Lost in LA Read online

  “The deck would be fun, but I’m not interested in seeing what I can’t have.”

  “I can empathize,” Nolan said. He turned to the glass panel door and opened it to reveal a flat section of roof topped with deck flooring, a small couch and a low coffee table that would not compete with the view of the surrounding hills and the glittering Pacific. A break in the railing led to an outdoor staircase that connected the deck to the patio surrounding the pool on the main level.

  Nolan lowered himself to the couch. “So, do you want to get lunch?”

  Her stomach rumbled and she leaned against the side of the house. “You already asked me that question. Do all the residents try to eat together?”

  “If it happens, it happens.” He spread his arms along the back of the couch. “I guess if you’re going to be living here, we should establish some ground rules.”

  Wylie smiled. “Do I need to open a messaging account for this?”

  “I just want to clarify that kiss. You’re not obligated to like me back.”

  She walked toward the couch and sat with her back against the armrest, careful not to touch him. “I like you plenty. I like the way you taste and the way you pulled me against you when we kissed.”

  “But?”

  She exhaled and looked at him, knowing a man who would strike a deal for a bowl of lentils would also respect a locked door if she locked it. “I figured I could do this homeless thing for two weeks, save up money for a real deposit, finish a class I’m working on and get on with my life.” She took a deep breath and looked at the rows of multi-million-dollar houses lining the hillsides. For a few days, she had been one of the thousands of faces loitering beneath the green southern California canopies, but she wondered how many people had seen her. “Then I tried to do it. Honestly? I barely slept the last two nights. I don’t know how people survive that lifestyle without losing their minds.”

  He nodded. “The country spends a lot of time and money trying to get people off the streets. Some of the programs work. Some of them don’t.”

  “I know most homeless people feel like they don’t have a choice, but the reasons aren’t that cut and dry. I met a woman named Penny Lane who seemed like a real sweetheart, someone who should be manning the front desk of an elementary school. She looked so much older than she should.”

  “The elements can be harsh,” he said, but he maintained the distance between them.

  “And I always had a choice. I always had the money to bail on my California dream or hide in a hotel room until I felt safe enough to try again.”

  Nolan pulled his arm from the back of the couch and pivoted to face her. “But you didn’t bail. You tried to stick it out. I told you, Wylie, not many people would face those kinds of risks.”

  “Doesn’t it matter that I was scared?”

  He reached for her then seemed to change his mind, pulling back his arm until it rested in his lap. “No, it just makes you human.”

  She looked at his hand and wished she dared to reach for it. Which armchair is his? The comfortable cushions or the expensive stylish leather? Only one of them could be right for me and I’m too scared to confirm whether I’m right or wrong.

  She turned her face to take in the sweeping view. “I like hanging out with you. I like all this and I appreciate it, but—”

  “You’re feeling vulnerable,” he said.

  Wylie let the word fill the space between them. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I get that, Wylie, but don’t confuse my patience for disinterest.”

  She swallowed, wondering how long it would take her to let down her guard and seek him out. Keep it together, girl. There is more than one way to screw this up.

  Rikard opened the paneled door and crossed his arms as he stood in the midday sunlight. “All right, Wylie, we all voted. You’re in.”

  She grinned and jumped up.

  A look passed between the two men.

  She steadied her reaction and understood the vote fell short of unanimous. Wait! Who voted against me? What was the margin?

  Nolan stood and walked past Rikard, leaving the two of them standing on the deck.

  She started to move past the blond, but stopped and bit her lip, searching for the words to soothe their rocky start. “I want us to get along,” she said. “I want to fit in.”

  Rikard raised his eyebrows. “We get along just fine.”

  “But you don’t like me.”

  He cocked his head and considered her. “I don’t like unexplained actions.”

  “That’s what I am?”

  “No. To me, you’re a threat. Most of the parties and social events happen on the rooftop deck.” He gestured to the staircase leading to the wider space above them. “Nobody except Nolan ever comes out here, yet I find the two of you out here, as comfy as lovebirds.”

  Wylie looked at the intimate haven where they’d stood and wondered if she had trespassed on an unwritten rule. She told herself that her first day in the house should be about making friends and settling into the rhythm of a shared space. “Why doesn’t anyone else use the deck?”

  “We all have our havens,” Rikard said, “and this one has always belonged to Nolan. I would think twice about interrupting him when he’s sitting out here alone.” The warning lingered as he strode toward the door and left her standing on the exposed decking.

  She wondered what Rikard found lacking in her presence.

  He paused at the door to the house and turned to face her. “The code for the exterior doors is nine-six-nine-six. Don’t get yourself locked out.”

  Wylie looked at the keypad and nodded, accepting that bad beginnings could lead to bad outcomes. I could make a point of getting to know him, but do we all have to be friends to live here? Memories of sitting in the carpeted hallway of Dottie’s apartment overwhelmed her system. I don’t want to be powerless and afraid of my footing. Deep breathing exercises calmed her flight response until she felt confident enough to follow Rikard inside the building. She found Antonia standing in the hallway with a bottle of champagne.

  The woman with the short brown hair grinned and popped the cork. “Welcome home!”

  Chapter Seven

  After they’d helped finish the first bottle of champagne, the men realized the dynamic in the house had shifted and abandoned them. Wylie spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the couch with Antonia and her laptop.

  “Co-working, co-living, co-creating,” Antonia said, “we do it all together.” She toyed with her short brown hair and winked. “Sometimes we’re even co-sleeping.”

  Wylie choked on her champagne and wondered if the alcohol had affected her hearing. Which roommate? She could not imagine the high-spirited woman crawling into bed with Jack or Neil. Maybe it had been Rikard. She swallowed. Please don’t let her say Nolan.

  “I used to live in a tech house in San Francisco. They hosted hackathons and salons in the living room and invited Silicon Valley’s best and brightest to participate. You can’t imagine how exciting it is to see all those men and women hunched over their laptops, muttering to themselves and shouting code across the room. They’re all focused on the bottom line, but I could just tell they hadn’t given up their desire to change the world.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t just pick one and ambush them in the hallway?”

  Antonia laughed. “Not quite, but every session got me going, and after the lust faded, it got me thinking as well. I think it’s time for society to understand co-living can be more than a millennial trend. Those programmers came together because they desired a lifestyle without property ownership, but co-living has so many solutions for the global population. Multi-generational houses aren’t new, so why shouldn’t we accept multi-relationship houses as well? Better energy efficiency, better urban density and better social networks make people happier.”

  This champagne makes me happy. She finished her glass and realized she had not eaten lunch. “So what’s your techie contribution? Matchmaking?�
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  “Not quite,” the woman said as a Cheshire Cat smile spread across her lips, “but you’re close. Think event management for entrepreneurs. I know how they think, even if they can’t articulate their tactical needs without digressing into big picture issues and social injustices. Most of my events are pitched as talks or trade shows that draw hundreds of people at a time. During cocktail hour, participants workshop pitches and ideas while they’re networking. You’d be amazed at what they come up with after they leave their comfort zones.”

  “You’re leveraging their lusts and passions,” Wylie said. She imagined a room of determined entrepreneurs rehearsing their elevator speeches as they scanned a crowded ballroom for potential connections. It would only take one handshake before the threat of losing leads pushed them to interact and sent a wave of connections rippling through the room like falling dominoes. “But how do you make money?”

  “Ticket sales or hosting fees. I’ll admit I’ve gotten more than one wedding invitation with a handwritten note that they met at one of my events.”

  Wylie imagined wandering through a restaurant and knowing every mind in the room worked differently from hers. It’s one thing to leverage technology to host yoga classes, but it’s another thing to build it. She put her glass on a long, polished coffee table that housed books and kept clutter from interfering with work surfaces. “How did you get from lust to running your own business? I mean, I teach yoga, and it’s such a predictable path—self-promotion or studio work. I can’t even imagine what type of innovation would come next.”

  Antonia nodded. “You’ve got to lose your security to innovate.”

  “Check,” Wylie said, but she kept her mouth shut when Antonia raised her eyebrows.

  “I was living in Chelsea for a few years, since I moved to New York City, but the publishing house where I worked folded without notice. I realized that I had fifteen days to find a new position or pack up five years of my life and move on.”

  At least you had fifteen days. She focused on Antonia’s backstory instead of reliving her plight.

  “Moving in New York City takes work. You need to have a lot of money saved up and trying to find a decent apartment is like The Hunger Games with fewer costumes. When I got down to five days without any leads, I started expanding my search to different living situations. Maybe a room would work for a few months? I had a blog on the side and I recalled going to a PR workshop hosted at a co-living facility. When I researched it, the Common came up, but so did a host of co-living locations scattered across the country.

  “San Francisco sounded sexy, but”—she drained her glass—“it’s so freaking cold up there! Not dry cold…wet cold. It’s the fog. It just seeps into your clothes and messes with your hair. I bought the best neoprene jacket I could afford, but I still remember the feeling of raindrops seeping down my neck!”

  Wylie thought of the dense, patchy fog that could blanket the hills when the conditions were right. “Remind me not to invite you for a run when it’s drizzling.”

  “No way,” Antonia said. “These days, I’m strictly a warm-weather type of woman. The rest of the county watches the hills when the Santa Ana winds start to blow, but I’m the person who’s outside, face to the wind, soaking in the heat. It’s like a five-year-old opening the door to a furnace. You can feel the radiation and close your eyes, believing you’ll always be warm.”

  “Maybe you and Rikard should partner on a business venture. He confessed his family comes from Croatia but he also hates the cold.”

  Antonia rolled her eyes. “It’s kind of sexy to listen when he gets going in Croatian on the phone, but he and I have never hit it off. Sometimes I doubt if he even likes women.”

  “I think he followed a woman out here.”

  “Figures,” Antonia said. She stood and stretched, like a cat rousing herself from a sun-soaked nap. “It only takes one bad apple to ruin a good man for the rest of us. Let’s get food before I say anything I’m going to regret.”

  Like what? Wylie wondered as she followed the woman’s lead. Like you’ve been living in your SUV for a few days and this is all too good to be true?

  “How did you and Nolan meet?” Antonia asked.

  “We’ve met around town once or twice and my car got towed. He helped me get it out of the lot and realized I was looking for a new room to rent.”

  Antonia nodded as she began pulling large aluminum takeout containers from the refrigerator and arranging them on the center island. “Let’s see… We’ve got quinoa enchilada casserole, vegetable lo mein and that cranberry and pecan cabbage slaw that never fills you up.”

  “I vote for the casserole,” Wylie said. “I can’t believe all this food comes with the rent.”

  The other woman smiled and peeled back the cover on the casserole. The roommates had eaten half the contents, leaving an expanse of saucy aluminum and a glimpse of chicken and quinoa spilling from the inner layers.

  Wylie’s hunger returned with a vengeance and her stomach rumbled. She looked at Antonia, hoping the house’s climate system prevented the other woman from hearing her body’s response to the thought of hot food. “But I’m fine with whatever you want to heat up.”

  Nodding, Antonia gathered the necessary utensils. “First lesson of co-living”—she stopped speaking until Wylie looked up and met her gaze—“you’ve got to speak up for what you want, but learn to choose your battles. Some things are non-negotiable. Put on a sweater if seventy-two degrees feels too cold, but don’t waste time battling the men for control over the thermostat.”

  Wylie laughed. Dressing in layers felt like one of the ten commandments.

  “That doesn’t mean they’re always right. Don’t let the rest of the roommates steamroll you into watching action movies and living off man-food.”

  “Man-food?”

  “Wings. Grilled meat. Sriracha sauce. There’s a reason Thais call it ‘rooster sauce’.”

  Laughing, Wylie opened a cabinet door and searched for ceramic plates. “I won’t give up the fight,” she promised. “Besides, it seems like Neil does a good job ordering the groceries and managing the variety and food.”

  The other woman laughed and pointed Wylie toward the right cabinet. “That doesn’t mean he’s unbiased. He’d feed us nothing but lentils, sourdough and probiotics if we let him.”

  The unmistakable sound of Wylie’s hunger filled the room. She grinned and realized there were some aspects of her new living situation she would just have to accept. “I like sourdough.”

  “Not when Neil makes it,” Antonia said. “The bread’s delicious, but it fills the whole house with a warm yeasty smell that you can’t escape.” She dished out her portion of casserole and pointed Wylie toward a microwave. “Beware the container in the back of the fridge marked ‘starter’. You’ll be sorry if you open it, but you won’t make the same mistake again.”

  Wylie nodded, but her brain barely registered the words. The feminine, celebratory indulgence of champagne with Antonia faded as she watched her meal rotate in a stainless-steel microwave. How did I ever believe I would make it two weeks on my own?

  When lunch ended, Wylie left Antonia at the kitchen table and trudged up the stairs, aware she owed Rikard a rent check and Nolan a reimbursement. As she crested the landing, her feet began to move as slowly as her brain. She realized the combination of quinoa, chicken and champagne had hijacked her blood supply, but the hillside house and the feeling of possibilities gave her an excuse to shut down her defenses. I just want to rest for a minute. She turned toward the seventy square feet of living space she could claim.

  The white loft bed and freestanding wardrobe persisted, but someone had taken the trouble to bring her duffel bags up from the car and set them near the door. A laundry bag, a stack of sheets and a soft waffle-weave blanket sat beside them with a note. She leaned down to get the note and inhaled the soft remnants of citrus and spice that had escaped a round of laundry detergent.

  Wylie dropped to her knee
s and read the note.

  Hope you’re getting settled in. We’ll get you a parking permit so Rikard can have his spot back. First in, first out. I hope you’re going to last longer than one of your yoga classes. Your first shift is at five o’clock. Don’t wear the stripper top.

  Nolan.

  She looked at the slant of the letters and recognized the energy behind Nolan’s legitimate welcome. Then she closed her eyes in recognition of the space she had requested. He could have left this note for anybody. Tears welled beneath her lids. I could be any one of the people living on the street. Worried that one of her new roommates would see her moment of weakness, she closed the bedroom door and told herself she was crying from a stress letdown. The tears streaming down her cheeks had nothing to do with Nolan’s distance or the fear she had felt in the middle of the night.

  * * * *

  The next day, Wylie slept until nine and dressed for her certification class with a refreshed outlook. She thought of her certification instructor as she followed her phone’s instructions to the studio. I won’t have to suck up to Cynthia for a place to stay, but what will mother hen think when she realizes one of her yoga chicks has taken up residence with the fox? She’ll probably be jealous. The thought of letting a comment slip kept Wylie entertained throughout the accreditation class.

  “Now that we’ve covered teaching methodology, anatomy and physiology, our next classes will incorporate yoga philosophy, ethics and lifestyle. Remember that most of our customers expect to leave in a certain state of mind.”

  Wylie eyed the rest of the training attendees in the Playa Vista yoga studio. What kind of mindset does the Silicon Beach set expect when they walk through the doors of this studio? She thought of Cynthia’s propensity for taking selfies and wondered if the woman had a calendar or a self-help book to fill in the lifestyle words. It doesn’t matter what Cynthia wants. She rose to her feet. I’m going to finish this series and become a legitimate instructor, eligible for a stable job with benefits.