Psychic Junkie (32 page)

Though I was a mess, I was doing better than Gina, who was swearing under her breath and claiming a shell was now stuck in her foot. Then, ten seconds later, she was squealing with delight and pointing at a little pool of water caught in the rocks. Nothing about us made sense, and I pictured the surfers below, their fun on pause as they continued to observe the two girls who looked as though they’d just left a chic New York funeral to scale a cluster of rocks as though it were Mount Everest, then curse and hobble in pain and stop and squeal and joyfully point at sea snails.

But it was worth it. When we finally made it to the farthest point of the formation, we found the perfect rock to sit on, one softened and rounded by years of water and force, a little bench curved and crafted by time’s smoothing hand. Directly below us waves crashed, sending up soft sprays of water, as if we were perched on a giant salty Evian mister—but in a nice way. Gulls dove through the air, white wings sweeping the sky. The ocean, glimmering and tranquil, stretched out into something I could only think of as
forever
.

Gina inspected her left foot, the one pained by what appeared to be a rather invisible shell. “So, what’s the latest with Laser Beams?”

“Hasn’t called. Which is just as well. It would’ve been good for my ego, but that’s about it. I don’t need to get involved with someone who’ll be gone for five months.”

“An
actor
who will be gone for five months. Double whammy.”

“He’s just so cute. Did you see him in that last movie? There was a scene where they showed his butt. Let me just say, he has an amazing butt.”

“Could’ve been a butt double.”

“No, you can tell he’s got a good butt. No double needed. But you know what got me that night? It was feeling wanted. You know? There was someone who cared that I was there, who looked for me when I stepped away.”

“Someone else will want you too. The
right
person. Someone who’s not a trained liar and who won’t be in another country for five months.”

This, the issue of the right person or
the one
, was something I’d been grappling with lately. After a lifetime of wrong people, I was no longer holding my breath that the right one was around the corner. I was no longer convinced
the one
even existed. Maybe I had many ones. Maybe they’d come and gone and would continue to come and go. Maybe those words—“the one”—had essentially led me on for years, teasing me, taunting me, forcing me to compare real people with those imagined.

“You know, I’m not sure I believe in
the one
anymore. I mean,
is
there a match for everyone? Maybe there isn’t. Plenty of people end up alone. I could be one of them.”

Gina shook her head. “No, you’ll meet someone. This town just makes it a bit tougher, that’s all.”

“I might not, though. It’s possible I won’t, and I can’t keep relying on and
living for
some future fantasy person. I need to be happy now. I need to buy curtains.”

“Ooh, I’ll help you buy curtains.”

“Okay. Tomorrow maybe.”

Gina smiled. “Yay, curtains. And see, then the next day you start filming. You’re the
star
of a movie. Your career is going great. It’s all about to happen; it’s exciting.”

“I know. I’m the happiest career-wise I’ve ever been.”

“Seriously, then, don’t mess it up with an actor.”

I nodded. The sound of crashing waves encourages silence, and for a while neither of us spoke. I rifled through my purse till I found my piña colada lip balm that smelled wonderful but tasted as pleasant as a cleaning product. It had been expensive and it came in a really cute little art nouveau container, so of course I still used it, but I had to be very careful when I smiled, to prevent even a smidgen from getting on my teeth, as the consequences were severe.

“You know what I miss?” Gina said. “High school. I do. Those stupid boring Saturdays here, thinking about colleges and how amazing life would be. That feeling of having everything in front of you still. All the possibilities.”

I offered her the lip balm, which she took, put on, and tasted before I could say anything. For a few seconds she looked like a cat with fur stuck on its tongue.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was about to warn you. But how you’re remembering high school is in hindsight. When you were
in
high school, all you wanted was for real life to hurry up and start. You didn’t appreciate that the world was your oyster and your whole life was still in front of you.”

“I can’t get rid of that taste. My God that was bad.” She paused, regaining her composure. “But yes, I guess that’s true. Some woman in her seventies is probably thinking that about us, right? How nice it would be to be back in her thirties. And I know I should appreciate this time in my life; it’s a good time, but it’s scary.”

“At least you’ll have a husband to be scared
with
.”

“Yeah, well, lotta good he does me at three a.m. when I’m freaking out.”

“Why would you be awake at three a.m.?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I wake up. My mind goes wild. I start to panic about my career—I mean, what should
be
my career, what I’m doing with my life. I love Mark more than anything, but at three a.m. he’s sleeping. I don’t have him, or any distractions, to take my mind off myself. It’s just me.” She looked at her hand, at her perfectly painted nails, and started to chip the polish, sending little taupe flecks flying. “I don’t know. You’re just lucky to be doing what you love.”

“I know. Trust me.”

Because I did know, and I hoped I’d never forget. I still remembered the first time I’d seen the Hollywood sign, the letters bold and majestic and casting a promise to anyone who looked up at them with longing: “You’re here. Anything is possible.” That feeling of hope and anticipation, of possibility and wonder, similar to how I felt now, at this time in my life, as if I were pulling a ribbon from a gift and inside could be anything and everything. Of course between then and now had been years of uncertainty, disappointment, anxious waiting, and near misses—but ultimately the town had kept its promise. Success or not, I was doing what I loved. Anything
was
possible.

“Oh,” Gina said, “and I’m gonna need your help cake tasting. Mark doesn’t like sweets, which, I know, is just really weird. But it would be up to me to eat all that cake and sample flavors and stuff, and I can’t do it alone. I need to be on a diet so I can fit into one of those lovely dresses.”

I nodded, allowing her to change the subject to sugar and tulle, to frosting and satin. “Sure. I like free cake.”

During the time we’d been sitting there, the sky had noticeably dimmed and then quickly, almost impossibly fast, turned orange—as if God had just then remembered that night needed to come and had gotten up off a chair to flip a switch marked
SUNSET
. The water was glossy and velvety; the hue deepening and darkening with the setting sun, yet also streaked with reflections of pink. It was beautiful. How had I never realized this before? In my mind the California ocean had been gray and menacing, an ocean of hepatitis and scarily strong fish that had managed to not only survive but to capitalize on the pollution. Yet this whole time I’d been wrong. This whole time it had been right here, hiding behind trees and buildings, looming on the horizon, just waiting for me to notice.

And then there was music. Sly and the Family Stone’s “Que sera, sera! Whatever will be, will be! The future’s not ours to see! Que sera, sera!” I tore through my purse till I found my cell phone, and saw, with horror, that the screen was lit up with a picture of Matthew—a picture I’d taken that night, his laser eyes half-open, his arm extended in a toast. And there, in the very corner of the screen, was my hand on his shoulder. The picture was supposed to have been of both of us, but I’ve never been skilled at self-photography and at the time I honestly hadn’t cared that I’d missed myself entirely. But now, now seeing all of him and yet just my fingers, just the tips of my fingers curved around his shoulder, I felt differently. The picture annoyed me.

I held the phone to Gina so she could see who was calling, and her eyes widened.

I had seconds to decide whether or not to answer. And you know, I was struck with a vision. In those heartbeats I saw it clearly: me alone, by my phone, ignoring my life as I waited and waited for someone else’s words to make me feel better.

I wasn’t going to do it. My life was finally heading up. I was sure of myself and determined and confident and finally happy, and I
knew
not to open my heart to this, to something I understood without needing to be told
was not good for me
. I didn’t need it, I didn’t need him, and I didn’t need a reading or a prediction to know this. It was instinct.
My
instinct.

I was still holding the phone when it stopped ringing, when his picture flashed one last time and then was gone.

“I didn’t answer,” I said to Gina.

She smiled. “Yeah, I got that.”

I dumped my phone in my purse and looked up, at the ocean. Below us the surfers appeared to be sailing on flashing, glimmering orange and pink light. No longer were they concerned about us. Maybe they’d accepted that we needed this in the same way they did, the comfort of being a part of something bigger than you can fathom. Finally, at long last, I was looking forward to my future, not because of vows made by others or words craved in the height of despair, but because
I
knew it would be good. Just like that I felt it, just like that I knew.

There I was, sitting beneath a sky that was bright and burning, before an ocean that was immense and eternal—and, now, next to a cell phone that was beeping with a voice mail.

“No,” Gina said.

“Not even to check it? I have to check it. Even if I don’t call him back, I have to check it.”

She shook her head. “Glutton.”

I smiled and stood. “If it gets any darker, we’ll never see the tar. And I’m thinking I need a bath with my new Zen sea salt. Let’s go.”

So we did. We made our way down the rocks, jumped back onto the sand, and walked in little zigzags to avoid the dark spots. Soon we were in the car, sand stuck to our feet, and the ocean dark beside us, talking about life and love and all the reasons to avoid an actor with laser blue eyes—even if he
did
leave you a nice message.

SARAH LASSEZ
was born on April Fools’ Day. Don’t ask her the year—she won’t tell you. Of French nationality, she was raised in Australia before moving to New York as a teenager. After receiving her BFA from New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, Sarah moved to Hollywood to pursue an acting career. She has starred in more than a dozen independent films, working with directors such as Abel Ferrara, Gregg Araki, and Robert M. Young.

GIAN SARDAR
received a B.A. in English from Loyola Marymount University, and is currently working on her second novel.