Sinner

f live: How world-weary you sound! How did you find L.A.? You staying with us?

cole st. clair: I love L.A., but I broke her things. I don’t think it’s going to work out.

f live: You broke a lot fewer things than most of us expected.

cole st. clair: What can I say, I’m a changed man. We gonna listen to that teaser track now?

f live: You East Coasters are always in a hurry.

cole st. clair: I don’t think I’m really an East Coaster.

I’m — what’s that term? Currently without country.

f live: L.A. still wants you, boy.

cole st. clair: Martin, if only that were true.

Chapter Fifty-Two

· isabel ·

I knew that at some point soon, I was going to have to return Virtual Cole to Cole. I knew from both it and the radio and the calendar that he was nearly done with the album, and by extension, the show. And by further extension, Los Angeles.

By further, further extension, me.

Only that wasn’t true. I’d been done with him first.

Maybe I’d just leave his phone at the apartment gate. Then it would finally be over, really and truly. No loose ends.

The only problem in all of this was how much I missed him.

It never went away. It never got any less. I kept thinking that if I just kept myself busy, finished this class, applied for colleges, researched futures that took me away, I would stop missing him for at least one minute of one day.

But everything in this goddamn city reminded me of him.

Sierra called me a few days after the fire. “Sweetness? I’m so sorry I yelled at you.”

In her defense, she had found me standing in the smoldering remains of her business. “I think shouting was appropriate.”

“Not at you, lovely. I know that now. I’m so terribly sorry I blamed you.”

It also turned out that she was sorry that she had gotten busted for ordering an employee to violate fire code with all of the candles and none of the fire extinguishers. Turns out she was hoping I wouldn’t sue her.

“How long until you reopen?” I asked. I didn’t want to have to apply for a new job. I wanted to go back to not giving a damn.

“All of the Fall line is gone,” Sierra said. “I have to make it all from scratch. I don’t know if the energy is balanced in that place anymore. I don’t know. I have to make some tough decisions.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I was surprised to hear myself say it. I was more surprised to hear myself mean it.

“Oh, I was in such a rut, gorgeous. This is good for me! All of my old ideas are gone and a new Sierra emerges! Do come to the next party. I am still sorry about yelling. I won’t yell again.

Ah! I have to run. Ta, lovely. Ta.”

I hung up. Thinking of her party made me think of Mark, which made me think of Cole.

I missed him. I missed him all the time.

The only thing that made it a little better was the foyer of the House of Ruin. My mother had already replaced all of the marriage and wedding shots that had hung there. The photos of her and my father had become photos of me and her, looking identical and sisterly. Or just her, grinning at the camera with her medical school diploma in her hands. Only, she should have known better with that last photo. Because even though my father’s face wasn’t in it, he still technically was. That grin she wore had been for him as he snapped the picture.

It didn’t matter for my purposes, though. Because all I needed out of the wall was the absolute reminder that 50 percent of all American marriages ended in divorce, and the rest of them were on their way there.

I would stop loving Cole. That was just the fact of it. This wall was proof that one day, I would stop caring.

I closed my eyes. Not all the way. If I sealed the lids, it would break the surface tension, and then these tears would escape.

“Isabel, you should come with,” Sofia told my back.

My eyes flew open, wide as they would go. I didn’t turn around.

“With? With who?”

“Dad and me,” she said. “We’re going —”

“No, I’m busy.” I could feel her still standing right there, so I added, “Thanks for asking.”

She didn’t move. I didn’t have to turn to know that she was working her courage up to say something. I wanted to tell her to spit it out, but I didn’t have any energy left over to be mean.

“You’re not busy,” Sofia said bravely. “I’ve been watching.

Something’s wrong. You don’t — you don’t have to talk about it, but I think you should come with us.”

I couldn’t believe that I’d been so bad at hiding my feelings.

I couldn’t believe, either, that I had somehow lost enough of my prickly exterior to make Sofia think it was acceptable to call me on it.

“Say yes,” Sofia said. “I won’t pester you.”

“You are pestering me!” I spun. She didn’t look chastened, though her hands were folded in front of her.

“It’s really nice outside,” she added. “I’m bringing my erhu.

We’re going to go sit on the beach.”

She unfolded her hands, and then she took one of mine. Her fingers were very soft and warm, like she had no bones. What the hell. It couldn’t make me feel worse, surely. When Sofia gave a gentle tug, I didn’t resist. At least until I got to the door.

“Wait, my boots.” I also meant my hair. And face. And clothing.

And heart. So many things really needed to be put in order before I left the house.

“We’re going to the beach,” Sofia said. She let go of my hand and swiped up a pair of my mother’s flipflops from the pile of shoes by the wall. She dumped them into my grip and went to get her erhu.

Unbelievably, I ended up driving her to the beach in flipflops and gym pants and a tank top, with my hair like a homeless person’s. I parked at the edge of the lot, where a bunch of sweatily buff boys played volleyball. My uncle (ex-uncle?) Paolo was already there, still in his EMT uniform, which reminded me horribly of the cops in the bass-player episode of Cole’s show.

He ruffled Sofia’s hair like a kid’s (she smiled blissfully) and draped his arm over Sofia’s shoulder. “I was going to bring cupcakes.

But then I thought, no, Sofia is going to make something that’ll make whatever you bring look like crap! So I brought booze instead!”

He didn’t mean actual booze, of course, just local root beer, the outsides of the bottles moist with condensation. Sofia was delighted, as she had, of course, made bakery-perfect cupcakes.