49
Wyatt’s taxi pulls into his driveway an hour later, and I’m in my front yard cutting hydrangeas for the kitchen. His driver pulls away, and we stand there looking at one another from one yard to the next. I’m in shorts and an NYU sweatshirt. My hair is tied into an off-center bun on the top of my head. Not exactly my best look, and I’m pleased with myself for forgetting to care.
“Well, get over here,” I say, dropping my flowers and walking over to give him a hug. I bury my face in his neck, just the way I imagined. I take in the feel of him, so casually pressed against me.
He says, “You already smell like the beach.”
My arms are around his neck, and his hands are on my waist as he says this. We notice at the same time and take an appropriate step apart.
“How was your flight?” It’s the thing people ask.
“I was up all night.”
“No bed on your plane?”
“I don’t have a plane.”
“I bet Missy has a plane.”
“Carlyle has a plane, that’s it.”
“Ah,” I say. I want him to tell me what comes next.
“What comes next?” he asks. “I mean, what are all the wedding details you need to deal with?”
I take in a quick breath. “Okay, yes. There are a bunch of things.”
“How much work could a wedding be? Do you have a dress?”
“It’s in the city,” I say, and scrunch up my face.
“What’s that face?” He laughs. “Is it yucky? Smelly?”
“It’s fine, it’s sort of big and stiff.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. “It’s so fun that you’re here. Want to go to Chippy’s?”
“Sure. But don’t you have a million things to do?”
“Not really. I mean I do, but all the appointments are tomorrow. I think my mom just wanted me here early for fun. What do you have to do for your mom?”
“It can wait,” he says. “Let’s get something to eat and then go look for waves.”
“You want to go surfing?” I ask. I feel a current of excitement move through me. A whole free day on the ocean with absolutely nothing I have to do. A whole free day with Wyatt.
“Grab your stuff,” he says. “What else are we going to do all day?”
When we’re seated at Chippy’s Diner with pancakes and a shared order of bacon, a comfortable distance from our usual table, I ask, “So are you going to write songs for that movie?”
“Have you been googling me?” Wyatt looks up from his plate and locks eyes with me, like he’s caught me. I have to look away.
“A little. It’s kind of addictive. Variety says they want you to write the whole score.”
Wyatt laughs. “You’re finally googling me, when we’re in touch and you can just ask.”
“I feel like I have to go back to the beginning and rethink who you are. It’s like if I found out you were in a cult. Or a vegan.”
“I swear I’m not so different.”
“So do you own a house?”
“Wow, this really got personal.”
“Seriously.”
“Yes, I have a house in Malibu.”
“Swimming pool?”
“No. But I can see the ocean.”
“Nice.” I’m picturing Wyatt at his house, looking out over the ocean. I imagine standing next to him there, looking at a beach that faces the wrong way.
“Michael lives with me, and there’s enough room so we don’t drive each other too crazy. Did you know he’s becoming a therapist?”
“No. That’s great.”
“And he has a girlfriend he met in school. So she’s there a lot too, which is fine because I’m at Missy’s a lot.”
“Oh.” I take a too-big forkful of pancakes.
“Not like that,” he says.
“What do you mean ‘not like that’? We’re grown-ups, Wyatt.” I hold his gaze because it’s fun that he’s embarrassed.
Wyatt laughs. “I think there’s some teenage version of me that doesn’t want you to know I’ve cheated on you.”
“I hate to say it, but I’ve been cheating on you too.”
“You. You’re getting married! I should totally break up with you. Or at least stop writing sappy songs about you.”
My insides go warm at the thought of Wyatt’s writing songs about me when I was in so much pain. As if that fact is retroactively healing. “Why can’t Missy write her own sappy songs?”
“She doesn’t write. When I played at the open mic for Carlyle and he told me my voice wouldn’t record well, I was crushed. But I’d played ‘Sam, I Am’ and a year later he contacted me to buy it for Missy. That’s how we met and my whole career started.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“I’m not even dating her.”
“Come on.”
“We’ve spent a lot of time together obviously. And sometimes we’ve been together.” He is visibly uncomfortable talking about his love life. “The basic problem is we don’t agree about anything, especially the music. From the beginning she was making my songs more pop than I like and now she’s trying to record one with synthesizers, which, I mean, come on.” He runs his hands through his hair like he’s trying to wipe an annoying thought from his brain. He takes a deep breath. “She’s a brilliant artist and all that, just not the kind of person I’m looking for.”
“What kind of person are you looking for?”
“I don’t know, Sam, just someone I like hanging out with. I’m not that complicated.” He studies his pancakes. “This is your cue to change the subject.”
“Okay, what about the cars? You said you still fix cars. Are you like Jay Leno with a fleet of Ferraris?”
“I drive a Toyota.”
“So that was a full-on lie.”
“No, when I was first in LA I worked at a gas station in Venice, pumping gas and fixing cars. This old guy Manny owned the shop and I kept checking in on him after I didn’t work there anymore.”
“That’s not fixing cars.”
“A few years ago he was in financial trouble so I bought the place and hired him to run it. And I do go by sometimes to help.”
I lean back in the booth, taking him in. Wyatt. The goodest of all the good people I’ve ever known.
“So where do you want to look for waves?” he asks.