Page 65 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Shortly after 9:30P.M., Wyatt from transport finally reached Westwood, after driving a circuitous route through the L.A. suburbs to ensure Marlowe hit every last vendor on her list while they were still open. Meanwhile, the mechanic had called with a repair estimate that was well beyond the car’s worth, leaving Marlowe carless and out the cost of the donation fee.
She had also caved a few hours ago and checked a fan site that was covering the LACMA gala. Sure enough, Angus was there, his radiant smile glowing for the cameras, his arm wrapped around Tanareve, where it looked like it belonged. According to various captions, they were telling reporters that they were attending the gala as friends, but that didn’t change the way they looked together. Gorgeous. Perfect. Natural in front of a camera. Fan-worthy. While obsessing about all that, Marlowe had tripped, spilled coffee down her shirt, and broken a shoelace she’d replaced with a paper clip she had on hand.
Now she felt grubby, sweaty, worn out, intensely unattractive, and incapable of stemming her growing frustrations. She was angry at her car for dying. She was angry at her parents for being right about her career choice leaving her constantly strapped for cash. She was angry at Babs for extending her workday. She was angry at the city of Los Angeles for being a massive sprawl without a central shopping district. Most of all, she was angry at herself for getting emotionally involved with a guy she couldn’t actually date, or at least one shewouldn’tdate, knowing she couldn’t do it privately and without humiliation. Also, her compostable takeout box was leaking, making the back seat smell like fish tacos. The back seat and the increasingly wet side of her pants.
Marlowe gave Wyatt directions to her apartment. While he drove past the UCLA campus, she pulled up another photo of the gala and tried desperately to picture herself by Angus’s side. She imagined a range of couture gowns and professionally styled hairdos. Impeccable makeup. Great shoes. A manicure. Improved skincare. Repeated reminders to stand up straight. Still, she couldn’t make an image stick. At all. The harder she tried, the more reality crept in. Soon she was picturing herself cowering in her coffee-stained shirt with bird shit in her hair and Edith Head tugging on a leash while Angus spread his arms in his tux, shielding her from angry fans who tossed rotten vegetables at her face. This being L.A., at least the vegetables were probably organic.
By the time Wyatt pulled up to a curb near the corner of her apartment building, Marlowe had convinced herself that sleeping with Angus was a big, fat mistake. It wasn’t fair to him and it was seriously messing with her head, dredging up every insecurity and flooding her with guilt for seeding a form of intimacy she wasn’t prepared to nurture. She should’ve stuck to the friend plan. It wassimple. Achievable. Next time she and Angus had a chance to talk, she’d reinstate that plan. The thought of intentionally distancing herself made her insides twist into knots, but it was the right thing to do. Obviously. Definitely. Sort of. Maybe not. At least probably with a 10 percent chance of absolutely.
Marlowe started hauling bags out of the back seat, but Wyatt offered to deliver everything to the studio Monday morning, knowing she already had enough to deal with. Soggy takeout box in hand, she thanked him for his help and waved as he drove away.
She was so busy digging for her keys and counting the seconds until she could shower, she didn’t look up until she was halfway to her door. She jumped when she noticed a guy sitting on her doorstep, his head in his hands. She was about to ask if he was looking for someone—her upstairs neighbor most likely, a UCLA student who had a steady rotation of friends over—when the guy looked up.
“Hey, Lowe,” he said.
Marlowe froze. “Kelvin?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Kelvin was setting two cups of tea on the kitchen table when Marlowe emerged from the bathroom. She’d changed into sweats and an old concert tee, tied her frizzy hair up in a loose topknot, and washed her face. She would’ve been happier with a full shower, but a conversation was obviously more pressing. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have. Kelvin’s unexpected appearance had set her on edge. She’d considered shutting him out but she didn’t have it in her. She still cared about him. She still harbored a boatload of guilt, too. If all that wasn’t enough, she didn’t want to risk a scene. She’d had more than enough public attention lately. While she hoped her address remained private, the last thing she needed was to read about a fight with her ex on Twitter tomorrow.
They each pulled up a chair. She jammed a wadded napkin under the front leg of her chair so it wouldn’t rock. She didn’t bother giving Kelvin instructions. He could figure it out or not. Thus far he didn’t appear to notice that nothing in the apartment was level. He simply dropped his chin onto his hand and blew out a mournful sigh. Although half a year had passed since Marlowe last saw him, he looked much the same. He was tall and lean, but a littlebroader, perhaps, as though he’d started working out. His straight black hair swept sideways over his eyebrows, giving him the same almost comically emo look as always, an effect that was undercut by his ordinary jeans and hoodie. The plugs in his earlobes—his only accessory—still made Marlowe think of costuming grommets while his boxy chin remained clean-shaven and his eyes remained arrestingly blue.
“You don’t seem happy to see me,” he said.
“You showed up here without any warning. It’s kind of stalker-y.”
“We weren’t getting anywhere through these stupid devices.” He held up his phone, glaring at it like it was his nemesis. The look was familiar. Kelvin had always been analog. As a large-scale muralist, he preferred tangible paints to Photoshop and filters. “I took a chance. Trusted my impulses. Bought a ticket, just like you did once.”
Marlowe passed the handle of her mug from one hand to the other, staring at the rise of the curling steam, wishing his words sounded more like a statement and less like an accusation. The blame in his tone was subtle, but it was there. It always was.
“How did you even know where I lived?” she asked.
“I grabbed the address off the résumé on your website last week. Sorry if that makes me sound even more stalker-y.” He paused as if providing her an opportunity to contradict him. She didn’t take it. Instead she cursed the irony of removing her address to avoid being harassed by strangers. Apparently strangers weren’t the problem. While she tried to stem her irritation at that revelation, he slid his chair forward, twitching into a faint and sheepish smile when she finally looked up. “I wasn’t trying to track you down. I swear. I checked your site because I missed you. I wanted to see what you were up to. I thought you might be designing shows out here.”
“I haven’t been designing.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m still working on the TV show.”
“I noticed that, too.” His smile dropped away as a subtle caginess hardened his eyes. It was a small change, almost unnoticeable, but it heightened Marlowe’s already substantial defenses. “Dev showed me the photo of you and that actor out at the club. I had to look twice to believe it was you. What wasthatabout?” He let out a breathy laugh that was probably meant to diffuse tension but only increased her irritation.
“We were dancing.”
“Yeah, but come on.” He drew back, pushing out another puff of nervous laughter. “I know you, Lowe. You don’t care about all this celebrity crap.” He flung a hand toward the front windows, which ironically led not east toward Hollywood but west to the Los Angeles National Cemetery. “It was a joke, right? Like a dare from your friends? I mean, why else would you throw yourself at some famous guy?”
Marlowe’s fist ratcheted around the handle of her mug.
“I didn’t throw myself at him,” she said. “We know each other from set. We… work together.”
“I work with a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I—”
“What do you want, Kelvin?” Marlowe shoved her mug to the middle of the table. The tea was too hot to drink and she hoped Kelvin would be gone by the time it cooled. “Are you here to question that stupid photo or do you want to say something else?”
“Wow. Really?” He blinked at her, incredulous. “I fly all the way across the country to see you. I tell you I miss you and I’m interested in your career and you get bent out of shape because I ask about a photo we both know is a little out of character?”
Marlowe folded her arms, fighting the tenacious urge to wither and apologize.
