Pushing him aside, the drive over to Dahlia and River’s makes me reflective, thinking about what brought me here. My uncle was diagnosed with cancer shortly before I graduated high school. I wanted to be close to him for as long as he had left, so at the last minute I chose the University of Southern California for college. My parents had already planned to retire to Florida after I graduated, so when they got the call, together we went to help my uncle through his illness. Sadly, he died before I finished my freshman year. After that, my parents decided to move to Florida, but I stayed. I was already entrenched in life at school. And once I finished there, I had no reason to return to the windy city, so I made Laguna my new home base. Actually, I chose to follow Dahlia, which in turn led me back to Laguna. And it all worked out wonderfully.

I was extremely lucky to get a job at Sound Music right after graduation. My uncle had forged an amazing relationship with the owner of the magazine, Josh Wolf, and he hired me as a columnist fresh out of school. By the time Dahlia completed her MBA, I was managing the new releases department and she came to work for me. But then tragedy struck and we thought Dahlia lost her fiancé. With her grief paralyzing her, she wasn’t able to work there anymore. But her fiancé hadn’t actually died. He returned three years later. By then she was already in love with someone else. I was actually the catalyst behind her new relationship. She had met a man years ago in college and I knew she was interested in him. So when River Wilde, the lead singer of the Wilde Ones, agreed to be interviewed by Sound Music Magazine, I knew just the person to conduct the interview. And now, almost two years later, I’m headed to Dahlia and her husband River’s house in the Hollywood Hills for dinner.

We actually haven’t seen each other since the chaos of the holidays and I haven’t gotten to see the wedding pictures or the pictures from their honeymoon in Paris either. I’m looking forward to catching up. Work has been so crazy that I haven’t been around much. The boss’s son has assumed the management role at the magazine and he has me running from city to city in a million different directions . . . interview this person, no wait I’m dumping that label so instead see if this person has a comment. It never ends. I’ve always loved my job, but right now, not so much. Especially since he told me he’s expanding from music to music and entertainment. He even hired some Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist from the New York Times to manage the entertainment side. I guess she worked for E Magazine previously so she has an entertainment background. Then he had the nerve to tell me in not so many words that I should be relieved I got to keep the music side. Geeez . . . thank you for that. I’ve only poured my life into my job.

I start to slow down as I approach the cul-de-sac where Dahlia and River live. Their late 1940s–style ranch is suspended high above the city with a large modern circular staircase leading to a beautiful pair of Art Deco double doors. The landscaping is beautifully kept with wildflowers peeking out in between eclectic rocks, and every corner is anchored with palm trees. The house is breathtaking, but Dahlia’s favorite part is the view of the Hollywood sign from her backyard. I have to agree—it’s pretty cool.

Dahlia has always been a lover of the outdoors. She runs, hikes, and swims. Me, I’m a lover of the indoors. I jog on the treadmill, work out with my trainer each morning at five a.m., and go to yoga class every Monday and Wednesday night. Dahlia says I have a type A personality and I definitely do. One reason we get along so well is because she’s a free spirit and my quirks don’t bother her. Although living together in college was a challenge. She’s anything but neat, but she made an attempt for my sake. She’d stuff everything away either inside the closet or in her drawers so I didn’t have to see the mess. I just tried not to look on her side of the room. Honestly, it made me a little anxious to see the disarray. Even going to her house gives me anxiety sometimes. It’s just that I believe everything has a place, and let me put it this way—she doesn’t.

As I pull into the driveway, my eyes dart first to the garage. The door is open and bottles, buckets, and rags are all over the place. Then I see the burnt orange RX-7 parked behind Dahlia’s car. I thought Dahlia had said River’s cousin was coming to dinner, but now I wonder if she hadn’t meant to say her nephew. Maybe Trent traded in his uncle’s car for that thing. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know River had a cousin.

My patent leather heels hit the pavement and I turn to retrieve the clear Sprinkles bag. The thought of the white, not chocolate cupcakes is still making me seethe with anger when I feel myself sliding across the driveway. I lose my balance and my purse flies in one direction as the bag travels in the other, and I land on my knees. Yuck . . . Oh my God, what am I sitting in?

I slowly stand up and survey the damage. My palms, as well as my knees, are covered in black goo. I glance down at my cropped red jacket, the one I bought to wear next month on Valentine’s Day, which seems to be fine, but the matching sheath dress has a slight tear at the kick pleat. And my shoes, my favorite Kate Spades, are scratched and the patent leather is torn off one of the toes. I blow a piece of hair out of my eyes that must have freed itself from my headband and carefully gather my things, using only my fingertips.

I trudge up the endless flight of stairs as my chunky glass necklace flaps against my collarbone. I ring the bell with my pinky finger.

“You made it,” Dahlia calls out cheerfully as she swings the door open.

She looks beautiful as always. An ivory colored sweater hangs off her shoulder, her jeans have a slight tattered look above her black converse sneakers, and her hair is draped over to one side. I have to say I envy her. It takes me three times longer than her to get ready, and she always looks perfect.

“Holy shit, what happened to you, Aerie?”

Frowning, I try not to cry as I hand her the bag of cupcakes with the box now turned upside down. “I slipped in the driveway.”

She takes the bag and drops it on the floor in the foyer.

I’m sure the dessert is beyond repair at this point.

Her eyes sweep over me. “Aerie?”

I take a deep breath and let it out. She knows me; she knows how upset I am about my filthy outfit.

She grabs my purse and sets it down next to the clear bag then reaches for my hand. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

I clench my fist so the grease doesn’t get on her, but not fast enough. When our palms touch, she yanks hers away and scrutinizes her hand. “Oh my God! River!” she yells out as she takes a firmer hold of my hand, and tugs me from the entryway. We cross through the family room and into the kitchen where she pushes a chair near the sink. “Sit here. I’ll be right back. Let me just go get something to clean the grease off you.”

Alone in the room, I look around the kitchen. It’s modern, but not stark. The twelve-light ultramodern fixture that hangs from the ceiling must be at least eight feet long and lights the area well. And where you would normally find cupboards, there are thick glass shelves filled with cups, plates, and bowls of all different colors, shapes, and sizes—so shabby chic, so Dahlia. The floor is a mix of black and white swirled together—almost gray, like his eyes. Again he’s in my thoughts.

My eyes rest on the counters as I try to distract myself. They are surprisingly clear of clutter. And the jet-black granite with white pearl splashed throughout adds a sparkle of light to what might otherwise appear dull. The high bar, complete with curvy black stools, bridges the kitchen to the living room. Her house is definitely a home.