“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.”
“What happened? Did she say something crass?”
“He, Grandma. It’s a he.” Our eyes meet. She doesn’t flinch.
“Oh? A gay friend?” she asks, eyes fluttering. In her day, it was uncommon for a straight man and a straight woman to simply be friends, though it’s starting to seem like nothing’s changed.
“No, Gram.”
“I see.” Her brows lift. “All right, then. What happened with this man?”
I shrug. “He’s an army corporal and he leaves for deployment tomorrow. Today was going to be our last day together and then he just … cancelled. Said something came up.”
Her red lips press together and she exhales. “Maybe he didn’t want to say goodbye?”
Maybe. But it’s pointless to analyze it now. At the end of the day, this—whatever it was—is over and it makes no difference why he cancelled.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Honestly, we spent six days together and I’d rather not invest any more of my time or energy into thinking about someone I’m never going to see again.”
“Smart girl.” She smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides. “A true Claiborne doesn’t wait around for anyone. Either they love us or they don’t. We accept either fate and we don’t dwell if things don’t go our way. You know there once was a time I was head over heels with Richard Burton.”
Her lashes bat in slow motion and her hand lifts to her heart. I’ve heard this story a million times, but I let her continue as I always do.
“I thought that what we had was real, and then I realized his heart would always belong to Elizabeth,” she says, referring to her older arch nemesis and violet-eyed stunner, Elizabeth Taylor. “I had to give him up. I had to let Richard go. But in doing so, I met your grandfather.”
My chest squeezes when she mentions him. It’s been six years since he passed, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss his infectious laugh or the ornery twinkle in his blue-gray eyes. Even in his eighties, he was the definition of a charismatic people pleaser.
“Anyway, if he isn’t going to make time to see you, he isn’t worth your time,” she says.
“I know.”
Grandma tilts her head, studying me. “I know you know. I just wanted to remind you.”
I hate that I’m letting this get to me more than it should. He was never supposed to mean anything to me. I was never supposed to so much as flirt with the idea of getting attached.
“I’m going to head back and throw some laundry in,” I say, getting up from the table. After that I’ll text my friends and see who’s around today. The last several times I’ve tried getting together with them, it hasn’t panned out. Chelsea is obsessed with her new boyfriend and can’t be bothered to be without him for more than an hour at a time, Meg is shooting some Benicio del Toro film on location in Spain for the next two months, Vivienne is still at UC-Berkeley finishing the degree we both started at the same time, and Honor got a job interning for some stylist-to-the-stars and is putting in sixty hour weeks on the regular.
But I can try.
Wrapping my arms around my grandmother, I squeeze her tight, inhale her signature Quelques Fleurs perfume, and head back to the guesthouse.
By the time I’ve rounded up all my dirty clothes and shoved them in the wash, I head back to my room, passing my phone on the way. It’s been sitting on my nightstand all morning—since Isaiah first texted me.
But now I see that I have four missed calls … all of them from him … which is odd because we’ve always only texted.
Perching on the seat of my bed, I hold my phone, staring at his name, drawing in deep, slow breaths. Pressing my lips together, I debate whether or not to call him back, only the decision seems to be made for me the second my screen lights.
My heart kick starts, my mouth dries.
He’s calling.
Clearing my throat, I sit up tall and press the green button after the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Maritza.” His voice is smooth, unrushed.
I pause before saying, “Yes?”
“Been trying to get a hold of you the past hour. Wanted to see if you’re still going to be around today?”
I catch my reflection in my dresser mirror on the other side of the room, and it isn’t pretty. My face is twisted, brows furrowed and lips turned down at the sides. Disappointment is never a good look on anyone.
“I thought something came up?” I ask, trying to keep my inflection normal so he doesn’t see how annoyed I am that he cancelled on me earlier and all of a sudden expects me to pick right back up where we left off.