Chapter 2: Chapter 1
10 years earlier.
I met him for the first time when I was sixteen. It was when I transferred to Lakeview High School from Tyler for my junior year. We had history class together. He was very cute. Was on the track team too. Got a scholarship to UT at Austin – this is more or less the montage I lay out for Angie when she asks about how I met my husband. So when she follows up right after with, "Oh, and what was he like?" it was with too much eagerness that I couldn't help but get a little suspicious.
I pause and my eyes trail along the exposed beam on the ceiling, across the living room furniture, all the way to the wall where a tall auburn-haired man stands next to the custom plastered fireplace. Even though I've told the story of how we got together a thousand times, it helps to have him to look at when I tell it. I feel it gives me inspiration for what to say next.
"He was outgoing, same as he is now. His hair was longer" – when I say this I feel Angie join me in viewing my husband, her fake eyelashes fluttering in long swooshes, the Betty Boop type – "He was always so curious about everything. And I guess that hasn't changed much either." To be honest, I wasn't too sure about my first two claims, but this last one I was certain. Noah was a kind of worldly man. The kind of man who collected old books and coins and knew good morning and goodnight in a dozen languages. Mr. Trivia, we call him.
"Was it love at first sight?" Angie asks in a teasy voice.
I force a laugh while I look the other way to the entertainment room and the fifteen or so people in it. "Not exactly. For the longest time I always kept a shy-girls distance away." I feel my phone vibrate in my pants and I take it out.
"Really? I can't imagine what a shy Jessie King would look like," Rebecca says, tilting her small head up at me. It's the first thing the twenty-two years old has said since bringing me a vodka tonic five minutes ago.
"Well this was definitely before I came out of my shell," I say while reading a text.
"Funny," Angie leads in, "I would've guessed your type didn't even have shells."
We all chuckle and then Rebecca says, "Seriously. I don't know how you have the energy to keep up with so many clients. You're a machine."
"Machines-s," I say as I make a rainbow wave with my phone – giving credit to my fifth appendage. And just as I do so, it happens to light up with the iPhone jingle.
Rebecca laughs. "What timing!" I look at the screen to see who it is, hoping the ID doesn't forecast a need for me to put out any fires. "Do you need to take the call?" I hear an alcohol induced slur at her last word.
"No," I sigh. "I think it's just one of my clients making sure I read a script or something. He just texted me right before he called."
"At nine at night?"
"Hollywood never sleeps, Rebecca," I declare as I slip my phone back into my back pocket. It sounded cliché, but she'd learn this soon enough. That a contract could be signed at 2 am in a gay bar; that a client could feel uncomfortable in Hong Kong and need babysitting; and that another could be contemplating suicide and require therapy – your therapy. It didn't matter the hour. It didn't matter if you were getting married. Or in my case, if it was your birthday. Hollywood never sleeps.
"Hey, aren't you representing Tabatha Langley now?" Angie asks rhetorically.
"Sure am. Signed her last week."
"That's amazing," she says with overt astonishment. "Congrats!"
I say thanks while giving an appropriate smile – one that I assign to obvious ass-kissing. She doesn't know this though. I don't think anyone would except for Noah.
I then contemplate ways I could exit the triangle. Spot an imaginary hand wave? No: too risky. Leave for another drink? No: my glass is full. Assume the role of the host? Yes. Then I hesitate: Are you technically still the host if it's your surprise birthday party?
Just say restroom, Jessie.
I'm about to excuse myself when I hear, "Happy Birthday, Jessie!" from behind; and I pray that it's not another assistant.
"Hey! Thank you, Derek," I say after turning. Even though Derek was recently demoted to filing paper work at our agency, he'll forever be on my good side for tipping me off to an overlooked indie film in 2014 – where I spotted the pretty young face of Jordan Alexa. My whale of a lucky break.
"How old are you now, 25?"
I smile out of consideration. He meant this in the good humor of recognizing youth despite one's aging. But given that I was only thirty, the gesture failed to charm.
"It's her thirtieth birthday…" Angie says in an unforgiving tone.
Derek is dumbfounded. "I know…"
We all stand there a little awkwardly and I take a moment to drink from my glass. Everyone follows the movement in a showcase of mirror neurons at work. Is this really my birthday? I feel the internal laugh escape into the curve of my mouth.
"And so," Rebecca begins, "what happened next with you two – you and your husband?"
Add one margarita to someone with Rebecca's bodyweight and the chances of returning to the start point of a tangent are next to zero. So I'm pleasantly surprised to be back here. "Oh, well, we eventually started seeing each other–"
"Aw, high school sweethearts," Rebecca says.
"Let her tell the story," Angie speaks up, a little annoyed.
They all look at me and I peak back at Noah still standing in the same spot. He's chatting away with new acquaintances, different people than before. They're laughing and smiling.
"We were high school sweethearts," I say before taking a sip that turned into a gulp, "Only until we weren't."
"What happened?" Rebecca asks; and I see Angie eye her in a way that symbolized her previous tone.
"He broke up with me. Right before the end of senior year."
"Oh wow," Rebeca lets out, "you were probably–"
"Devastated," I say plainly and nod.
"Why did he break it off?" Derek.
"He said that he needed space to explore who he was, to find his identity. And that university was the ideal grounds for doing that."
"Oh," they all utter in unison – in a way that makes me feel as if I failed to set up the once-upon-a-time they were all expecting.
"Which led him right back to moi," I announce with a note of humor, giving my best fingertips-to-chest moi pose.
They smile out of politeness and sip their cocktails. Ironically, I could've gone for a little more insincerity. And because they don't probe, I defer to explain the details of my last statement. How nine years later I saw Noah again for the first time. How it was such a serendipitous bump-in at a house party thrown by a mutual friend. How he hadn't seemed to change one bit. How we hit it off from the get-go, like no time had passed at all.
When the three of them start talking about stocks, I turn my head in boredom. I settle on my mom amid a group of casually dressed people. She's enjoying a cocktail by the pool table in the entertainment room. And It's no surprise that she's surrounded by men – colleagues of mine enthralled by her southern charm. She flashes her soft blue eyes and I imagine her uttering Texas slang. A sultry Ya'll.
"Oh, mother," I mouth to myself, acknowledging a woman who's never lacked male attention in her entire post-pubescent life (unfortunate for my father – when he was alive). But as I continue to watch her, I witness a new persona and energy that I haven't seen in her before – one that puts the old in old age – and it draws me to her face.
I then feel an instinctual movement: A step back to put myself in the long rectangular mirror on the far end of the living room.
With a light gasp, I set my glass down (almost drop it) and excuse myself to use the restroom. It was on my mother's face, the lines and divots. They weren't just on her; they were on me. I stop in front of the mirror to take in my own image, the Jessie of thirty years – her chocolatey brown hair cut into a bob, her olive skin at the benefit of the California sun, the icy blue of one eye and the autumn brown of the other. I smile in relief. Satisfaction. All in all, I see a woman in her prime. A woman ready to have the best year of her life. Bring it on 2019!
Exiting the restroom, I jump reflexively at a person appearing too close. "Jesus, Susan, are you trying to give me a heart attack on my birthday?" I laugh.
"Jessie! – I'm sorry – My bladder is about to explode – Happy birthday! – You look amazing."
She hugs me quickly before reaching for the bathroom door. "Give me two seconds."
I wait for her to be done. So far, she was the first assistant that I was genuinely happy to see. Which could honestly be said on any given day. She was my assistant.
Later. I see Susan exit the restroom and make a b-line to the makeshift bar next to the television. I excuse myself and walk over to her. She's pouring out Woodford Reserve and breaths out heavy with a heartfelt at last.
"That wasn't two seconds," I say.
She rolls her eyes. "You really get off on busting my chops, don't you?"
I hold down a guilty-as-charged smile before giving a throaty laugh. She always makes me laugh. "Did you just get here?"
"Yes, Thomas had a work function he needed me to come to. I rushed over here as soon as I could."
"Thomas the chief, or is this a new Thomas?"
"Stop, it's the same Thomas, the chef."
I lift my brows. "Getting serious are we, Susan? That's gotta be at least six months under your belt."
"Eight to be exact." She lifts her brows back at me in a how-about-that look.
"Now that's something to drink to," I say, exchanging my beer at the minibar for a shot of whiskey. "To eight months."
After we empty our glasses, I peer down the asymmetrical neckline of her red formal dress. It stood out like a sore thumb in my party of casually dressed minglers. "You look pretty by the way."
"Oh, thank you," she says, looking down self-consciously. "Oh, I'm sorry, should I change? I think I might have some–"
"You're fine," I assure her with an easy smile, "I'm just glad you're here." I lift my beer bottle up for her to clink it with the rim of her glass.
"Me too," she says, taking her turn to look me up and down. "You know, I feel like I always see us now as some form of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."
Side by side, Susan and I were practically twins down to the size of our bras. So it was kind of ironic that the only real difference between us was the most indiscreet biomarker next to skin color: our hair. And boy was it different. She was blonde – bright blonde. And it trailed down her collar bone in waves all to the way to her chest. But if we were able to bar this distinction between us, we could visually pass as the other's alter ego (at least that's what we were going for last Halloween as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde).
I look at the top of her head. "Yeah, you're Slim Shady and I'm Marshall Mathers."
"Oh-my-god, yes!"
I shake my head and laugh.
Suddenly, I hear my husband's richly masculine voice from the kitchen area.
"If I can get everyone's attention please."
When I turn to him, I realize that he's belatedly taken my advice to stop holding his white wine glass in his palm, between his fingers – that he should hold it by the stem so the wine stays cooler. And whether this is just to make me happy or him finally seeing the merits to my suggestion, it only matters that he's doing it. So I smile a triumph.
"Now, there is a purpose to why you're all here today. And it's not to have you drink all my vintage." – soft laughter – "It's to celebrate the life of a woman I take much pride in knowing, a woman who's work ethic and dedication is unmatched, a woman who you may know as Mrs. King" – all eyes look to me as he raises a glass in my direction – "And who also just so happens to be my beloved queen" – a resounding aw from the females – "Jessie, I could go on about how amazing you are, how kind, caring and selfless you treat others around you. I could go on forever, but I know how much you prefer the short and sweet; so I'll just finish by simply saying that I love you. We all love you." – scattered shouts of 'here-here' and 'we love you' take the air – "Thanks for making all of us better" – he raises his glass higher – "To Hollywood honey!" – everyone repeats my nickname as if in the spirit of loyal surrender, like the men of the west in front of Mordor's gates who'd just received a kick-ass morale boost.
"Oh, and one last thing," Noah says as he reaches down behind the island, coming up to hold a pink package with a polka dot bow. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
I smile at the square box in his hands, a big goofy half-my-age smile – feeling less like the dignified queen I'd just been heralded as. But what do you expect when you have a husband who knows your inner Christmas child?
"It's so cute," I say.
"Wait till you see what's inside."
I remove the lid from the box and see a key fob with an emblem that always looked to me like an evenly distributed pie chart.
"You got me a Mercedes!"
"It's right out front," Noah says with a beaming smile.
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