She was on the other end of the phone, lying on the couch with Simon in Venice, the other Venice. Occasionally I could hear him murmur something in the background, trying to help out—not because he particularly cared, but so she would get off the phone and they could go back to watching their movie for the night. That had been their plan, to watch AFI’s top hundred movies while they were away. Tonight they were on Stagecoach. If
I thought he could hear me, I would’ve told Simon what he already secretly knew: regardless of when Jordan and I got off the phone, it was over for them and that movie.
“Actually,” I said, “it’s not just dinner. It’s a whole day that includes a beach and . . . travel.”
“One date. With the rebound guy,” she said. “That’s good for everyone. You’re going.”
“It involves me wearing a bathing suit.”
She paused. “That is a little cruel,” she said. “Have you been to YogaHop recently?”
I could hear Simon in the background, talking: Hasn’t she already been naked with the guy? Isn’t that what you’ve been gabbing about for the last twelve hours?
And suddenly, Jordan’s voice got distant, further away. I imagined she covered the telephone’s receiver in order to answer him, but I could still make out her muffled voice: That, she said, is a completely different thing than swimwear.
“Exactly!” I shouted. “Thank you, Jordan! Thank you for getting it.”
I started to undo the top of my bikini, my fingers working their way through the knot, but then Jordan was back on the phone.
“You’re going,” she said.
Griffin picked me up in a 1957 Chevy pickup truck. Bright blue with light-duty wheels. A small white line of visible paint along the doors. I was sitting on the front steps waiting for him when he drove up.
At first I thought I had imagined it. A 1957 pickup truck was the vehicle I fantasized about. With all the fancy cars in Los Angeles, this was one you’d rarely see, and it was my favorite.
“This is what you drive?” I said.
He was wearing faded jeans and a relaxed T-shirt, and as he walked around to my side to open the door for me, he looked like an advertisement standing next to the truck. Like an advertisement for a handsome guy.
“What, you like it or something?”
I nodded. “You could say.”
He kissed me hello, soft and slow, on my lower lip, like he had done it a thousand times. Like he had the right. The way he pulled it off, he almost did.
“You did say,” he said.
I smiled, a little confused. “Wait, what do you mean, I did say?”
“The other night. You told me you loved this truck.” He leaned toward me. “So I found one for the afternoon.”
“You found one?” I said.
“Yes.”
I got inside, running my hands along the dashboard. “Where? ”
He shrugged. “A shady guy owes me a favor.”
I looked up at him. “Really?”
“No, but it sounds cooler than I just rented it from the place the hotel recommended.”
I bit my lip, touched. “Thank you,” I said. “For risking your life and calling in that favor.”
He closed the door behind me, clicked it locked. “Buckle up,” he said.
During the years that Nick and I had lived in Los Angeles, we had gone to several of the most popular local beaches—Zuma, Manhattan Beach, all the way out to Redondo for a house party. But I had never been to the beach that Griffin took me to that afternoon: El Matador, this cliff-foot strand all the way out on the west side of Malibu. What they call a pocket beach because it’s so tiny, so secluded. It was like a vision, with its perfectly white sand and isolated sea caves. We actually had to waddle through the farthest cave, surfboards and equipment in hand, just to get to the spot that Griffin loved most.