Page 21 of Love Scenes

“Why?” There’s genuine curiosity in his tone. It’s entirely possible he never heard the story of what happened yesterday. If I am lucky, he will go his whole life never hearing it.

I give him my address instead of explaining myself, then hang up before I can reconsider.

Screw my mother’s accusation. I know the truth.

Determined to care as little about this meal as possible, I don’t change out of my yoga pants and sleep shirt. It’s a highlighter-pink Disneyland tee that belonged to my dad, straight from the midnineties. I stole it from him during the divorce and never gave it back.

When Joseph pulls into my driveway, I expect a call or text that he’s here. Maybe a honk. Instead there are three short knocks and a “Sloane. You in there?”

I open the door. Joseph’s got on a slate-gray fitted tee, his hair damp from what must have been a post-filming shower, dripping onto his shoulders. He has one hand on the doorframe and the other in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Where else would I be?” I ask.

“Halfway to Vegas, maybe. Or living in a different house than the address you gave me.”

“Good point.” I throw on shoes and follow him to his car.

He drives an old orange Camaro, because of course he does. The interior is neat and smells crisp, some high-end essential oil thing clipped to the air vents. There’s only a water bottle in one cup holder and a packet of gum in the other. Classic rock pumps in from an upgraded sound system. This time it’s “Reelin’ in the Years” by Steely Dan.

“Can’t Buy a Thrill,” I say as I turn it up. “Nineteen seventy-four. No, wait. Nineteen seventy-two.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the name of the album and the year it came out.”

“Good to know, in case I’m ever held at gunpoint and asked about... the year this band’s album came out.”

“This band? It’s Steely Dan! Why would you be listening to Steely Dan if you don’t even know Steely Dan? No one stumbles into listening to white dad rock like Steely Dan.”

“Why do you need to say Steely Dan four times? And why don’t you tell me why you left set yesterday and didn’t show up today.”

“That is none of your business.”

“I’ve now missed a rehearsal with my acting coach. It has officially become my business.” His fingers tap along the steering wheel to the beat of the music.

I turn the song up louder. “Sorry! I can’t hear you over all the Steely Dan!”

Joseph puts a hand atop mine to stop me from continuing to turn the dial. I pull mine back and tuck it underneath my thigh.

“My mother said something really rude to me, and I got in my head,” I admit.

“What was it?”

“I don’t want to repeat it.”

He takes a sharp breath.

“That’s not negotiable,” I add.

He must pick up on the genuine hurt in my tone, because for the rest of the drive, he does nothing but put music on shuffle and quiz me on the albums and release years.

We end up at Mel’s Drive-In. It’s a seat-yourself place, and thanks to my family, it’s become a habit for me to pick a spot with my back to a wall. That way I can see everyone else in the restaurant and whether or not they’re going to approach our table. It mostly happens with my parents and occasionally with Powell, actually, who has quite a cult following from his side career as a drag queen. Only when I’m out of state does it happen to me.

Ever since the miniseries and the Emmy nomination, Joseph has moved into an echelon with the others. The kind of famous face that makes eyes light up in public, even in Los Angeles. He’s someone people want to say they ran into at a diner. Whose picture they would go to awkward lengths to grab, cherishing a shot of him with his mouth half-wrapped around a Reuben. It doesn’t help that he’s the kind of handsome that strains your eyes if you look at him too long. It seems impossible, his face.

I walk ahead, leading us to a corner spot along the front side of the restaurant. It’s pure fifties Americana in here, jukeboxes and glossy red vinyl booths and pictures of Hollywood stars of all eras scattered about. There’s even a shot of my parents near the back, the two of them holding hands while walking the red carpet. It’s from the Golden Globes right after Powell was born. Mom’s in a gold slip dress and Dad’s in a classic penguin tux. Mom’s hair looks the same, always perfectly layered and blown out, the shiny, beach blond people bring in to color appointments for reference.She’s smiling like a present waiting to be unwrapped, looking at Dad while he has a hand lifted up into a wave, eyes on the crowd out of frame.Hishair is what gives away the midnineties of it all. Practically shoulder length and casually slicked back, some of it waving near the bottom and lighter brown than the rest. He kept it long until after their divorce, when he pulled the ever-classic breakup haircut move and buzzed his head.

Joseph slides into the booth across from me. I realize we’ve never sat face-to-face like this in real life. Only when we worked onA Little Luckdid we have to do any kind of eye-to-eye gazing. Instinctively I grab for my menu, paying extra attention to my food options.