Page 7 of What's in a Kiss?

And that’s when a jackhammer shudders into earsplitting action at the top of the hillside abutting my backyard.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I shout at the sky.

The guesthouse I rent on a narrow crevice of Laurel Canyon backs up against a steep and rocky hill. At the top of that hill, some half acre above my backyard, lies a mansion that’s been under construction ever since I moved in three years ago. I’ve never seen the mysterious celebrity living the high life up there, but I’ve heard enough to form a strong opinion. The daily powersaws and Bobcats and jackhammers, the troop of tree trimmers and various other burly men have come to dominate my aural landscape, and many of my nightmares.

And today, I’m less than in the mood.

I’ve fantasized about mounting a projector screen to that rock for outdoor movie nights. Now it sounds as if my neighbor might be breaking ground up there to put in a pool.

I grit my teeth. I can already hear that pool’s construction taking up the next nine months of my life, piercing like a diamond arrow through my skull, through my tranquility, my hillside. I know this space isn’treallymine, but I live here, and I need it.

This stamp-sized rental—and I say that as a fan of postage—is the best deal in the canyon. It’s tiny and quirky, the carpet is older than me, the doors stick, and the kitchen’s built into the hill so that its window is level to the ground. It makes Masha claustrophobic, but I love the fact that when pasta night strikes, I can open the window, reach out, and pluck fresh basil from the ground.

This house is cool in the summer, cozy in the winter, and smells like night-blooming jasmine for three solid months in the spring—always during my birthday. I love this house, and so does Gram Parsons, who has a real tight crew of puppy pals up and down the block. So as long as I can scrape together the rent to pay my slightly batty landlord, I’m not going anywhere, and I demand some peace.

I’m already past my breaking point, juggling all my maid of honor duties this weekend. Trying to primp and prep and prime myself to show Glasswell what a non-hot mess I’ve grown up tobe. To pull that off, I need things to go smoothly for two days. I cannot deal with the ceaseless earsplitting scream of a jackhammer, or a singed eyeball from this cheap dye, or one more thing going to hell right now. I cup my face in my hands... and catch a whiff of something foul.

“Oh no,” I groan, becoming aware of the chemical burn spreading through my scalp. I race to the garden hose and turn it on full blast.

I scream as the water nails me, hard.

I’m afraid to survey the damage I’ve done to my head, but for Masha’s sake, I summon the strength. I find my phone, open my camera app, and shriek at the view in selfie mode. It’s worse than I feared. My hair is fried and slightly... blue. Everywhereexceptfor my prematurely gray roots. I’m at the point where I’m contemplating Sharpie... when I imagine Glasswell gasping at the sight of me at the rehearsal dinner tonight.

Not happening.

A brick-like throb builds in my chest. When I think of showing up at Masha’s wedding, it’s notherjudgment that worries me. It’s Glasswell’s. The Best Man. The guy who always managed to make me feel like a loser, starting way back in high school, when I was rather cool.

I can’t let him see that he was right about me all along.

I need professional help. I’m going to have to shell out at least a hundred dollars, probably more, for someone to properly fix this. I sigh and open my least favorite app on my phone: my bank. My balance laughingly informs me that my debit card will not quite carry me through a hair rescue at a salon.

I flop into my creaking hammock and curl into a ball. I pullout the stale bagel I’ve stashed in my sweatshirt pocket and take a bite. I will fix this problem like an adult. Which means I need to make some dough ASAP if I want to avoid asking my mom for a loan. And I do.

I text Werner to see if I can come in for the brunch shift. He writes back right away:

Shift’s covered, but the walk-in fridge is open.

Ugh. I start to type back a no-nonsense rejection when I remember yet another irritating fact: I have to tell Werner that our party tonight is down from a five-top to a four-top. I had to beg him for the Treehouse, usually reserved for parties of twelve. I even used Aurora Apple as a bargaining chip, swearing to snap some social media pics of the famous actress loving Werner’s small plates.

Glasswell isnearlyas good in terms of social media currency, but any pic I’d take of him would have to look like an accident, lest he think I think he matters.

Werner texts:You there?

I sigh. In person, Werner’s gorgeous, like a less symmetrical Ansel Elgort. But today his texts are just one more thing I can’t deal with. I feel an urge to throw my phone at my hillside—then I remember Masha’s words yesterday on the boat:

You’re two texts away from throwing your phone at the wall. Which means you’re four hookups away from breaking up with this guy.

Two texts = phone very nearly thrown at cliff.

Four more hookups and... honestly, I doubt we’ll get that far. The thought of ending things with Werner doesn’t botherme so much as my own predictability, at least according to Masha.

If you don’t believe me, check the top row of your bookshelf.

Not like I have time to do that today.

Instead, I silence Werner’s notifications and open my Lyft driver app. A moment later, there it is, that ding telling me a rider’s in need, and a very small amount of money will soon flow my way.

Gram Parsons whimpers hungrily. I give him the rest of my bagel. “This isn’t forever,” I say. “Just make it through the weekend.”

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