Page 9 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

The texts start to get further apart, and I think she’s falling asleep. I try to picture her in her apartment in East LA. Maybe the red dress is draped over a chair.

Nah, she’d hang it up.

There are probably sirens, even at this hour. I’ve been to her place. It’s noisy, near a major street, with a hospital farther down.

Probably she wears cute things to bed, like shorts with bears on them and a matching tank.

Now I’m moving into a fantasy about her. It’s not hard after a night like this one, champagne and laughter and her in that red dress. I let it run for a minute—her, in bed, smiling up at me.

But then around five, the texts start up again.

Kelsey:Watched some old episodes with Gayle. There’s no better girl. Desdemona has to put them together for Limited Fate.

Me:Why are you staying up all night over this pairing?

Kelsey:I want it settled before I go.

Me:Go where?

Kelsey:On my journey to find love.

I stare at my phone like it’s grown two heads.

This is my fault, completely my fault. I sent her to the fortune teller to give her a little push to try again. She’s been miserable and lonely. She thinks she’s unworthy of love. I know this. She’s told me. She clearly sees me as a big brother, and I endeavor to be that for her.

But I never wanted her to leave LA entirely. She’s too good at what she does.

Maybe I can convince her to find her great love here in Southern California.

I start and delete several replies, then give up and put through a call.

Kelsey’s voice is scratchy from lack of sleep. “Hey.”

“You believe this fortune teller business?” I ask.

“It all made sense to me. I’ve been trying to find someone here in LA, but I think they’re all too big-city for me. So many workaholics worried about their careers, caught up in the race.”

“Says the woman who is working at five a.m.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Tell me the last time I had more than three dates with the same man.”

“Last June. That tech bro.”

“Driving him to LASIK does not count as date four.”

“Oh, right. He ghosted you after that.”

She sighs. “I think needing a driver was his sole motivation for the first three dates.” There’s the sound of a mattress creaking, and I imagine she’s flopped down on her bed.

“He was an idiot,” I tell her.

“You think so?”

“I know so.” I wander into my kitchen for a drink. “You can’t just leave Desdemona to drive across the US. She won’t stand for it.”

“That’s the thing. She’s leaving on Thursday for Cannes, then going on location for that Scotland shoot. That takes care of the rest of May. And you know how much she hates LA in the summer. She’ll be gone for two months, easy.”

She’s right. I’ve worked with Desdemona for five years, and she takes off most summers, browbeating us from other countries. It’s part of why she made us work last night’s party so hard. It was her last one of the season.

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