Just Like Me, Only Better (13 page)

“I am at least twenty-one.” I grinned.

“Are you at least twenty-two?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

He looked horrified.

“What?” I said, feeling defensive. “Twenty-one’s an adult.” Unless you’re Shane, of course. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

I stared at him. “Wow. That’s . . . that’s not so . . .” Suddenly, the humor of the situation struck me. “Holy cow—you’re ancient!”

We both burst into laughter: partners in the crime of inappropriate dating.

“We can see if they have a children’s menu,” Hank howled. “You want some chicken nuggets? And maybe crayons?”

“Yeah, well don’t forget to ask for the senior discount,” I cackled, tears bubbling out of my eyes.

In the end, I didn’t fall in love with Hank because he knew how to do laundry. I fell in love with him because he was kind and decent, and sometimes he made me laugh. Until the day he walked out, I thought that was enough.

 

 

 

N
ice work,” Jay said, holding open a magazine page: STARS—THEY’RE JUST LIKE US!

It was Friday. We were sitting side by side on wrought iron chaise longues in Haley’s backyard, facing the big rectangular pool. The striped cushions were a little dusty. They made my nose tickle.

The sun hurt my eyes. I’d left my sunglasses at home, and I couldn’t get the loaner pair from Rodrigo’s car because he was out today, meeting with some people about his screenplay. Jay had hired a driver to pick me up at El Taco Loco. The driver didn’t speak English. Even better, according to Jay, he was an illegal alien who would never risk calling attention to himself by talking to the press.

The magazine photograph showed me standing by my little table outside Starbucks, paper cup in hand, looking just like a happier Haley Rush in a cowboy hat, sunglasses, and coffee-stained white skirt. Damn, I’d looked good that day, even with the silly hat. I’d have to pay closer attention next time Simone did my makeup.

The caption read, “They spill their coffee!” And then, in case anyone didn’t recognize me—I mean Haley:
West Hollywood, CA—Haley Rush loses a grip on her caramel macchiato at a Sunset Strip Starbucks.

Oops.

“There was this photographer,” I explained. “And he got right in my face and startled me.”

But how could that guy have taken this picture? He’d been down on the ground, cleaning coffee off his shoes. Of course: there were two women at the other table. I’d smiled at them. One of them must have caught me with her cell phone.

“Yeah, I know. Elliott told me all about it. It’s perfect.” Jay tilted his face to the winter sun. He wore aviator sunglasses similar to the ones Rodrigo had loaned me.

“It was an accident,” I admitted. “Actually, um . . . I wasn’t sure you’d be too pleased.”

He slipped down the sunglasses so I could see his eyes. They were light brown, almost gold. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t be happier. There was this other coffee . . . incident. With Haley.”

I did my best to keep my face neutral, but since Hank had fixed my computer on Monday, I’d spent hours combing the Internet for stories about Haley Rush. The juiciest ones detailed her romance and subsequent breakup with Brady Ellis. (I’d briefly considered using a shirtless photo of Brady as my screen saver, but then I remembered that I wasn’t fourteen years old.)

According to “sources,” Haley wanted a more serious commitment, while Brady, at twenty-six, felt he was too young to settle down. As he told one unnamed friend, “If we were five years older, we’d probably be engaged by now, but both of our careers are taking off, and it’s hard to think about marriage.” Plus, Brady was old-fashioned. He only planned to get married once, so he had to be positive he’d found the right girl.

Within days after their publicists announced that Haley and Brady were “taking a break,” a photographer caught Brady eating lunch in Santa Monica with an “unidentified blonde.” She wore a black baseball hat, big sunglasses, a ponytail and Lycra workout clothes. Frankly, she could have passed for Haley if not for the fact that she was out in public and not having a nervous breakdown.

A week after the photo ran, Haley ordered a caramel latte at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, only to have the barista spill it on her. According to a witness, the barista was setting the cup on the counter when Haley tried to grab it out of her hand. According to the barista, Haley shouted an “epithet.”
(The Smoking Gun
got a little more specific: “You fucking moron! What’s your fucking problem?
Fuck!
”)

Haley burst into tears and stood there howling “like a wounded animal.” (It was unclear just how the “unidentified source” knew what a wounded animal sounds like, but—whatever.)

Since the coffee incident, which had happened more than two months ago, in early December, Haley had mostly stayed out of the public eye. And in her pajamas—though the tabloids didn’t know that.

“The way you laughed it off,” Jay said, getting back to my own coffee encounter. “Priceless. It undoes a lot of damage—shows the world that Haley is back to being Haley.”

Did people’s perceptions of Haley matter more than reality?

I read the caption again. “How did they know what kind of coffee I was drinking?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows what kind of coffee Haley likes.”

Jay’s cell phone sang. He had downloaded yet another one of Haley’s songs (“Best Friends 4Ever”). Her voice was really pretty mediocre.

“Hey, Stefano. Yeah, I know—traffic’s a bitch.” He squinted at my light hair. “Yeah, it looks good.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, a fabulous match. You’re a genius . . . Yes, she is . . . Okay, see you in fifteen.”

Stefano was coming to Haley’s house because the hair extensions would take so long and also—mostly—because Haley needed to have her color done, and she refused to leave the property.

Jay said, “Stefano said you’re as sweet as an Atlanta peach picked off the tree in July.”

I grinned. “Stefano’s a good guy.”

“A peach,” Jay said, smirking.

“So he’ll be here in fifteen minutes?”

“If Stefano says fifteen minutes, he means forty-five. He probably hasn’t even left his house yet.”

“But didn’t he say he was caught in traffic?”

Jay looked at me long and hard. “Do you always assume people are telling you the truth?”

“Unless they give me a reason to doubt them—well, yeah.”

He closed his eyes and rested back on the chaise. “That won’t last.”

 

 

Stefano was an hour late. (An extra hundred dollars!) Jay had long since left, but I was still lounging on the dusty backyard chaise, so relaxed I’d almost fallen asleep. The air smelled like orange blossoms and hummed with bees.

“OMG, the traffic!” Stefano scurried across the backyard pavers. His tufted black hair had a new dash of royal blue. He’d paired blue skinny jeans with a Betty Boop T-shirt. I’d never known anyone to coordinate clothes with tattoos—but then, with the exception of a butterfly “tramp stamp” acquired by one first-grade mommy in her misguided youth, my social circle wasn’t big on body art.

I stood up from the chaise and blinked into the harsh sunlight. Stefano held out his colorful arms and hugged me like a long-lost (and favorite) sister. He smelled like limes.

When he released me, he took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “Naughty girl. Where’s your hat?”

“What hat?”

“The hat that is going to protect your golden hair from those nasty UVs.” He
tut-tutted
and shook his head. “You been using the shampoo I gave you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And only washing every three days?”

I nodded, which seemed like less of a lie than actually saying the word
yes
. (I couldn’t bear to go more than a day with dirty hair.)

Finally, he gave my face a little pat. “A little pink on the cheeks and nose. You forgot your sunblock, too, didn’t you?”

“It’s February . . .”

“No excuse. Your two BFFs are sunblock and artificial tanners.” So that was the secret to his golden complexion. “And a hat,” he added. “So, that’s three BFFs. You can never have too many.”

Stefano created a makeshift salon in Haley’s enormous guest bathroom, which had beige travertine floors, double sinks set in a beige granite countertop, and tall cream walls that really, really needed some artwork. Stefano hauled in a comfy padded chair (“your throne”) and a hair washing basin that fit over one of the sinks.

Stefano started my extensions before Haley’s color because they were going to take so much longer and also because I was, you know, awake. He had just finished combing my hair when Esperanza came in, wearing a white tank top and leopard stretch pants, a Bluetooth hugging one ear. I was all set for her to scowl and maybe start squirting disinfectant in the air. Or in my eyes. Instead, she said, “Meester Stefano! I know you in there!”

He said, “Esperanza,
mi amor
!” And then he yapped away for a while in halting Spanish.

Esperanza yapped back. Stefano said something else I couldn’t understand, and she giggled. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, gave her a big hug, and complimented her maroon hair. Finally, she scampered out of the room.

“I just adore that woman!” he said.

“Huh,” I said.

“Do you know that she is supporting eleven people back in El Salvador? Eleven!”

“Wow.” It was hard enough supporting one person besides myself—and, really, with the custody situation, Ben only counted as half. Maybe I had judged Esperanza too harshly.

Stefano pulled out what looked like a small blond animal.

“Is that the hair? For the extensions?”

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Is it . . . fake?”

He put a hand over his heart. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Where does it come from, then?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

“Europe. Southern Spain or Italy, most likely. Asian hair is cheaper, but it just doesn’t look right. Unless you’re Asian, of course. It all comes in black. I colored it last night—same formula I used for Haley’s extensions. Luscious, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

Once Stefano put the hair and his tools on the bathroom counter, he combed my hair, twisting a section and pinning it on top of my head.

“So. Spill the dirty details. Are you having more fun as a blonde?”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feeling of comb against scalp. “Not really. It’s kind of embarrassing. Half the people I know think I bleached my hair as some kind of revenge against my ex-husband, and the other half think I did it to impress some man.” (Specifically, they thought I was after Ken.) “And I’ve had at least twenty people say, ‘You know who you look like?’ ”

“Haley?” Stefano ventured.

“Mostly. Though I got two Lindsay Lohans and one Britney Spears.” I opened my eyes to check his reaction.

He hooted. “Lindsay, maybe, but Britney? Not even close.”

He took some hair from the counter—maybe twenty blond strands held together—and snipped the end. With his other hand, he picked up an unfamiliar appliance. It looked like a cross between a curling iron and pliers.

“That looks dangerous,” I joked.

“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s what I’ll use to attach the extensions to your natural hair.”

“Attach how?”

He held up the plier thing. “This is heated. The extensions have wax on the ends. See? So I’ll just put the waxy bit up against your natural hair, near the scalp, and pinch with this.”

I flinched involuntarily.

“Oh, pumpkin! It won’t hurt—I promise!”

“But won’t it look funny?” Blond hair was bad enough. The moms at the elementary school would have a field day.

“I’ll attach the strands in parallel rows under your crown. No one will see a thing. They’ll just think your hair grew nine inches over the weekend.”

Stefano had almost finished adding the first chunk of hair when Esperanza returned, carrying a tray. There was a pitcher and two glasses along with a plate of something fried.

“Meester Stefano, I make your favorite.”

Stefano held his hand over his heart. “Jalapeño poppers?”

She nodded, beaming.

“OMG, my trainer would kill me!” He plucked a popper from the tray and slipped it into his mouth. “Yum-ME!”

Esperanza giggled with pleasure.

“Did you learn to make those in El Salvador?” I asked.

The giggles stopped. “I from Guatemala,” she snarled. She put the tray on the counter—a little closer to the extensions than seemed hygienic—flashed Stefano a demure smile, glared at me, and stalked out of the room.

Esperanza might be supporting eleven people somewhere in Latin America, but she was still a bitch.

“Popper?” Stefano brought the plate over to my chair.

It was really good: a cream-cheese stuffed jalapeño, breaded and fried. “I never knew these came from Guatemala.”

Stefano laughed. “Don’t be silly. They come from the freezer section at Albertson’s.”