Page 54 of What's in a Kiss?

My gaze falls on the only thing I wouldn’t have in my bungalow—framed photos of Jake and me. It’s strange that we don’t have any of these displayed in our house—only the carefully curated wedding picture in our library. The kind of photo an interior designer would approve of.

The pictures here tell a different story. One is a photobooth strip of shots where I’m kissing different parts of Jake’s face. One is us on the ferry to Catalina Island—the camera catching my straw hat in the process of blowing off my head. Jake is failing to catch it, hand high in the air, and we’re laughing, my hair a disaster. Another photo has me straddling Jake’s shoulders in an infinity pool with a volcano in the distance. There’s one of us holding a koala, munching eucalyptus. In all of them we’re laughing. We look happy.

I think of the moment in my journal, right before our first kiss, the moment when I’d gotten scared and almost turned away. But I hadn’t. Somehow, instead, in this life I took his hand and pulled him to me. And that instant led to these photos. This laughter. Memories I don’t have but Jake does.

Memories that made him fall and stay in love with me. I wish I could talk to the me who spent the past ten years with him. I wish I could know whether she’s happy, whether she really loves him, too.

Realizing these framed photos must only be a fraction, I take out my phone and open my Photos app. I scroll through an endless montage of our love. I can’t look at them closely, it’s too overwhelming to see my blissful face: a laughing selfie in the produce aisle at Bristol Farms, a million of us hanging at the house, napping, cooking, dancing, hosting parties, enjoying life.

I swipe to the most recent picture.

It’s the blurry pic I took last night of Yogi Rabbi Dan’s license plate.

I text Ivy, because what are assistants for if not impossible assignments?

Me:Say someone needed to track a guy down using a photo of his plates...

Ivy:License or dinnerware?

Me:Strictly vehicular.

Ivy:California or out of state?

Me:Oregon.

Ivy:I’ll hook you up by week’s end.

Me:Seriously?

Ivy:My sister’s a PI, remember? She still owes us for bailing her out of jail.

Me:Oh yeah... thank you!

Ivy:

I’ve just texted Ivy the photo when I get a text from Jake:

Getting to Grauman’s by seven. Excited. See you there.

Our plans for tonight are at Grauman’s? As in the Hollywood Blvd theater where every major movie premiere is held? Ipicture a brightly lit red carpet, a bland industry schmoozefest. I picture Jake in a tux, checking his watch, waiting for me—

I won’t be there. Come seven tonight, I’ll be on the beach in Santa Monica, using a magical joint to get out of Dodge. But if Iweregoing to a premiere with Jake... what would I wear?

There’s a knock on my door. Before I can answer it, I hear what must be a key enter the lock.

What the fuck.Ivy said I just had this lock changed. Who could possibly...

I watch the dead bolt pop upright. My door swings open and...

Aurora barges in, a straightened metal clothes hanger in her hand.

She picked my lock.

She sighs and collapses beside me in my papasan.

“I know,” she says. “We need firmer boundaries. I’m working on it with Dr. Kenyon, thanks for the referral, by the way. But this is an emergency.”

I stare.

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