Chapter 2: Sunday, The Cookout at the Boss’s House

Sunday finally came, and I managed to get up earlier than usual for a Sunday. I wanted to be ready ahead of time so I could make it to the party promptly. I’d been in sunny Southern California for six months, but I was still on Midwestern time. That meant if the invitation said 1 p.m., I showed up right then—no exceptions. I wasn’t about to adopt the West Coast habit of showing up fashionably late. I was from the Midwest, and that part of me wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

On Saturday afternoon, I spent hours washing, waxing, and vacuuming my 15-year-old Honda Civic. It had been a reliable car, and I wasn’t planning on replacing it anytime soon. I had worked hard throughout my teenage years to save up enough money to buy it. There was so much of me tied up in that car. I took a lot of pride in it and intended to keep it for many more years.

The drive from my studio apartment to my boss’s place in Bel Air took forty minutes to cover eleven miles. Traffic in the Los Angeles area was much slower than what I was used to growing up in the Midwest. That’s why I made sure to leave early enough to arrive at my boss’s house on time.

I knew Bel Air was a neighborhood for the wealthy and influential, but I never fully understood the extent. The houses on my boss’s street were concealed behind high walls or dense hedges, and the driveways were gated with automatic gates.

It didn’t take me long to locate my boss’s estate—it was unmistakable. The address was clearly visible from the street, and the gate stood wide open. I was about to pull in when I noticed the valet parking. Not wanting to make a fool of myself or be judged by the valets, I opted to park on the street instead. I managed to find a spot a little farther down and walked back toward the gate. As I entered, I carefully steered clear of the groups of people chatting and sipping drinks.

As I looked around, I didn’t spot anyone I recognized from work. The people I did recognize, however, were from the entertainment world. Among the crowd were A-list movie stars, TV personalities, and a few directors and producers I had seen in interviews. I muttered a few choice words under my breath, aimed at my coworkers who had set me up. They knew exactly who this party was for and had orchestrated the whole thing, knowing I’d likely be accused of crashing the event and possibly sent home in disgrace. My anxiety and PTSD were on high alert anticipating my being detected.

Nobody had noticed me yet, and I figured I might be able to slip out without being seen. I stepped away from the crowds and carefully mapped out an escape route with the least risk of being spotted. Then, I noticed a pathway alongside the perimeter fence, hidden from view of the main garden area.

That seemed like my best chance to escape, and I figured it was a solid way to get out without being noticed. The only way to be sure was to give it a try. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and it appeared no one was. So, I casually made my way toward the path, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

I had just reached the hidden garden path and was about to congratulate myself when, only ten feet down the path, a female voice called out, “Excuse me. Can you help me?”

As I turned, I spotted a small wooden bench I hadn’t noticed during my walk, and sitting on it was a very pretty blonde girl with one foot in a boot designed to protect a broken or sprained ankle and a pair of crutches beside her.

“Would you mind grabbing me a bottle of Fiji water from the bar? I’m absolutely parched,” the blonde asked.

I cursed myself for stopping, but my parents always taught me to be a gentleman and show kindness to animals, young children, and irresistibly cute blondes around my age.

“Of course, I’d be happy to. It won’t take long. We can’t have young, beautiful women parched here,” I said, teasing. “Could you point me to the bar? I just arrived,” I asked.

The blonde had the cutest laugh when she giggled. She then told me where to find the bar, as it was near the pool and where her dad had set up the BBQ grills.

“Great,” I thought. “That just increases the chances of me getting caught. I hope she’s worth it.”

I carefully made my way through the maze of A-listers and other celebrities, including some former sports heroes I had grown up worshiping as a kid. I located a cooler filled with crushed ice and Fiji water, grabbed a couple of bottles, and carefully wove my way back to where the pretty blonde was sitting by herself. I managed to get back to the bench and handed her the bottles of Fiji water she had requested.

The blonde must have realized I was going to leave her alone and, as she thought, rejoin the party when she asked, “Would you sit and talk with me for a bit? Not many people have come by here, and I hate sitting here by myself.”

Stupidly, I sat down beside her and was instantly overcome by infatuation. She was a pretty girl, and it was so rare for anyone to talk to me, let alone be within twenty feet of me. During our conversation, I found out she was Penelope St. Croix, the only daughter of my boss at the studio. She also had a significant role in a popular TV series. Her character was on a brief hiatus while her ankle healed. I told her I worked for her father at the studio as an intern in the film archives. The college I went to was in the Midwest, somewhere between Chicago and Cincinnati, Ohio. I figured any more specific details might confuse her; after all, I was from flyover country. We were laughing and getting along so well that I didn’t even hear someone approach from behind me.

“Michael James, what are you doing here?” asked a stern James StCroix, my boss and Penelope’s father. The tone in his voice told me Monday, I’d be headed back to the Midwest in disgrace.