“My mom’s in LA,” Simone says, recapturing my focus.
“Oh really?” I keep my tone deliberately light. “Cool.”
Bridget has accepted me in Kenan’s and, by default, Simone’s life, but she and I still aren’t the best of friends. We don’t actively dislike each other. It’s more of a wary indifference.
“Yeah,” Simone says. “She’s taking some acting classes. She says NeNe left The Housewives and made it to Broadway. She wants to be ready.”
“Good for her,” I reply neutrally.
“You’re going to LA next week, too, right?”
“Yeah. Meeting with investors. Looking at spaces for the shop.”
“I can’t wait to see your first line.”
“Gah.” I laugh and shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this. Leaving New York. Moving out here. Starting the gLo line. Having my first show next March for LA Fashion Week. It feels like it’s happening so fast and also taking forever.”
“My dad’ll be a lot happier when you’re living out here. That’s for sure.”
I don’t know how to respond. My design studio will be in LA because it makes more sense than San Diego. There’s a richer fashion scene there—better opportunities, more celebrities—but I’ll be living in San Diego to be close to Kenan, and making the two-hour drive up to LA a few times a week. We’ve been careful every step of the way orienting Simone to our relationship. I’ve even sat in on a few family-therapy sessions. We want to do this right. For her, we have to.
“I’ll be happier, too,” I answer, “but my boss won’t! JP is kicking and screaming.”
The hiss of frying food snares my attention. I hop down, still holding the phone so Simone sees my face, and prop the phone against the backsplash while I stir the onions, garlic, and flour for the base of my étouffée.
“When do you leave New York?” Simone’s blue eyes widen with excitement. It makes me smile that she’s happy I’m coming to the West Coast.
“It’ll be a few months. I’m staying in New York through Fashion Week in September to help JP. Then I’ll move out here.”
I stir in more flour and check the rice cooker.
“What’re you making?” Simone asks.
“Baked catfish, étouffée, some fried okra.”
“My father is eating fried food? Simone asks, surprise etched onto her smooth face.
“I’m sure he’ll be back to eating rabbit food tomorrow.” I chuckle and open the oven to check the fish. “This is one night only.”
“Oh, for the anniversary!” Simone sounds approving.
So she does know. Even though our relationship is so much better, I walk on eggshells sometimes, scared I’ll break something, so I didn’t tell Simone Kenan and I are celebrating our one-year anniversary. Technically, it’s the one-year anniversary of our first ‘not a date.’ The start of our relationship was such a sore point with Simone, I wasn’t going to mention it.
“Daddy told me,” Simone says matter-of-factly.
“Can you believe he even wanted to celebrate something so silly?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“It’s not silly.” Simone’s smile is sly, knowing, and curious all at once. “Did you get him a gift?”
“I did, but I’m not telling you what it is, big mouth.” I wag a finger at her. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten his birthday. So much for surprising him, thanks to you.”
Simone’s unrepentant laughter billows out, and she looks young and carefree. Not too long ago, we discovered her lifeless on Kenan’s bed. I saw her at the lowest point of her short life. Watching her now, you’d never know that less than a year ago she was that same troubled girl.
“Talked to your grandmother?” I ask.
I turn everything off and grab the phone, heading out of the kitchen. I pad barefoot through the immaculate living room, the foyer with its soaring ceiling and massive chandelier. I knew Kenan was a wealthy man, of course, but his apartment on the Upper West Side, though luxurious, didn’t prepare me for his sprawling home in La Jolla, one of the most elite parts of San Diego.
“Yeah,” Simone replies, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “She’s loving the cruise with her ‘girls.’” She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes.