Haze (26 page)

I kept trying to figure out what it was, but convinced myself to let it go after we got out of the plane.

A limo was waiting for us, and so we obviously needed to keep moving. We hopped inside and Jack greeted the driver like they already knew each other. Honestly, they probably did since he used to live out here. Not surprisingly, the driver reminded me of Percy.

After departing the airport, I watched in utter fascination as the city rolled by as we traveled toward Hollywood Boulevard. Jack remained quiet, aware that I was overwhelmed by visual stimuli. I didn't even realize that I had fallen completely silent. I just kept staring and absorbing everything that happened to pass through my vision.

I hadn't been this excited in years. I had just been in New York City a few hours ago, and now I was rolling through West Hollywood in a limo. This was kind of like a dream vacation come true—with the hottest tour guide in the world.

We arrived at that iconic hotel, slowing down as we approached the front. I had seen it in movies more than once, its iconic shape climbing into the sky with lights that you could see for miles. Kind of like a metropolitan lighthouse.

I remembered it first from that dumb
Charlie's Angels
movie but then also in an episode of
Entourage
, which Timothy had liked to watch much more than I did. The Roosevelt appeared to be very popular—which didn't surprise me, of course—and my eyes kept excitedly scanning the scenery for celebrities.

"As you can probably tell, we're here." He gave me a wide smile. "I hope it suits your needs,
madam
," he said in a phony French accent.

"That was just rotten," I said. "Sorry to say it."

"I know." He buried his head in his hands as if I'd really hurt his feelings. His shenanigans ended promptly when the door opened and a couple of guys helped us with our bags.

The lobby was gorgeous, as initially mesmerizing to me as the city had been. I waited while Jack quickly checked in and then we headed up to our room. My eyes profiled every person coming in, desperately hoping that they would be some movie star or famous musician or something. My overactive imagination was actually wearing me out. Just keeping my eyes open had never required so much work.

Done at the front counter, Jack led us toward the elevator. "It's a Cabana Suite," he said. "I don't get the super huge ones anymore. It's just a waste."

"I wouldn't know," I said, following behind him.

"Well, people get rooms that are bigger than a small house. I don't know what we'd do with that much space."

"Start a family?" I asked playfully.

"I think a
house
would be the better option. I can't even imagine how a kid raised in this sort of environment would turn out."

"I would assume like Paris Hilton or Kim
Kardashian," I added. "Not that hard to imagine anymore."

"Yeah, you're right." Jack let out a hearty laugh.

We got into the suite—it was big, but not too big. It was like half the size of a house, which was still huge to me. I think his New York Palace suite was bigger than this, but I wasn't sure. There were multiple TVs as well as a gorgeous, wide-open balcony over the pool and bar area that gave me a full, unhindered view of the city.

"I want to just sit out here later, Jack, and look. Can we do that?"

"If you're still up to it later, sure, we can. We might be out late tonight, especially with the time difference." I had forgotten that it was almost ten in NYC right now. "If we need it, we can get a cup of coffee with dinner."

Jack always had a solution for everything.

We took a quick shower—the rain showerhead in the bathroom was incredible; I suggested to Jack that he get one in NYC—and got dressed to go out on the town. Jack had reservations somewhere, but informed me that we could dress casually.

I threw on the most stylish blouse/skirt combo I had, feeling intimidated by the style I was probably going to encounter. My repeated trips back to the mirror set Jack off.

"You don't need to worry about that bullshit," Jack said, noticing my panic as I dug through my suitcase. "You look beautiful."

"I just..."
I just what?
"I don't know. Everyone is so cool out here. You didn't even try and you look better than me." His low-slung jeans and polo shirt looked impeccable as usual.

He laughed. "How do you know I didn't try?"
I was busted.

"
Dammit. I don't know. You just said that there might be famous people around and—"

He walked up to me and looked straight into my eyes. "None of that matters. This is a popular hotel, but I'm not as famous as some people and so no one gives a shit about snapping my photo. And you actually look really good, despite the fact that I know you don't believe me."

I took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. My hands settled on my thighs. "You mean it?"

Jack leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "I promise. I caught you off guard with the trip, so now you're over-compensating."

After a short introspective pause, I felt dumb about my tiny outburst. "God, you're right. I'm never this superficial. I don't know any of these people."

"You think Tom Cruise gives really a damn about how you're dressed?"

"Joseph Gordon-Levitt might." I gave him an evil smile. "If he asked me out, I don't know what I'd say."

Jack raised one eyebrow. "Is that right? Maybe you're onto something there. I've got a camcorder and I could film you guys—"

"Doing what? You're such a sicko."

"I was just suggesting that you do an interview with him," he said, obviously lying through his teeth.

None of it mattered, because Jack had successfully distracted me from what was an irrational problem anyway. Sometimes being a girl was hard, so hard that you needed a
guy
to tell you it was okay.

"We should go," he said, extending his arm to mine. I took it and rose to my feet with him.

I grabbed my purse and took his arm as we walked out to the limo. My eyes were on the prowl the whole time, searching for anyone famous who might be nearby. I didn't even notice the eyes on us as we climbed into the limo. After I was seated, I noticed a few people pointing at the car.

I couldn't lie—feeling like a pseudo-celebrity wasn't bad at all. After weeks or years of this, it might get old.

Our dinner was at an Indian restaurant called Gangadin, a place that wasn't really what I expected for L.A. yet exceeded my expectations entirely.

"I always eat here," Jack said. "It's great. You'll like it." Indian food was fine by me.

The restaurant was smaller than I had expected but great. Right after our appetizer arrived, a seemingly very star-struck college-age guy walked up to our table. He was wearing a hoodie and torn-up jeans

"Hey, you're Jack Teller!" He nervously pointed at Jack as if he were literally driving the point home.

Jack smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that's me. And this is my date, Effie."

I gave a polite smile and an awkward wave. The guy didn't seem that interested in me.

"Dude, your album
Feedback
is awesome. I've listened to it so many times. It changed my life, really."

Even though this stranger was obviously a big fan, it made me feel stupid that I had never researched Jack's albums, especially since I'd had ample time to do so. I would have to ask him for input later, because I didn't know how much longer I could go on not knowing that part of him.

"Thanks. That means a lot, really." Jack maintained eye contact the whole time, ensuring that the fan felt warm and welcomed. "That was from a tough time in my life, but I'm glad I captured it."

"Yeah, man." He turned back toward his table, where a girl and another guy seemed to be watching him with amusement. "Wow, it's just such an honor."

"What's your name?" Jack asked, keeping the interaction moving.

"Marc."

Jack suddenly procured a pen from nowhere and started writing on his napkin.

To Marc, my ultimate fan.

-Jack

"Don't sell it on eBay, okay?" He handed it to Marc who accepted it as if it were a bar of gold.

"That's so cool, man. Thanks so much." His face oozed genuine gratitude

"It's my pleasure, Marc. I've got to get to dinner now. I can't keep this beautiful girl waiting any longer." He reached his hand out and shook Marc's. "Thanks for the kind words."

Marc was clearly floored by the interaction. "Yeah. Cool, you're welcome." He turned and walked back to his group, looking prouder than ever.

"Jack, you're so full of shit," I said.

He downed a gulp of water and smiled, apparently unfazed. "About what?"

"We've only been out for five minutes and somebody already recognized you!"

"I guess I got lucky," he said, casually running his hand through his hair and looking as superficially cool as possible. "I do get lucky sometimes, Effie."

I laughed and picked up one of the lamb
samosas. "I can't believe how well you handled him. That was really nice." After adding some mint chutney, I took a bite and couldn't believe how good it was. The spices were so rich and flavorful.

"Well, thanks," he said humbly. "It's a combination of being polite and efficient. If you're nice in a forward way, it keeps them moving, surprises them. They're nervous as hell already. Takes a lot of guts to walk up to someone you really admire like that."

"That's exactly how I felt with you," I said teasingly. "I was so nervous I spilled coffee all over myself."

Jack's lips curved into a huge smile. "Oh yeah, that. We forgot to order
coffee
." He shook his head with disappointment.

I was barely paying attention to his obvious body language. "What if he wanted to sit down and eat with us?" I was already on my second
samosa before Jack had finished his first.

"I would have said no, obviously. You
can
draw lines with this stuff." He finished his bite; it made me feel less like of a pig to actually see him eating with me. "I'm okay with him stopping by, but I don't want him to stay all day."

The more I thought about it, I didn't know what to say. How did it feel to have someone tell you that something you poured your heart and soul into
changed their life
? What was that feeling like? Would I ever feel something like that? I hoped so.

"That must be pretty flattering," I muttered.

"What?"

"That your album changed his life. Why haven't you ever showed it to me?"

He groaned. "I don't much care for
Feedback
anymore. It was ambitious, but you grow out of that stuff. Every album you make is your most brilliant album ever—until you make the next one."

"Huh." I stared down at the empty appetizer platter, deeply wishing there were more
samosas. "Was that album about—"

"They were
all
kind of about her," he interrupted, ending the sentence with a chuckle.

"Oh." There appeared to be some tension on his face, but I was certain I that I was reading into it too much.

"Have you ever kept a journal?" he asked suddenly.

I dug into my mind. "Yeah, actually. In high school. I wrote down stuff that I thought was important. Pretty stupid stuff."

"Have you ever gone back and looked at it?"

I thought about his question again.

A couple summers ago, I had been cleaning out my room and uncovered my journals under a pile of old homework assignments. I remember gagging as I read my very decorated and pretentious entries about prom and general social anxiety, the loquacious verbiage a product of my tenth-grade AP English course that happened to have an excessive focus on vocabulary.

I couldn't even interpret much of what I was trying to say, even though at the time it had seemed to flow out so freely and clearly.

I could barely make fun of myself since I didn't even know what the hell I was trying to say:

My decision anomalous, I would forego prom and not bore myself with that wretched facade. Prom is merely ephemeral, an event solely for the philistines that only remember it via their facile,
photographic evidence. It is no quandary—I will not attend.

God, I was glad that phase passed quickly. I actually did end up going to prom that year, despite my brazen
turmoil. No one had asked me yet when I was ranting away in that secret book—a full two months before the event. My fear was entirely premature.

"Oh God," I whined. "They were
terrible
.

"That's basically what those albums were—journals." He seemed quite satisfied after realizing he had conveyed his message so efficiently. The look of disgust on my face confirmed his success. "Some stuff was serious, obviously, and some of it was just superfluous and over-the-top. Listeners can't tell, but I sure can."