Page 41 of Find Me in California

“Matt, Liza only has a few more days here. You’re not leaving yourself much time to help her.”

“You don’t think I know that?” He guzzles the beer and grimaces. It doesn’t taste as good on a guilty stomach.

There’s a long pause. “You’re obviously in a mood. I don’t need to put up with this. I’m hanging—”

“No, don’t,” he blurts.Please don’t hang up.“Don’t go.” If she does, he’ll get stuck in his head, his least favorite place to be.

“Can I ask what’s going on with you? Does helping your grandmother bother you that much?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It won’t help.”

“Talking usually does the opposite.”

He lets out a helpless chuckle. “Is this where you give me some BS that I’m storing it if I’m not speaking it?”

“Why’d you check into a motel?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m worried for Liza. Tell me, what’s really going on with you? Is this just about Liza? Or does this have something to do with your parents too?”

He glares at the wall in front of him. How does she know about his parents?

“Matt?”

“Yes?” he says, bitterly.

“What happened between you and your grandmother? I imagine coming to see her isn’t easy.”

He’s flattered she cares enough to ask. But he’s never trusted anyone aside from his mom with his feelings. He isn’t going to start today.

“You’ve no idea, and I’m not going to begin to explain.” If he weren’t stoned and hadn’t started drinking, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. He’d still be driving.

A pause. “All right. Let’s talk about something else, then. What do you do?”

“What do I do?”

“Your job. What do you do?”

His job. He’ll happily talk about his career all day. “I’m an automobile photographer. That’s why I should be in my car driving to you and not sitting here on my ass. I’m on contract with Ford. I have to be in France at the end of the week for the Twenty-Four Hours of Le Mans race.”

“That’s exciting. So whyareyou sitting on your ass? Aside from the fact you’re drinking?”

“Why’d you read your grandmother’s diary?”

“I was curious.”

“Did you tell her you read it?”

Her end of the line is quiet.

“Julia?”

“She didn’t remember asking for it. She said the diary wasn’t hers when I showed her.” Sadness dampens her voice. Dementia is a bitch because it’s the afflicted person’s loved ones who suffer. He can’t fathom what Julia deals with on a daily basis.

“Do you have it with you?” he asks.

“Yes. I brought it home.”

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