Tate once told me that if he had to grade his parents, they’d get a C-. An only child, he was fed, clothed, and mostly ignored. He began making up stories in his head, ones where fantastical events occurred. Some as simple as buying every type of candy the grocery store sold. One day he told someone his story, but delivered it in past tense, casting himself as the main character. It made him feel important and special, and he kept going, careful to keep it small so that it was attainable. He didn’t see it as a lie, because he always made sure it came to fruition. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t normal behavior.
But honestly, what do I even know about normal behavior anymore? I’m the one who just found out my parents, the famed actors who’ve defied divorce statistics for decades, are in seriously hot water. The kind that roasts you as you drown.
I glance at Morgan. She’s been my best friend since her mom was my nanny. In a pinch, Morgan accompanied her mom to my house when she didn’t go to school. We clicked, and I begged Margaret to bring her daughter every time she was out of school. Margaret cleared it with my mom, and I had a playmate for life. Even when my little sister Jasper came along, Morgan remained my best friend. She’s tagged along on family vacations, joined me on movie sets, and was my roommate until Tate began spending so much time here, she couldn’t take it and found a place of her own.
I swallow the last bite of my second taco and reach for the champagne. “You have a valid point,” I admit, bracing the pads of my thumb on the cork and grimacing as I push against it. It releases with a loud pop. I drink directly from the bottle. It’s that kind of evening.
Morgan takes it from me and sips. “Have you talked to Christian recently?”
“Not since this morning.” My publicist called to remind me to stay off the internet. For God’s sake, he’d said in that perpetually exasperated voice of his, if there was ever a time in our relationship that you listen to me, let it be now.
I listened. I’m too chickenshit to go looking for what people are saying. You’d think everyone would be Team Tenley, but no. The public is a fickle beast, it feeds and feeds and only wants more. As much as it eats, it’s never sated. My saving grace is that I will only be top story on the homepage until another disaster befalls someone they deem worthy of talking about. And down down down on the page my story will go, until it eventually becomes a link in another story that mentions me.
I say all this to Morgan. She appraises me with her watchful eyes, the ones that see past my public persona and deep into the soul I keep closely guarded.
“Is thirty too young to be jaded?” She hands me back the bottle and digs into the bag for another taco. I do the same. Food never tasted so good, like spicy salsa and soothed feelings.
“Possibly,” I sigh, tipping my head to the side and biting down.
“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving in a few weeks. Change of scenery and all that.”
“Right,” I agree, saying nothing about the fact that I’d be going to a small town in Arizona even if I didn’t need a change of scenery. Not only have I signed on to do the movie, but my parents are betting the proverbial farm on its success. They are bankrolling the entire thing. No pressure there. Nope. None.
I didn’t want the role. I’d just wrapped the final movie in a three-picture deal and was ready for a break. I’d even been toying with making the break semi, if not completely, permanent. But then shit hit the fan.
Morgan plucks the champagne bottle from the counter and starts for the glass doors leading out to the deck. I follow.
I’m tired of LA life, but I’ll never tire of this view. Spread before us are the twinkling lights of a living, breathing soul. Places to go, things to do, traffic to sit in. This city has a pulse.
“Champagne was a weird drink choice,” I murmur, taking the bottle from Morgan and bringing it to my lips.
Morgan chuckles. “I know, but it seemed appropriate. We’re not celebrating that Tate cheated on you, Tenley. We’re celebrating that you found out he’s a cheater before it was too late and you had serious baggage. Before you invested any more precious minutes of your life with him.”
I frown. “Seems like an excuse to drink champagne.”
She sneaks a smile in my direction. “Well, I mean, yeah.”
I pull one knee into my chest and stretch my other leg out. “Do you ever think about marriage? Or kids?”
“Sometimes. It’s just”—she motions in front of herself—“out there somewhere. In the future.”
“We’re already thirty.”
Morgan side-eyes me. “Are you insinuating we’re old?” She says the word like it’s gum on the bottom of her new shoes. “Women are having babies later than you think.”
“Maybe.” I shrug and watch a bug fly past the light next to the door.
Morgan reaches for the champagne but I hold her off and take another sip before handing it over. “I’m afraid one day I’ll wake up and it’ll all have passed me by. I won’t fall in love again and I won’t get married. I won’t get to do everything different.”
“I won’t let that happen. I’ll wake your ass up before all your opportunities are gone. You’re going to get a redo. Promise.” She does a wink and nod thing. “Did I look like a cowboy just now?”
Her antics make me laugh, and I feel grateful for her. How can I be fearful of a grim future when Morgan is here, working hard to make my present so damn enjoyable? I reach for her hand. “Thank you for coming over.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be. I’m going to miss you when you’re on location in the Wild West.”
I laugh. “I think the Wild West is a thing of the past.”
“If that’s true, I’m going to be very disappointed. I was planning to come visit you and meet a cowboy for the weekend. Maybe a bull rider.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I laugh again, and it feels good. I’ve been doing the opposite of laughing since I found out about Tate. An idea pops into my head. “You should stay here while I’m gone.”
“You want me to move back in?”
I nod. “As early as tomorrow. Right now. Yesterday.” It suddenly feels like the most important thing that Morgan moves back in with me. I’ve been moping around the house. I need someone to remind me that even if my relationship with Tate is dead, I am still alive.
Morgan’s head tips to the side like she’s thinking. “I don’t know…”
“I have houseplants that need watering.” The lie comes out smoothly.
Morgan frowns and thumbs back toward my place. “You don’t have a single houseplant in there.”
I hold up a lone finger, signaling one moment and reach for my phone. It takes a grand total of three minutes. I look up at Morgan. “In two days, I will be the proud new owner of two snake plants, one Ficus tree, two peace lilies, and something called a ZZ because its real name is too hard to pronounce.” I toss my phone beside my thigh on the chair. “If you don’t water them, they will die.”
Morgan shakes her head, but the corners of her lips turn up. “Wouldn’t want plant blood on my hands.”
“Never,” I agree solemnly.