jon knew that it was bollocks when she said an hour. If she wanted to attend a party, it was because there was someone she wanted to impress, or else she’d gotten wind of the fact that a drug she was after would be making an appearance as well.
“Nah, then, I’ll only be making a cameo,” he’d told her, over and over. “Not even close to your hour.” At that point it was still a running joke between them, that her hour was his whole night. Looking back, jokes based on her copious drug use seemed less amusing. After all, by now she’d gotten knackered enough to tell him her story.
Leah Livre was born Lee Booker, in a rough-and-tumble area of East Hollywood, to a mother who—as Leah put it—entertained men for a living. She was somewhere in between a prostitute and a professional girlfriend. A hooker middle-class, if such a thing existed.
Her mother had been a mail-order bride from the Ukraine, and her father had left just as soon as he’d realized she wasn’t as enamored with his manhood as he was. It hadn’t taken the former Mrs. Booker any time at all to realize her accent and carefully-tended figure were a hot commodity.
The most startling thing about Leah and her mother’s relationship, for Jon, was the amount of respect Leah had for her mother’s career choice.
He was rather much more pleased with his own mum, though she was a primary school teacher, and made a significant less yearly sum than Leah’s. He also suspected taxes may have been more accurately paid by his own. She’d never liked Leah, of course.
Lee, though, as she was then known, was struggling through primary school when her mother had found a new husband. Steve Wyant had waited only as long as it took to send her mother out for smokes before proceeding to avail himself of Lee’s virginity. His compensation was a bump of the white powder he routinely served himself and his women between lawsuits.
Steve was an ambulance chaser. Lee quickly became a speed chaser. In some ways, they were exactly the same. In some ways, they were so different. For example, Steve knew full well his girlfriend cheated on him. It paid the bills, so what did he care? As long as she used a condom, no one got hurt.
Lee cheated on him, too, except that she wasn’t his girlfriend, she was just a girl who was young, and hungry, and had just recently learned what she was worth.
Instead of sleeping with men for a few bills, she slept with them for introductions. And coke.
Once it had started to pay off, she had rapidly ascended the ranks. By the time she was eighteen, she’d been signed to Rice, and had an eye for the up-and-comers.
By the time she was twenty, Leah (as she was already known) was featured equally in high-fashion magazines for her modeling, and for her dates. When she told Jon he was the best one yet, he was still green enough to be flattered instead of insulted. It meant he was worthy. It hadn’t occurred to him he was just the next step up on the ladder.
So the infamous party, the one he’d not wanted to go to, the one she had. It had ended just as early in his eyes as he’d hoped. Basically, he’d gone in, shaken hands with the appropriate folk, had a G&T or two, and gone about his way. Leah had disappeared almost immediately, and so he’d left solo. Just exactly as planned.
What Leah evidently hadn’t planned was that the man she was fucking in their bed had only just begun when Jon arrived home.
DJ Boom had been a Guy To Watch, but Jon swiftly availed himself of every bit of clout he had to shut that down. Leah was very apologetic, but Jon swiftly availed himself of every bit of self-esteem he had to shut that down.
She said she was too high to realize what a bad choice she’d made. He believed her. The problem was that she got that high on any given Tuesday for it to be a good excuse. She said she thought he wouldn’t be that mad, considering the business they were in. The problem was that they were in different businesses. She said that he had no real reason to be mad, as she’d wanted to attend his party for the X. He decided that he did, as drugs were not the most compelling reason to attend one’s partner’s event.
It was an altogether messy breakup.
She left all of her things at his apartment, and then had the nerve to send DJ Boom to collect them. Jon had boxed them up previously, anticipating something similar, but was surprised all over again when she’d sent an inventory checklist. He’d no idea she had been so involved with the flimsy scrap collection. Models, though.
Evidently the bathroom had not been subject to the same insurance-related inventory, as long after she’d vacated his apartment, Jon was still the proud owner of one flatiron, multiple sizes of curling irons, two straightening serums, three beach sprays, and a single eye cream.
Truth be told, he really liked the eye cream. He was on his third tub.
Even after all the personal items had been redistributed, Jon had received a number of private messages on his public Facebook account. At that point, it had been the only access to him she had, as he’d changed his number and blocked her from his personal social media.
i miss u. plz tell me u do2
ur a dick. wrz my ccnut lotion
i <3 u cum ovr
Jon had, wisely he thought, not responded to any of them. After all this time—well, at least the amount of time it took to be out of her constant and overwhelming influence, it was pretty damn cool to just be Jon Hargrave. DJ Force was a solid alter ego in today’s day and age, and he’d gotten to the fame tipping-point where parties could be picked and chosen based on whom he wanted to hang out with.
Too bad for Leah. His life was infinitely cooler without her.
* * *
They were back at the park and seated again on the bench she’d had her fit on before she’d digested everything Jon had said and was ready to spill her own guts in return. Just a little, though. Because how could she be sure that Jon wouldn’t end up just like every other guy who’d been cheated on, growing increasingly bitter before deciding monogamy was overrated?
“I guess I can’t remember a time when my parents were happy,” she finally started. “I just always assumed they’d stay together for us, though. Even though we were miserable. Better the devil you know, right? After Dad finally left, he stayed gone. Like, way gone. I think I have at least two half-siblings, but he basically wrote all of us off along with Mom.”
“That’s so shit,” Jon said. “I can’t imagine.”
Greta’s laugh was bitter. “You can though. You lived with a girl like Leah. Imagine there were kids involved.”
He was quiet for a moment. “So shit,” he eventually repeated.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, searching for any happy moments. She couldn’t think of any. Her sisters could, but just barely, and it wasn’t anything weighty enough to erase the memories they all had of the unhappy years.
She wasn’t exactly certain of the first time she’d become aware that none of her friends’ houses required even an elementary schooler to tiptoe through as though the pretend lava they’d invented at recess had oozed along behind the bus and into their homes.
She did remember that by about third or fourth grade she’d realized it was the reason she was the only kid in class who didn’t have birthday parties. Some of her classmates thought she was snobby, and stopped inviting her to theirs once no reciprocal invitation ever showed up in their cubbies or backpacks.
It was almost worse that most kids kept inviting her, so she relived what a happy home should look like, just around four times a year. Just often enough that she never forgot she was different, that other kids weren’t scared of their fathers.
She did know kids without fathers.
She just didn’t know anyone else whose mothers cowered from their fathers; mothers who sometimes woke them in the middle of the night to hide them, delirious and clumsy, in dark quiet spots so they wouldn’t accidentally get hurt or in the middle of the destructive arguments that always ensued when dads came home pissed off and wasted.
In kindergarten, long before Greta, her sisters, or her mom had realized the situation was too precarious to even attempt, she had once been allowed to host a sleepover. Just the once.
Just the once was all it had taken.
Amy and Summer were her obvious guest choices, because they were her sneaker twins. At recess the first day they’d noticed that, they had started calling themselves the Secret Sissy Club. At her house that night, neither of the girls was totally okay with being away from their own mothers for the first time.
But then her dad had shown up, late, as they were just falling asleep in their camping bags on the basement floor. He was angry Greta’s mom hadn’t taken the trash out, no matter that it wasn’t going to be picked up until the next morning. The tongue-lashing he gave her probably woke up most of the neighborhood.
Greta had hidden her face beneath her pillow and sobbed in humiliation, hoping her friends wouldn’t tell anyone at school.
They’d done much better—they’d crowded around her, rubbing her back and telling her stories, all the ones they could think of and a few they had clearly made up, about princes in disguise.
Years later, it was another sleepover of her favorite people on earth when Ang had stumbled into her room to show the girls how she’d found her dad’s phone. The phone he’d evidently either not locked or wanted his wife to find.
The phone that he’d evidently been using to contact his girlfriend, someone called Megan. Someone who had left messages telling him what she was wearing and when she planned to remove it. After a sleepless night of debate, the sisters showed the phone to their mom.
She’d known all along, but the thought of leaving was scarier than the thought of putting up with it.
“I’m not sure I have this sorted,” Jon interrupted. “Your father sounds like an absolute wanker, but why has that affected you so much? Angie seems to have turned out just fine. And I rather think Matt’s the faithful type.”
Greta sighed. “That was just the groundwork. And if Matt isn’t, he’ll have me to deal with.” She waited a beat, not sure how to say it.
“It turned out, my father had another woman all along. And once he was able to be done with us, he changed his number. He literally had a backup family.”
Jon looked horrified, but of course, it was a very blatant thing for her father to have done. What she expected from guys these days was more of a gradual fade. As though the song peaked on the third date sex, and then gradually faded to static. The DJ should know as well as anyone. Although there was one other thing he should know as well, just in his best interest,
“Once Summer saw him out with the other woman. She broke his nose while Amy filmed it. They’ll do it to you, too, if you don’t see our shit through.” It was the easiest possible way for Greta to ask him to be gentle with her heart.