Authors: Alison Sweeney
I walk into the restaurant and check my watch. Okay, I’m
only ten minutes late. That’s actually pretty good for me. I hate that I’m late all the time. I know it’s so rude, but no matter what I do, it seems I can’t get anywhere on time. Case in point, the Billy Fox meeting last week.
As I bypass the leggy hostess and start weaving through the tables toward the back, looking for Jacob and friends, I am spotted by a client. I’ve represented Kimberly Galando for a couple years, since her first feature movie, and now here she is eating with Sarah Michelle Gellar. SMG is repped by the competition. Some publicists get all weird and competitive about stuff like that, but bottom line, I’m just too busy to be that way. And anyway, Sarah’s got a great publicist. She and I have lunch from time to time… she’s tough but good. The publicist, I mean, not Sarah. I don’t know Sarah that well, but I stop by their table to say hi to Kimberly.
They are cute and all, but being late I can’t truly focus on more than pleasantries. I haven’t spotted Jacob yet, but it’s a sure bet that he was on time, and I can practically feel his eyes on my back. Finally I tear myself away from the starlets and find Jacob, Travis, Damon, and an unknown blonde sitting at a table just next to the patio. By the time I rush over, Travis has already stood up to attack me with one of his patented bear hugs. He’s a big guy, and I disappear in the folds of his shirt.
“Hi, everyone.” I pull free, laughing, and turn to notice that Damon has remained seated. No surprise there. Jacob stands silently at my side, his hand on my lower back. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m glad I got a bigger table.” I reach forward to shake Blondie’s hand. “Hi, I’m Sophie.”
“Sophie, this is Juliet. Juliet, Sophie,” Damon says, his arm
behind Juliet’s chair, and still makes no effort to stand up. Juliet reaches forward and we shake hands. She seems cool. We make brief small talk as I sit. I can’t help but feel embarrassed by Damon’s cold-shoulder routine. We’ve never been “friendly,” but lately it seems that he is edging toward hostile. It feels like the only time Damon speaks directly to me is to comment on my blood-alcohol level. I honestly plan to drink less at the start of every meal with him so that he can’t criticize me, but that never lasts because I need at least two drinks to relax enough to enjoy myself when he’s around.
A quick glance toward Jacob confirms that he and Travis are in the middle of a work-related story. Either he didn’t notice Damon’s behavior, or he’s chosen to ignore it. I’m not sure which I’d rather imagine at this point. While I would never want Jacob to have to choose between Damon and me, I can’t help but wish he would stand up for me. A little knight-on-the-white-horse action never hurts.
With the exception of my awkward entrance, dinner goes fairly well. I actually enjoy chatting with Juliet (a makeup artist over at Warner Bros.) and Travis keeps us laughing most of the evening. It’s always fun for Jacob and me to live vicariously through free-spirited Travis. He has such crazy stories and leads a ridiculously cool life. But it also seems exhausting, so not the kind of lifestyle a regular person (such as myself) would ever really lead, but the kind I unabashedly admire.
As the server brings out the dessert menus, and a delicious chocolate martini for me, the evening becomes pleasantly blurred. But I mainly attribute feeling all nice and fuzzy inside
to the fact that Jacob reaches out and holds my hand underneath the table.
And I get this warm feeling, which could be the vodka, but is mainly the dawning certainty that this is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.
But Izzy’s innocent inquiry from earlier today is still knocking around in my mind. I can’t resist thinking,
When is Jacob going to show me he feels the same?
Sundays I usually go
to my parents’ house for dinner. I am the only child of Dennis and Jeanne Atwater and as such have an open invitation. They each came from large families, so I have tons of cousins, but for whatever reason (which changes depending on their mood when anyone asks), they decided not to give me siblings. Apparently I asked for one once, when I was five. They got me a goldfish instead, and I was satisfied and never brought up the subject again.
Personally, I find the only-child stereotypes in general to be insulting. Like most stereotypes (except those about actors and musicians, I’ve discovered) they are the uneducated babble of closed-minded idiots. I am who I am. Of course it’s possible I’d be different if I’d had a big brother to roughhouse with or a little sister to tease or compete with for my parents’ attention. But I was never lonely—and rarely spoiled. I have fantastic memories of brutal games of touch football on Thanksgivings with my cousins and plenty of lakeside summer reunions. All in all, I had a great childhood.
My dad is in real estate. He owns apartment buildings and small commercial properties around LA and rents them out. He’s not Donald Trump or anything, but we were always well enough off as I was growing up. And finding my first apartment was a no-brainer.
Right now my mom co-owns an independent bookshop, the Reading Room. It’s one of my favorite places to retreat, getting lost in its stacks and petting Libro, the resident tawny cat, who likes his belly rubbed as he soaks up the front bay window’s sunshine, oblivious to any comings and goings. My mom and her friend started the cozy venture together about five years ago and have been doing gangbusters business ever since, despite the presence of e-readers and larger—if diminishing—mega-chains. Of course it’s like my mom’s fourth career. She was a concert violinist when she met my dad, but she quit when I was born. Mom is such a perfectionist that if she couldn’t practice and play 24/7, she’d rather quit. So that was that. When I was about ten, she began dabbling in accounting. She’s one of those people who succeed at everything they try, and I am sure it was from her that I got my competitive spirit.
Both my mom and my dad contributed to my ambition, but given that they are still in their first marriage, and met at the age of twenty-six and twenty-eight respectively, neither can figure out how I got to thirty-one never having been in a successful long-term relationship.
And thus we arrive at the main reason I dread coming to my parents’ house. I may not be
single
, but sometimes I still feel very much the old maid.
Jacob’s joined me on a few Sunday evenings when he was
able, but he usually has his own weekly rituals to accomplish. And with the expectant looks my mother embarrassingly hands out, I can’t entirely blame him.
Ready or not, my car pulls into the driveway of my childhood home in West LA. The two-story, traditional forties house with its front planters and brick walkway brings back instant memories. I get out and walk by the spot where I used to set up my lemonade stand. I made good money in front of our house. Beside the avocado tree, laden with fruit, the side entrance door is unlocked as always.
I call out as I throw my bag onto the kitchen counter.
“Mom! Dad! I’m home.” No matter how old I get, it’s still
home
. Mostly because it looks exactly the same as it did when I started high school.
But just like in my high school days, there is no human response to my yell. But the
tap tap tap
of canine nails on the hardwood floor signals Lizzie is waddling in to sniff her greeting. “Hi, Lizzie. Hi, little puppy dog.” I bury my face in her now graying fur and scratch behind her ears. Lizzie’s tail is furiously wagging and she gets more animated than I’ve seen her in years. The homeowners’ association in my building forbids dogs, and even older Rottweilers need space to run anyway, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. You see, Lizzie is
my
dog. I picked her out the summer before I started high school. I took care of her for four years and then on every break when I was home from USC. Lizzie would wake me up by sticking her damp nose in my face until I finally would agree to take her on a run. She was my indulgent chick-flick partner, always ready to curl up next to me when I felt like watching
Sixteen Candles
for the umpteenth time.
Now Lizzie rolls over for a little belly rub, and I oblige as I realize I still haven’t heard from my parents. I know they’re home, but my dad is most certainly holed up in his should-be-on-
Hoarders
office, only to emerge when one of us draws him out with dinner. I move over to the stove and take a deep breath, inhaling the rich, delicious scent of my mom’s cooking. Yet another reason I brave visiting my parents each week. My mom could have added gourmet chef to her long list of credentials. Not that she studied professionally or anything; it’s just that she effortlessly whips up incredible meals that make it impossible to stick to a diet. Of course, she doesn’t let it stop her from critiquing my weight.
I poke my head into my dad’s office. “Cluttered” doesn’t even begin to describe the state of his desk or the piles surrounding it like some kids’ idea of a play fort. He and Jacob share housekeeping traits. Dad’s juggling his cell phone and the landline on either ear. He nods at me and smiles, then gestures to the phones like I don’t get it that he’s otherwise occupied.
“Where’s Mom?” I mouth silently. He points vaguely in the direction of the rest of the house and all their property. I head off to hunt down my mother. There’s some faint noise from the patio, so I head through the family room out into the backyard.
“Mom? I’m home. Where are you?”
“Sophie! I’m here.” Her voice floats to me from her side herb garden. As I follow the sound, she appears around the corner, her hands filled with fresh-cut herbs and kitchen shears.
“Hi. Can I help?”
“No, darling. I’ve got it covered. Dinner’s almost ready.”
She ushers me in the kitchen door and immediately heads
to the fridge, where an open bottle of champagne sits waiting. I’m still nursing a small hangover after the night at Katsuya but believe in “hair of the dog” and all. She pulls out two flutes from an upper cabinet, and no words are necessary as we clink glasses and take our first crisp sip. Mother-daughter bonding, Atwater style. Gotta love it.
“So, how’s the shop these days?” I ask.
“Wonderful. Did you get the books I sent you? What are you reading for your book club?” Yes, I’m part of a book club. And even if I wasn’t, I’d
say
I was to get my mother off my back. But my “book club” is more like a group of girlfriends who like to read chick lit and then sit around and gossip over wine roughly every couple months. Sometimes we discuss the book, sometimes not. I choose not to explain this to my mother, who even with all her careers somehow missed her calling as a college Lit professor. She has very highbrow taste in books, and sometimes she’ll “lend” me volumes that make me feel like I am still in high school with my summer reading list. I do love to read, so it’s normally not a chore, but
Fifty Shades of Grey
is on my Kindle just like it’s on the tablet of every other woman I know. Meanwhile my mom doesn’t embrace romance unless it’s tortured and Tolstoy.
There was no question of whether or not I was going to be a reader in some form. My father, being in business, reads the paper like Jacob does, cover to cover. But other than the newspaper and a few real estate and business journals, that’s it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a Clive Cussler for fun.
Work is fun for my dad. Go figure.
Mom pads around the kitchen, doing a million things at
once. She reminds me of those unflappable chefs on the Food Network who can concoct magic out of any ingredients. The fresh herbs she collected get perfectly chopped or chiffonaded and stirred into the pot simmering on the stovetop. She has tried to teach me to cook countless times, but aside from your basic pasta with marinara (from a jar) and one ridiculously easy roasted chicken dish, I really can’t cook at all. Clearly I didn’t inherit the patience, instinct, or sense of timing necessary to get a proper meal on the table. Hence my addiction to takeout. Luckily Jacob is simpatico about ordering in, and he has actually made dinner for us a couple of times. But neither of us is big on cleanup, so we don’t do it that often.
“How’s Jacob?”
I love my mom and all, but we don’t really have a close girlfriend-type relationship. I definitely don’t fill her in on all the nuances of my roller-coaster love life. So this could have been a completely innocent question. And yet I’m still immediately defensive.
“He’s great. We’re great. Never better.”
“Oh good.” But I can hear in her voice the question… the hopeful suspicion. Ever since I crossed the thirty mark and started seeing Jacob, I think my mom saw the opportunity to see her daughter settled, permanently. Lately, her hints have become less subtle, or maybe I was just too obtuse to pick up on them before. Yeah right. But what am I supposed to do, buy
him
a ring?
“Don’t you two have an anniversary coming up?” she adds oh-so-innocently.
As if to the rescue, my dad appears in the doorway, his pale blue Oxford shirt a bit wrinkled but still tucked into his khakis.
“Hi, Dad.” I step over Lizzie, who has laid herself at my feet, and give my dad a hug. He kisses both my cheeks and smiles down at me with affection. I am a pretty solid mix of both my parents. Though if you told them I said that, I’d deny it. Nowadays we get on pretty well. We’re not the family that talks every day or anything like that, but we email all the time, and our mostly weekly dinners are rarely strained.
We settle into another delicious meal—a fresh vegetable risotto with chicken, and a simple micro-greens salad with backyard cherry tomatoes and lemon thyme vinaigrette to start. I plan to focus on the veggies and chicken, trying not to chow on the risotto, but inevitably, the delicious starch finds its way onto my fork. The conversation flows as I fill my dad in on my work. He loves to hear the minute details and all the office politics. As my mom adds a warm loaf of crusty bread to the table (sealing my willpower’s defeat), I tell my parents the good news about landing Billy Fox. Leaving out the embarrassing ice-in-lap incident. My mom refills my flute as she asks how I’m going to handle another major client without the others suffering.