CHAPTER 33 Seth
Normally the feeling I get when I’m about to see Molly after weeks apart is elation so intense it makes me borderline manic. But tonight, there’s a dull, painful pressure behind my eyes as I roll my suitcase past baggage claim and confront the hot cloud of exhaust fumes outside LAX.
I’ve been upset all day, ever since Rob showed up in my office with his gross fucking bombshell.
The timing could not be worse.
It’s unspoken, but a lot rides on this trip.
It was Molly’s idea to spend Thanksgiving together, just us.
She hasn’t said it, but she’s testing out being my family.
And I want to graduate with honors.
I know it’s fast, and that’s my old, problematic pattern. But I spent a year working through that, alone, and this feels different. I’ve wanted this woman since I was fourteen years old.
And the Thanksgiving invitation feels like a bookend to the time she invited me to Joshua Tree: her own Molly way of telling me she wanted me the way I wanted her.
We’ve spent a lot of time these past months talking through our respective issues. My history of overeagerness, her fear of people leaving out of the blue, which drives her to do it first. I’ve taken pains not to leap at making this permanent before she’s ready, to give the relationship time to breathe. I can tell she’s been doing work not to flinch from my love. To let herself trust that it’s real, and hers. That I’m not going anywhere.
But her anger over the Dezzie thing has me anxious. Divorce is a tough subject for her under any circumstances, and Dezzie is one of her dearest people. I wish I could use my skills to rescue both of them.
I can’t.
As an equity partner, it would be egregious to break the ethics policies I’m in charge of upholding. I adore Dezzie and will give her all the emotional support she needs, but I can’t be her legal counselor.
I text Molly my location and she says she’s two minutes away. I strain to see around the bend, waiting for that first glimpse of her car.
There she is. My girl.
And—thank God—she’s grinning at me.
She jumps out of the car as soon as she finds a place to stop and runs to me and throws herself into my arms.
I kiss the top of her glossy, clean-smelling hair.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi,” she whispers.
We hold each other for a few seconds longer than is socially acceptable in a competitive parking situation. Her nearness makes my headache feel a little better.
She pulls back and takes me in. “You look exhausted,” she says.
“Long day. Lots of lawyering to get done before my big California adventure.”
She refrains from making a barbed comment about not lawyering for Dezzie, to my profound relief.
“We’ll get you nice and rested,” she says. She kisses my cheek and then grabs my bag and stashes it in her car. I hop into the passenger seat and she navigates through the serpentine traffic snarled around LAX.
Molly drives like it’s an art form. She’s not aggressive, but she’s skillful—elegantly weaving across six lanes to reach an exit that comes out of nowhere, making room for cars about to get cut off without disrupting the flow of traffic, maintaining conversation as she zips along the steep, winding mountain roads that lead up to her house.
Her authority behind the wheel is sexy. I can’t wait for her to drive us to the desert. I hope the route is really difficult.
“Home sweet home,” she says, pulling into the driveway of her small, white, Spanish-style house. It’s surrounded by purple bougainvillea bushes and cacti that shoot up from the earth like jaunty flower-capped erections. The air smells like jasmine.
It’s so her. I love it here.
Inside is a mix of dark wood and comfortable white linen furniture. The floor has Spanish tile and the rooms lead into each other through archways original to the 1920s house.
She’s already lighting scented candles on every surface, making the rooms glow.
“Want a snack?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m famished.”
She leads me into her yellow kitchen, with light blue cabinets that have vintage crystal knobs she found on eBay. The care she has taken to restore her house, and the pride she takes in telling me about it, is dear to me. It’s another one of those unexpected facets I’ve discovered about her as we’ve gotten to know each other’s adult selves.
I fantasize about buying a rambling old Craftsman and fixing it up with her. Somewhere with a big yard and plenty of fruit trees. A home of our own.
“Toast?” Molly asks.
She has learned about my midnight toast habit. “Yes, please.”
She puts some bread in the toaster—the sourdough I like from the farmers market in her neighborhood—and leads me out the door onto her patio. We stand there, holding hands, staring out at the glimmering lights of Los Angeles. There’s a slight breeze blowing and the air is cool, but not cold. The smell of my toast wafts from the kitchen and I inhale deeply and kiss the temple of the woman who knew to make it for me.
It is in this exact moment I know I can really do it: I can move to Los Angeles.
