Chapter 11

Brian takes a minute to answer the door the next day, which gives me some time to decide what I want to do with the second button on my denim chambray shirt and to soak in the fact that I’m standing in the hallway of his zonks-amaze condo building in downtown Los Angeles. Seriously, his monthly HOA fees here must be the same as my entire rent. Was that a framed and signed Annie Leibovitz in the lobby?

“Come on in,” Brian says, wearing a weathered USC T-shirt and gray lounge shorts.

If you were to ask me this time last week, I’d say his brick-and-timber loft with soaring eighteen-foot ceilings is the last place I expected I would wind up this morning. But he told me to contact him if shit hit the fan and now I’m here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

“Sweet apartment,” I say, walking in through his foyer, hoping that something slightly more astute will come out of my mouth next.

“Thanks. It’s one of my dad’s units, actually.” At that, I vaguely remember the Jacksons being hot-shot developers. “He finished the condo years ago and I convinced him to let me stay in it and use it as a study hall of sorts until he found suitable buyers. He agreed, moved on to the next project, and now I think he forgot about it, honestly. So don’t tell anyone, okay? The doorman and I are finally on good terms since that time I—Actually, never mind.”

I don’t even want to know.

“Anyway, can I get you a coffee?” he asks.

“Please,” I say.

“Cold brew okay for you?”

“Of course.”

“Siri, brew my coffee,” Brian announces. Nothing happens.

“Uh, Brian, I’m not sure iPhones can...”

“I know. It’s a tech joke. Because you’re a coder—get it? Never mind. Man, have my one-liners just tanked since becoming a doctor or what?”

He grabs two white ceramic mugs from his kitchen cabinet and sets them on a ledge that’s nestled outside his refrigerator door. A couple of ice cubes hit the cups, and then a steady stream of cold brew starts flowing. The hidden built-in spout makes me wonder how much it cost him to transform his apartment into a literal Starbucks.

He slides a mug across his mammoth marble kitchen island.

“So what’s going on, Char?”

“Well, you said to come by if shit hits the fan and, well, here,” I say, handing him the Anthropologie towel that’s normally draped through the handle of my oven.

“Is this a...housewarming gift?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t think of any occasion when I’d bring you a thirty-dollar linen as a gift. But I would bring a stained thirty-dollar linen as a...favor.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, Char. What’s the emergency?”

“I was doing some laundry at home, and when I went to hang this back up, I noticed the mark didn’t come out. This is one of my favorite towels and I’m not sure if the lipstick I borrowed from my friend the other night was actually red house paint, but I really don’t want to see this stupid stripe every time I dry my hands at the sink.”