VACANT

Teddy, 2009

Choosing to move to New York was initially an active choice in insanity. I was finally free of my mother’s house. I was free of the cars driving slowly up and down my street. It was an opportunity to not only black out, but completely avoid an existence. Run away with complete abandon and reinvent. I remember asking Catherine if she wanted to help me move into my dorm in the city, but she declined. She said she was happy for me, but she thought it would be best for us to sort out our own futures and issues separately.

She was standing in front of me in short shorts and a light blue tank top with tiny straps. We were outside a gas station where we bought sodas and were engaging in a heavy conversation. I remember breathing heavily. I remember my chest felt tight under my t-shirt. I was gulping down soda when she said these exact words to me.

“You go off and live your life while I finish my stuff over here” She took a swig of her Sunkist orange soda. “We’ll see where we end up.” She was so calm and collected, so ready to let me go. I was stunned just standing there.

I had no choice but to kiss her under the fluorescent lights that hovered above the gas pumps. I was grateful she wanted to end things. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew it was either I stay here and take care of her or I leave and never come back for her. I think she loved me and I think she knew this was our only option. To be frank, I don’t think she wanted to be with me either. She was always so perceptive. She could always intuit the outcomes. I guess that is why she looked so peaceful when she walked away. With her orange soda swinging at her hip and her head bobbing to some song playing from her earphones. I walked away too, but not before watching her saunter down the block, swinging that orange soda back and forth.

She would graduate high school. She would attend college in New York City. She would never call. I only ever saw her once at a rooftop party. She was with a group of friends. We looked at each other but we didn’t have anything to say. I just remember she looked me up and down and said hello. Our history was never to be addressed.

Carole never asked me about Catherine. I never asked about Catherine. It would be a cattle prod under the guise of concern. Why touch the fracture in our sturdy foundation?

The only time I contacted Catherine was when my mom got sick my senior year of college. I asked her to go to lunch, reiterated and repeated that this was a platonic endeavor. I needed advice from someone who knew me back then. She responded and agreed. She said it was an odd request, but she accepted. We met in the Lower East Side because she had something scheduled in that neighborhood.

When I told her about my mom, she put her hand on the table. She never touched me, she just inched herself closer to me. When I asked her what I should do she was kind and gave me advice. I listened to it all. Took it all in.

Don’t move home.

Don’t stop living your life.

Call her every day.

Send her favorite flowers when you can afford it.

Order her favorite dinner when you can afford it.

Send check in text messages.

Write handwritten letters.

We only sat there for an hour. When I asked her how she was she said she was great, but she would tell me more about her at another time. I knew this would never happen. When the check came she paid it. I told her that it was inappropriate, but she ignored my protest.

“I’ll pay for the meal if you pay for the flowers.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Good luck kiddo!”

It was November of 2009 when I got the call. It was 4 AM, still dark outside. Carole slept soundly and I couldn’t sleep that night for some reason. I had Bonanza playing on the television and nearly ate a whole box of cereal. My brother called to tell me mom had died. I thought she had beaten the cancer two winters ago, but I guess it came back and she chose to lie to me so I wouldn’t come home.

I texted Catherine. She responded immediately.

“I’m sorry kiddo. I’ll see you and Carole when you get home.”

I cried alone until sunrise. Carole woke up and found me in the kitchen. She ran into my arms. I didn’t have to tell her. She just knew.

Carole, 2009

My mom wasn’t home when it happened. I wasn’t supposed to be home either. I stayed home with a fever. My father left for work that morning before I told mom that I was sick with a fever. I stayed in bed and watched Legally Blonde and the Drew Carey Show from my bed. I remember so much from that morning. The window was open and I could hear the neighbors blasting Nelly and Usher. It was the first nice day of spring. I stared out my window and watched them enjoying the day in the yard. I was jealous that I couldn’t partake in the sunshine. I looked at my family’s pool in the backyard, shimmering blue, just opened. My father had just perfected the composition of chlorine, making it safe to swim. The water flowed in its vacancy, losing its purpose.

I remember getting out of bed and grabbing books off my shelf and started to organize them by size, topic, and alphabetization. I went to the bathroom and picked out nail polish. I went with my mother’s shade of dark red. I sat in the bathroom on the tile and started the monotonous task. That’s when I heard the gunshot. I thought it was a home invader. I locked the bathroom door. I didn’t have a phone in the bathroom, but I did have a window. I was crying, so afraid that something was going to happen.

I climbed onto the roof and crawled to the side of the roof in the front of the house. I was in a bra and cotton shorts. The neighbor saw me and called out to me and I started to cry. I said I heard a loud bang, I didn’t use the word gunshot. He looked at me and laughed, thinking I was acting theatrical or overzealous.

The neighbor called my mom, but no one answered. That’s when my sister came home with Teddy. They saw me on the roof crying with my knees to my chest. My sister could’ve laughed at me, but she turned to Teddy. He took her house keys out of her hand and ran into the house. Catherine and I just looked at each other. She told me it would be okay. Teddy walked out the side of the garage. I didn’t hear anything and I couldn’t see him from where I was frantically perched. I could only see Catherine who melted into the sidewalk in front of our house and started crying. Her sobs sounded more like screams for help. .

The cops came, followed by my mother, followed by an ambulance. I watched them carry the body bag from the garage into the ambulance. Teddy stayed and moved the car out of the garage and cleaned the blood from the cement garage floor. He scrubbed into the night. My sister came onto the roof with me. We watched the sun fall. My mother left us with Teddy. She went for a long drive. Neither of us knew where she went. We still don’t.

Everyone else knew about his depressive episodes but me. They said I was too young to notice. When I hear that, I only hear that I was too selfish to notice. Catherine tells me it’s for the best that I didn’t know. I didn’t know about his depression. He didn’t know I was home. I guess we’re eternally even.

When I asked Teddy about it, he didn’t carry any sense of traumatization. “I am just grateful that I could be there for your family.” He also says Catherine was never the same after, not in a trauma-based way - she just became a whole new person. She wanted different things, nearly instantaneously. She became clear in wanting things she didn’t want him to provide. I don’t necessarily know what he meant by that. The observations of her made me uneasy, it continues to make me uneasy. The observation stayed with me longer than I would have liked.

When he told me he contacted Catherine before he told me about his mother, I was irritable - but I was unable to confront the frustration with him. It wasn’t the time or the place. My only job was to keep him together and give him a place to fall apart. I packed my black dresses and called a friend to drive us to the airport. He was catatonic the entire flight. I held his hand and put my head on his shoulder the majority of the flight.

I called out of work. I paid for the hotel room. I ironed and starched his shirts prior to travel. I packed his suit in a garment bag. I packed three ties. I bought his brand of cigarettes that he smoked when he was stressed. I called the hotel and asked them if they had Tito’s vodka in the rooms. It was a different brand, which I accepted. We were both going to need to drink in Ohio. It was my first time back in years. When we got to the room all he could say was that he loved me. He was grateful for my presence. The earnestness in his eyes, I undressed for him immediately and he pulled me into his embrace. The circumstances were terrible, but it was the best sex of our relationship, perhaps my entire life.

When I saw Catherine in the church, it made me feel deeply unsettled - despite the fact that she was not a threat. She sat there with her newborn and my two year old niece. The woman and her daughters in black with vibrant red hair. Sitting in the church pew with a stoic brunette and bearded man they called daddy. My sister was radiating in the church pew, my love toed the line between envy and admiration. Something I could not change, I could only embrace her. Beyond my feelings, at my core all I felt was a deep yearning. I missed my other half. The yin to my yang.

“Hey.” I practically fell into her arms. Teddy shook her husband’s hand. Teddy and Cathy smiled at each other.

“You look good kiddo!” She put her hands on his shoulders and dusted them, suggesting a sense of encouragement.

“Thank you.” he said with a smile. We kept the conversation short. I escorted him to his family and the funeral director.

It was a beautiful service. His youngest sister, a freshman in college, gave the eulogy. She read a poem by Frank O’Hara, a poem that his mother must have loved. I wish I knew her better. Catherine delivered the eulogy for our father. I remember her in black flats and a crochet cardigan reading Auden’s Funeral Blues after describing our father’s favorite things. I was asked to read a bible passage for him, but I declined. His uncle and his cousin read bible passages. Teddy stood in the front of the coffin, carrying it out of the church and to the hearse, just as he had done at our father’s funeral. We watched it drive up the hill and out of sight. We soon followed to the mausoleum. They put her body in the wall and we went to enjoy champagne cocktails and hand sandwiches at his family home.

I decided to let Teddy spend time with family while I started to help with organizing the food. I ensured that everyone’s glasses were full and the plates were not left sitting idle. I collected trash in 5-inch Louboutin heels. I got a gravy stain on my Donna Karan of New York. No matter how many designer items sat in the closet and despite how much money sat in my bank account, I would always act like a small town waitress when I returned home. Akron was a personal ground zero.

Teddy eventually pulled me aside while I balanced plates in my hand.

“You’re not the hired help.”

“I know, I just don’t know what else I can do.”

“You’re uncomfortable, just be with me.”

He poured me a glass of his dad’s expensive whiskey. We sat on the back deck and smoked cigarettes. He started humming a Carole King song. I took off my heels.

“This isn’t the right time, and we barely know each other, but my dad gave me my mom’s engagement ring.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I took a long drag of my cigarette.

“Ask me tomorrow and I’ll say yes.”

I rested my head on his shoulders. After everyone left we went to his childhood bedroom and listened to Blink-182 and proceeded to get drunker and drunker. We fell asleep there.

The next morning I went to spend time with my sister and nieces. I wanted to give him space

I ran around the yard with Matilda and her father. Catherine stood on the porch with the baby attached to her breast. The house was immaculate. A Queen Anne style house they purchased right after they signed the marriage certificate. The backyard was large and gated with black iron. The rose bush was dormant. The garden was dead in natural preparation for winter. When walking through the front door you see the wedding photo on the wall. My sister smiled in a white veil blowing in the October wind, unbeknownst to her she was a month pregnant with Matilda. They had been married for three years. Although I never envisioned this life for her, I would be lying if I said she didn’t seem blissful.

They met one weekend when my sister was visiting from New York. Within a year they were married and my sister had completely moved back to our hometown, completely devoted to loving a man that could provide her very little. This way of living seemed to work for her. Our mother did the same thing with our father. She left her hometown in Northern California and devoted her life to building a family in Ohio. I never thought either of us would do something like this, we were always fiercely independent. Here she was married with girls. Here I was, about to accept a marriage proposal at age 22.

“Teddy told me he was going to propose to me”

“Will you accept?”

“What would you do?”

She never gave me an answer. Matilda accidentally pushed a glass of water off the table. It was for the best that I never received an answer that I was looking for.

She did say to me that she was the happiest she had ever been, but it was not because of the life she chose, but because of the man.

“You know, going shopping for toilet paper with Quinn is more fulfilling than any weekend in New York. It sounds crazy, but I don’t know. I don’t think happiness was ever going to exist for me after certain things happened. When I met him I knew I wanted to marry him. I felt like God, or some higher power, whispered in my ear and told me he was the one. I didn’t ask any questions when he asked me to marry him.”

I went back to the hotel room and Teddy was sitting on the bed. Without a shirt on, he got on one knee and slid the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly. I said yes, just as the women before me had. We had sex and ordered bad room service and laughed about it.

Teddy, 2010

I was in my office in downtown LA when my manager came in to suggest that I go for a specific promotion. The way he worded it, it was clear that the job was mine if I wanted it. I sent my resume to the hiring manager and later that week I was called into the office.

“We are still maneuvering what the job will look like, but we are asking you because we know that you speak mandarin.”

“Yes, I do speak mandarin.”

“And you lived in Shanghai?”

“Yes.”

“So you understand the culture.”

“Yes.”

The client they wanted me to work for was a tech business man located in Shanghai. I was being chosen for the job not only for my merit but because of my understanding of the culture. My interview for the job was not going to be regular, but would take place in a meeting with Ming Zhang - the creator of a multimillion dollar tech company. My past of working in finance, tech, and the Chinese demographic made me an ideal fit. I confirmed that I would take the meeting.

I had a dinner scheduled with Carole, but I asked her to reschedule due to the work opportunity. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me luck. She was eager for my opportunity. I remember turning away and when I looked back she was seated at the dining room table with three wedding magazines laid out in front of her while she was scrolling through her phone.

When walking into the restaurant in Chinatown I saw my manager and COO sitting next to Zhang and two Chinese women. Despite my usual anxieties, I felt nothing but calmness. I walked to the table confidently. I shook hands and greeted the guests in mandarin. I asked them what they were looking for in terms of partnership with the company. They wanted individuals who were dependable, congenial, and willing to travel on site frequently. They wanted someone who understood tech companies and could comprehend the mission.

When they shared their ideals and views, I asked to see plans for the growth of the company. Although it seemed like a lofty goal, I was always interested in unrealistic visions. I exited the meeting feeling confident, like I had the team’s attention. My superiors spoke very little during the meeting. The next morning, I found out I received the opportunity and would receive a raise that would put me in the six-figures arena.

My feelings were a bit convoluted. When I went to Shanghai the first time, I didn’t go out of passion - but with a desire to escape. I didn’t think I would fall in love with the chaos of the Bund. I didn’t think that I would find myself yearning for Shanghai. More importantly, I didn’t think it would ever be possible for me to find my way back to China. Here I am, two years later with a new life. A fiancée in a bungalow in West Hollywood. Would she be willing to move to China if it came down to that? Would I be willing to not go back to Shanghai? One thing was incredibly certain to me, the idea of being on the Bund until five in the morning felt like a dream in my grasp. The night I found out I got the job, I didn’t tell Carole. However, I think she knew. She could feel it when I closed my eyes that night, I didn’t see black. I saw magenta. The last thing she said to me before we fell asleep that night: “Should I paint the accent wall a deep, bright pink?”

She knew the Bund was calling me.

Carole, 2010

Cake tastings at three different bridal pastry shops were scheduled. Dress fittings at Monique Lhuillier, Vera Wang, and Reem Acra were on the books. Two dress fittings at Vivienne Westwood and Chanel were under way. Looking at venues, it was all coming together. Business trips to Paris, Milan, and Madrid were all in my planner - including a three day solo trip to Mallorca. I was thriving as an assistant buyer in women’s clothing. My relationship was in full bloom. My professional and personal relations were the best they had ever been. I was a twenty-two-year-old woman who had six figures in the bank. I was ahead of all of my peers.

“Carole, you are an incredibly hard worker. You’re definitely going to take my job someday.” - the women’s buyer

“If they don’t promote you soon you will either move into fashion journalism or start your own brand.” - the head of the cosmetics department

“Want to come to New York to watch us do a spread for Vogue?” - the head of photo

“Take this fucking sample, it’s bridal. I know you’re planning that fucking wedding.” - Creative Director

Teddy loved me and was worried that I wasn’t sleeping or eating enough. I wasn’t doing enough of either. I was losing endless weight and approaching burnout. I will say though, while I had a fiancé at home who I loved endless to the end of the earth, I had work relationships that fed me in ways Teddy couldn’t. These relationships were just as important as my romantic ones, if not more.

Yes, not only did I love Teddy and the love story that had culminated between us. However, there was something about Luca Janssen. I was able to talk to him about fashion and art. I was doing so well at my job and Luca had been there several years longer. He was ten years older than me. We were able to take one long break a week. We would leave for lunch at 2 PM. We would each have three martinis and share a kale salad and then we would go to the Getty for the rest of the day. I remember staring at paintings with him and he would educate me. Who was the painter? What did the composition represent? What did this work of art say about the time? I learned it all from Luca.

Luca was a gay man who was not only known in fashion circles but also in the LA art scene. Not only was he a fashion photographer but he was consistently showing personal work in different galleries all over the city. He was not only an artist but a hustler. He was consistently trying to create art and it inspired me, rubbed off on me. I wanted what he had. While I was spending endless nights looking at wedding magazines and websites he was actually in his studio taking photos of different people in the LA area and posting their vulnerable faces online with their stories and quotes as captions. People were engaging with his work. People wanted to purchase it. People wanted to buy him. They wanted to be a part of him, He was able to keep up with a lavish lifestyle off of his art. He probably didn’t even need the job at the department store but he kept it in order to hold local connections. While I simply understood the art of hard work he understood strategy and how to play the networking game. I was trying to learn from him, but struggled to find ways to apply it in my day to day life. I struggle with how to put myself out there. He introduced me to people in the art world and I knew I wanted to be a part of it, but I just didn’t comprehend the art of interaction. I couldn’t create that magic. I couldn’t connect.

When I confided in him about this feeling he said “you’re more than halfway there. I wouldn’t bring you around if it didn’t serve a purpose. You could really be something Carole. You’re an artist, but what kind of artist is completely up to you.” He believed in me. Thus, I started to believe in myself.

One night, I told Teddy I was going dancing with Luca. He told me to have fun and to be careful. He kissed me on the cheek while he was cooking himself dinner with his laptop open which had a screen covered in bar graphs he was studying for the Shanghai projects. I knew he’d be flying there soon for an extended period of time, and I wanted to spend more time with him - but going out dancing felt like a different type of work. It was a chance to really build a life for myself outside of marriage and my current work situation. My initial goal of being a women’s buyer at a fashion empire no longer felt like a fulfilling future. I thought if I continued to brush shoulders with strangers, then I would eventually find my future. What was I really meant to do? I was twenty-two, I wasn’t meant to know what I wanted yet. If what I had now was so attainable, that meant that this wasn’t for me. It wasn’t authentically worth my time.

We ended up at Bardot that night and that is when I came face to face with a man who was a carrier of great opportunity. He perpetually had a dangerous look on his face and he frequently wore Armani bespoke suits. He was always wearing a crisp white button down shirt opened so everyone could see the muscular curvature of his chest. His black hair was long and slicked back. He wanted to let everyone know that he could take care of himself. He looked like a rich creep, which he was - but his ambition and self-sufficiency made that character flaw a moot point in my book.

Gareth Khan. He was a 45-year-old married man worth a billion dollars. He was not a celebrity in the proper sense, but he was elite. The famous knew who he was. If you were in Los Angeles in the late 2000s and early 2010s, you knew the name Gareth Khan. He was out every weekend without his wife, constantly looking for adventure and plot. He locked eyes on me. The first thing he noticed about me was not my red hair nor my Proenza Schouler handbag, not even my blue eyes. His eyes captured my diamond encrusted finger, receiving me as an illicit prize. My knees locked together, prepping for impact. The impact of benign eye contact.

We sat at a table and I kept it cordial. I told him I had no business sleeping with him, He gave a confused look and said he had not said anything of the sort. He asked why I thought he was trying to sleep with me. I ignored his questioning. We both knew he was full of shit. I didn’t want to engage with the sex conversation further. Even the most innocent of discussions can veer you into wreckage.

“You’re a women’s buyer, but you said you want to do something else?”

“I don’t know. I think I just want to be an artist.”

“Then you’re an artist.”

“Okay. Ringing the affirmative. I am an artist.”

:”What kind?”

“Maybe a writer.” My only connection to real art was my sister. The girl with the writing prize ribbons and publications collecting dust in her childhood bedroom. If she wasn’t going to continue, then maybe I could continue for the both of us.

Luca snapped a photo of us at the table, and in a twisted way I am forever grateful, because the beginning of my life was captured right at that table. He took me by the hand and walked me out of the club and he grabbed his car from the valet. The drive was long and quiet. I was terrified for my life, but I didn’t dare text Teddy. I would remain a cool customer.

We arrived at a desolate office building in DTLA. He walked me into the building past night security. He escorted me into the elevator and took me to the fifteenth floor. The doors opened to Ada Magazine. This magazine only existed in my dreams. It wasn’t a real place, just a magazine I found at checkout at the grocery store. I knew people who worked there, but they were severely out of my reach.

“If you want a column here, it’s yours. They’re looking for someone youthful.”

“How can you confirm this?”

“I own the magazine. Google it.”

He tried to kiss me and I instantly declined. I told him that I was engaged and that this opportunity would have to be clean and professional, otherwise I wouldn’t accept it. He respected it, and apologized for his indiscretion. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t want to argue with a man. He asked if he could take me home or back to the club. I told him to drop me off at home.

When he dropped me off, I wanted to confirm if it was actually possible. He told me to come to the office for a meeting on Friday morning. He said he needed time to organize it and discuss it with corporate, but I was a shoe in.

That following week the opportunity was given to me. Within a week I was writing a weekly column for Ada Magazine with one column in the monthly printed edition. I was writing pieces on fashion from the standpoint of a fashion ingénue as they put it. My schedule was filling up with needing to attend events, showcases, film premieres. The content I was writing was mindless and stupid, but it was something. They ended up hiring a second assistant buyer, because I wasn’t able to do my job, but the company couldn’t fire me because I had become a public asset.

Before I even blew up though, I was attached to this new path. A few weeks into writing my column, I realized that I had missed my dress fitting at Monique Lhuillier. I didn’t feel a tinge of regret. I kept going like a speeding car.

Teddy, 2010

When I got off the plane at Shanghai Pudong International I saw a man sitting in a chair in the type of suit that I used to wear. He was confident and perhaps a bit frail. His skin was a tinge of yellow. Clearly hungover from the night before. Looking at him felt like I was zipping myself into an old skin, one meant for debauchery and insanity. I tried to stave the thought off, but it felt out of my control.

I got in the black car and was driven to a hotel that was eight blocks away from the old Pudong apartment. I arrived at night and I went for a walk to look at the apartment building, trying to figure out which balcony was mine. Which balcony was I ashing my cigarettes off the ledge? Which apartment was I bringing girls home? Which apartment did I think I was falling in love with Campbell Kaplan?

I went to call my brother and talk to him, but it went to voicemail. I called Carole instead.

“Teddy baby! I’ve been following your location.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d call to tell me you’d make it back, so I’ve been tracking to make sure you’re safe. I hope that’s not weird.”

“No. No. No, I appreciate it. I miss you.”

“That means the world to hear you say.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’re in your favorite place in the world. I don’t know if I can compete with Shanghai.”

“I don’t think Shanghai competes with you.”

“Really?”

“Can you come? I’d pay for your flight.”

“I wish, but I have so much work.”

“Next weekend?”

“Can I get back to you?”

“Of course. I never want to get between you and your stuff.”

“Actually,” she paused. “Fuck it. Buy the ticket and send it to my inbox. I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “I love you Teddy.”

The phone call didn’t last long but it soothed me. She had to go to work. She rushed me off the phone, but not before she told me she loved me.

I got a beer across the street at a bar that used to be under a different name when I lived there. It’s not a city I recognize, but the heaviness in the air was all the same. Anything could really happen there. I sat at the bar and I looked around for any familiar faces, but every face was new. I got the sense that everyone I ever loved left and fled. Your time in Shanghai doesn’t last long when you’re seeking salvation. Unfortunately, that is what most of us were seeking when we were running East.

While walking home from the bar I was envisioning Carole holding our son under the cherry blossom trees. We could be supremely happy here. I went to bed and woke up refreshed. I showered and dressed and went into the office. I felt like I had slipped into that Shanghaiese skin instantly when the office manager handed me a carbonated lychee cocktail.

“XieXie”

I was talking to everyone in the office when I turned my head and saw a woman in the office. In a pencil skirt that hugged her hips and a brunette hair to her shoulders. The brunette hair didn’t fool me.

“Teddy?” She laughed nervously, like something was uncomfortable boiling in her abdomen.

“Campbell.”

“You look good Teddy.”

“Do you work here?”

“No, but my husband does.”

“Of course he does.”

I was flooded with nauseating eroticism. I was going to vomit. A migraine was creeping in on all fours.

Carole, 2010

The WeHo bungalow sat vacant. We had a friend come and go to ensure that it was fit, tidy, and safe from any kind of intruder. I remember sitting on flights and thinking about the wedding fashion magazines. How they had become a permanent bathroom fixture. My fingers no longer flipped through the pages. The cake tastings, venue tours, and dress shopping appointments had all been postponed.

My whole life had become flights to fashion houses, fabric swatches, fashion shows, photo shoots from Big Sur to Rio to Antwerp. I was spending most of my time in the Delta Lounge looking at my cuticles. I didn’t even carry a wedding magazine on my person. I had a copy of the New York Times, Ada magazine, and books by Anthony Bourdain. I’d rather read about seedy New York City restaurant culture than review orchid centerpieces for tablescapes that no longer seemed to be in the near future. My mother would ask about wedding planning and would beg to be included. I’d tell her I wanted to do it alone, lying so she wouldn’t have to come to the conclusion that I didn’t care about the wedding. We talked about going to the courthouse in Downtown LA in wrangler jeans, but I just couldn’t think about the simplicity of a marriage certificate. It’s not like Teddy was home to do it either.

I was touching down in New York City. I should’ve been landing in Shanghai, but I had to reschedule the trip more times than I could count on one hand. “I’m sorry babe, something has come up.” Cancelled red eyes in exchanges for flights to London and Rome. I was hungover in JFK airport, stumbling in strappy heeled sandals praying that I would walk to the correct exit.

Gareth was standing by luggage pick up, the baggage carousel was spinning slowly while my skull seemed to pirouette at rocket speed.

“I heard you were coming,” he grabbed my carry-on and walked me to the car.

“Nothing checked in?”

“No,” I said, nearly vomiting in my mouth. “I never check in”

I knew I’d see him soon. The column had blown up. I was getting asked to do interviews with other magazines. The New York Times wrote an article with the headline “Is LA More Fashionable Than New York?” I carried this copy of the Times while wearing blue sweat pants on the flight. I was walking into a photo shoot at a studio in the financial district. I was meeting with a photographer who would eventually be blacklisted for sexual misconduct with teenage girls. Luckily, I was 22 and too old for him.

I remember walking into the studio chugging coffee. Luckily they let me smoke cigarettes in the studio to stop the nausea.

“You have to remove the engagement ring for the shoot.”

“Fine.” I didn’t protest. I slipped it off and carelessly dropped into a dusty rose porcelain dish on the vanity desk. Gareth talked to me about how impressed he was in my work and how proud he was that he found me in that sea of people three months prior. A pretty little thing in a crowd plucked out like a hydrangea in the garden.

They put me in a pair of dark neon pink tights and a white sweater. They gave me pink eye makeup and white powder that didn’t match my skin tone. They told me editing would take care of the rest. When I asked about a skirt they said that it was on the way. It never came.

I posed against a white wall while electronic music blasted through the building.

“We had a different dress for you, but you’ve lost too much weight.” the photographer said. “This will do.”

“I don’t eat when I am stressed.”

“How often are you stressed?”

“My god,” I guffawed. “Can I smoke in this sweater?”

The photographer laughed and handed me a Marlboro Light. He kept snapping the camera as I lit the cigarette. The photographer asked me to go topless, and I was so hungover that protesting was out of the question. I could only take the demand. I crossed my arms across my naked chest with the cigarette dangling in my mouth. Nothing but pink tights and white heels by Ferragamo. I didn’t know this image would be on a billboard on Santa Monica Boulevard near Hollywood Forever. My mom was pissed. Teddy cheered me on with hesitation in his voice when we would drive past it. I hesitated too. You can only brush off caution in the face of inevitability.

I kept the tights. I left the shoot. Gareth took me to an early dinner in the Village. When the coffee and kale salad came to the table he asked me if I would ever be willing to move to New York.

“I am married to Los Angeles.”

“So that’s a hard no.”

“Why do you ask? Isn’t the column thriving in LA?”

“Yes, but if it’s thriving within the next year - we want to see you spend a year in New York.”

“I don’t know. I would have to talk to Teddy.”

“Isn’t he always in Shanghai?”

“Yes,”

“Why would it matter then?”

“Because LA is home.”

“You’re never there.”

“How about you let me mull it over.”

One thing was certain, I was never in LA. Did it matter if I lived there anymore? I always identified as a California Girl. I remember starting my college career there and thinking “I am this.” That internal proclamation never left me. Maybe Gareth had a point while he chewed on the salad we shared and stared at me like a wolf. What he was asking me to chew on felt like a gumball to the teeth, but maybe a change would do me good. Another thing that was certain, I had to leave my other job. I was a complete failure. They would have fired me if I wasn’t such a public figure. I was getting paid to look like I worked there, and it didn’t make me feel good.

“Do you stay in LA for Teddy?”

“I love LA more than he does. He wouldn’t care where we went.”

“He sounds like more of a follower; don’t you need someone stronger than that.”

“Like you? A married man who would swallow me like a pill?”

“Yes.”

“Gareth, keep it professional.”

“I’ve seen your tits; how professional can we be?”

I took a bite of kale and spat it out onto the white tablecloth.

“That’s what I think of you.”

“That is how I think of you too.”

I walked to the bathroom in disgust. There were photographers at the window, and I couldn’t tell if they were taking my photo or the blonde woman dining by the window. I washed my hands and rested my head against the mirror in desperation. When would my hangover pass and when would Gareth treat me like an employee and less like a hydrangea he had in his vase. That’s when I realized that my diamond ring sat in the pink dish in the studio in FiDi.

I ran back to the studio and picked up the ring. I got in a cab. I went to JFK. I called my boss. I told them I wouldn’t be going to the events in Madrid or Milan. I booked a one-way ticket to Shanghai. My column was three days late. Everyone was pissed.