Page 51 of Pick-Up
As everyone begins to settle in, I whisper to Derek: “Thank you.”
He nods barely perceptibly, as if we’re undercover. “Anytime.”
It is Derek’s job to put out fires. He won’t let his team get burned.
“Sit here!” says Jackie, a much more welcome invitation.
I settle next to her with relief, placing my glass beside the place setting proprietarily.
“Well,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“Indeed,” I say, matching her look.
That is the extent of our conversation about Martin. Enough said. But I have come away with some fairly obvious intel: famous actor plus bazillionaire equals entitled asshole.
Luckily, there is plenty to distract me from both Martin and Ethan, who I am studiously avoiding for very different reasons: I let myself get lost in the family-style spread of fresh fish tacos with mango slaw and an island hot sauce that is not for the timid. Ignoring the sound of Demon Dad’s laugh behind me, I focus intently on Jackie, who grew up in Alabama as the daughter of a preacher and now lives in Washington Heights. I learn that she just broke up with her long-term girlfriend but has a new short-term boyfriend. That, when she’s not working as a set stylist, she solders her own jewelry for her Etsy store (all of which I want).
Basically, she’s one hundred times more clued in than me.
But then most of this crew is more in-the-know than I am. I’m at least ten years older than both she and Peter (who eats quietly and then excuses himself early, still a bit green from the plane). So, I resist the urge to show them pictures of my kids, though I am tempted. It will only make me seem more ancient. Save that for night two.
After inhaling a tub of Meyer lemon crème brûlée, I am next to excuse myself. I can only keep my back to Ethan for so long.
“I’m sorry to break up the party,” I say, rising from my seat. “I’ve got to get sleep if I want to be functional tomorrow. Early call time!”
“Boo!” jeers Stephanie with a good-natured grin. She has moved to sit by Martin, and they both look toasted. “Have another drink! Drink! Drink!”
I am suddenly reminded of nights out in high school, when, saddled with a stricter curfew than the others, I was always the first to leave. My friends’ heckles and hisses followed me as I receded down the sidewalk or, if it was really late, down the broken white lines that divided traffic, so no one could jump out at me from behind a parked car. I haven’t thought about that in ages. Another lifetime.
“I can’t!” I shrug now. “I’m sorry!”
In the old days, I never apologized. I acted like I was leaving by choice.
“Ms. Sasha.” Michael, always standing by, hands me a miniature lantern, and I’m delighted.
“Really?” I say.
“It’s quite dark,” he says. “No lights at all on the path, to preserve authenticity and avoid interruption to the lizards’ migration path. This will help you find your way.”
Am I finding my way? This place continues to surprise me.
“I’ll walk with you,” says Ethan, pushing his chair back from the table.
“Oh, I’m okay,” I say.
“Well, I need to go anyway. I have work to finish.”
There is no way out. Despite the flutters in my stomach at the thought of being alone with him. Despite the cold shoulder I am trying to give. Unless I want to bicker with Ethan in front of everyone. And Professional Sasha doesn’t do that.
The brief pause before I respond is making Derek squirm. He leans forward in his chair, watching our every move, poised to intervene. He has sussed us out as potential problem children.
“Okay,” I sigh, as if we will be walking to our sure deaths instead of down a secluded beach in paradise. “Let’s go.”
As we start down the steps, I catch a glimpse of the ocean, cast in borrowed glow from the restaurant’s lights. It is almost entirely still, except where small fish bubble below the surface.Hello, baby stingray!
I’m happy, I realize. At least, I would be if I was with almost anyone else. And I am walking what I acknowledge to be bizarrely far away from Ethan.
“Do you want me to carry the lantern?” he asks.
