“Sure!” I swear, it looks as if she wants to twirl as we step into line, staring up at the menu, holding hands.
The kind of life I want.
I notice a man nearby watching us with his phone out and realize without a doubt he’s taking photos of us.
Instead of frowning at him, I smile.
LOOK, EVERYONE! I’M HOLDING HANDS WITH A PRETTY GIRL, AND WE’RE GOING ON A DATE!
Print that on the internet for your headline, why don’t you?
We place our order, stand off to the side for a full ten minutes, then it’s off again to our gate. When we arrive, Penelope’s eyes widen, and she looks at me.
“California? What are we going to do in California?”
“Well, I have a game against the Drifters, and I thought we could do some sightseeing.”
“Ohhh, I thought your game was in Colorado. This is going to be fun. Wow! I’m…this is exciting!”
She bounces up and down, looking a lot like Skipper.
I pull Penelope in and give her a side hug, tucking her into my armpit as the gate agent begins the boarding process. We can board early if we’d like, or we can wait. It matters little to me as people stand to get in line, babies and grandmas and servicemen heading up the crowd.
Eventually, we board.
We buckle in and are served drinks, but it’s difficult to chat over the jet engine noise, and both Penn and I have noise-canceling headphones, which rules out communication. But we continue to hold hands for the short flight, and that’s even better.
Neither of us has checked luggage, so it’s a quick jaunt from deplaning to the car rental when we land. I’ve rented a sporty convertible. The weather is beautiful, and the drive will be scenic, so it’s perfect for the day trip I have planned.
After tossing the bags inside the trunk, I rub my hands together gleefully, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl.
“Ready?”
Beside me in the passenger seat, Penelope grins. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Traffic cooperates, and the estimated twenty-five-minute drive from the airport to the Getty Museum is a breeze without bumper-to-bumper cars on our trip to Santa Monica.
We make our way slowly up the long, ascending drive, the view impressive once we arrive at the top. I’ve never been here before. Never had a reason to, but so far, I’m impressed and glad I made the decision to bring her here.
When I’d sent my agent a text, asking him to help me plan a day out, he’d shot me a list in return.
The Getty
A winery
Disneyland and California Adventure
Surfing
I’d had Disney on my shortlist but decided that was a better idea for three: Penn, Skipper, and I for a long weekend. Perhaps when the season was over, and I had more dedicated free time.
To be clear, I don’t love museums.
They bore the shit out of me.
But there’s more here than just statues and art, and with panoramic views overlooking the entire Los Angeles area, I didn’t think the location could be beat. Shit, we can park ourselves on a bench and talk for hours if we want to, or walk the grounds—all seven hundred and fifty acres of it.
We’re welcomed by a member of the Getty staff, who gives me her cell phone number in case either of us wants anything. Food, ensured privacy, a guided tour, and a golf cart if we have no desire to walk are just a few of the perks of being a celebrity and the five-star treatment I hadn’t asked for.
We walk to nowhere in particular, into the large entrance hall, and toward the massive art gallery I have zero interest in actually looking at.
I’d rather study Penelope.
Is that weird?
There’s an exit at the other end of the room, and we take it, stepping into the bright California sun and heading toward the garden. We find a bench and sit, gazing out toward the city below.
“Wow,” Penn says, awestruck at the view.
“Wow is right.” Except I’m not talking about the view, I’m talking about her. Everything about her is right, especially at this moment. Her hair, her voice, her smile.
The way her eyes crinkle when she smiles at me.
It’s a sight I’ve been waiting seven years to see, and now that it’s in my grasp, I’m thirsty for it.
“They probably don’t serve hot dogs here, hey?” Her voice drifts over in the airy silence, nothing but the wind and sun surrounding us.
“I imagine we could get a hot dog, but it would probably have a lobster on top with a French baguette as the bun.”
“That actually sounds disgusting.”
“This is why I’m a football player and not a chef,” I quote one of her lines. I’m good at many things, but cooking, anything crafty, and singing are not included.
I give her a sidelong glance. “What two things do you love doing in your free time that have nothing to do with our daughter?”