He drops in on his old acting class in the Valley. He spends a lot of time at the gym. He goes on YouTube and watches old Birds of California clips for a while, which is weirdly enjoyable—turns out it was a pretty good show, with sharp dialogue and the occasional bit of slapstick and a knack for tearjerker montages set to acoustic covers of classic rock songs. He’d forgotten what a gifted comedian Fiona could be when she wanted to, all perfect timing and elastic expression, her delivery always dead-on.
Sam blows out a breath, leaning his head back against the couch and sifting his hands through his hair. He knows he needs to be honest with her, to talk to her about Birds, but he doesn’t trust her not to bite his head off the second he brings it up. The last thing he wants to do is lose her. But it feels like he’s running out of time.
Still, Sam reminds himself, they might have gotten famous for playing precocious teenagers on television, but they aren’t actually kids anymore. They can have actual conversations. He’ll take her out, he decides—somewhere nice with white tablecloths and flattering lighting, the kind of place where they call french fries frites.
And okay, he doesn’t really know how he’s going to afford to do that at this particular moment, but whatever. He’ll figure it out.
He shuts his laptop with a confident click, then digs his phone out from between the couch cushions. Want to hang out tonight? he texts.
Can’t, she replies. It’s Claudia’s birthday.
Sam thinks about that for a moment. Asks himself, not for the first time, exactly how deep he’s prepared to get in here. I like birthdays, he types, then hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
Seriously? Her reply is immediate. You want to come to my sister’s birthday?
Well, now he feels like an asshole. But: in for a penny, et cetera. I mean, only if you want me to. I’m not going to bust in through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man.
The dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. It’s close to a full minute before her reply comes through. Yeah, okay, she says. I want you to.
He’s expecting a dozen teenyboppers but instead it’s just Fiona and her dad and Estelle when he shows up, with Sam Cooke on the stereo and the sliding door wide open to the warm evening breeze. Claudia is wearing a long pink skirt made of tulle that looks like cotton candy, a crop top, and a pair of Nikes. “Samuel,” she says, sounding exactly like Fiona. “Nice to see you again.”
“Um, you too.” He had no idea what to get her but he didn’t want to show up empty-handed so finally he went to a costume shop in West Hollywood and got her a five-dollar plastic tiara. “Happy birthday,” he says, handing it over. Claudia grins and pops it on top of her head.
“She had a party with her friends, too,” Fiona assures him, passing him a pitcher of lemonade spiked with basil and ginger and nodding in the direction of the backyard. “My family is tragic, but it’s not that tragic.”
Sam shakes his head. “This doesn’t feel tragic,” he says, and it actually doesn’t. They’ve draped a cloth over the patio table and lit candles, strung little white lights all through the trees. There are glass jars full of herbs and flowers lined up at the center of the table alongside an enormous spread of food: chicken, hummus, pita, all kinds of pickled veg. “This is amazing,” Sam says, taking a second helping even though technically he’s only supposed to be eating 1,500 calories a day right now. “Did you guys cook all this?”
“Oh god no,” Fiona says, reaching for the tabbouleh. “It’s murder chicken.”
“Murder chicken?” Sam repeats, and Claudia nods.
“The guy who owned the restaurant put on a white silk suit and went out one day and murdered his mom and sister,” she explains pleasantly, scooping some hummus onto her pita. “Then he shot himself in the head.”
Sam stops chewing. “I’m sorry,” he says, “what now?”
“Hey,” Fiona’s dad says with a tired-looking smile, pointing a drumstick in his direction, “you asked.”
“I did,” Sam admits faintly. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the guy seems nice enough, if a little schleppy and quiet. “And the whole operation didn’t shut down after that?”
Claudia shrugs. “I mean,” she points out, “it’s very delicious chicken.”
Sam shakes his head, looking across the table at Fiona. “That would be your restaurant of choice.”
“It’s her birthday,” Fiona says, nodding across the table at her sister. Sam likes watching them together: how easy they are with each other, how comfortable and funny they are. He and Adam get along fine, but it isn’t like this. “I just made a helpful suggestion.”
Sam helps her clean up after dinner, wrapping the murder chicken in plastic and loading the plates into the dishwasher. As Fiona is boxing up the leftover birthday cake she swipes one sneaky finger through the frosting, but before she can lick it off Sam catches her hand and slips it into his own mouth instead, tasting the cloying sweetness of the sugar mixed with the salt of her skin. Fiona swallows hard, the muscles in her throat moving. “That was mine,” she protests softly.
“Oops,” Sam says, and goes back outside to get more plates.
Fiona’s dad has disappeared into the house, but Claudia and Estelle are taking glamour shots in the fading light, cooing about the magic hour; Sam is gathering up the glasses when Estelle puts a hand on his arm. “Sam, honey,” she says quietly. She’s wearing a long sparkly gown and a pair of heels so high he’s immediately concerned about her old-lady ankles. “Listen.”
Sam turns to look at her. Something about the tone in her voice has him expecting the kind of speech Jamie’s character might have given to one of Riley’s potential boyfriends on Birds of California: If you hurt her I’ll cut your balls off and put them in the Vitamix or something. Well, Jamie’s character wouldn’t have said that, exactly—the Family Network had very strict rules about vulgarity of any kind—but that would have been the gist. Maybe the dialogue will be a little spicier on Family After Dark.
Now he looks at Estelle and holds both hands up, conciliatory. “Whatever you’re about to say,” he blurts, “I know you all are protective of Fiona. And rightfully so. She’s been through a lot. But I care about her, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her on purpose. So you don’t have to worry about that.”
Estelle looks at him for a moment, a wry, knowing smile playing over her brightly painted lips. “Those champagne flutes can’t go in the dishwasher, cupcake,” she tells him. “They’re crystal.”
Sam feels himself blush from the bottoms of his feet clear up to his hairline. “Oh,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Um, good to know.”
“They’re the real thing, and they’re delicate.” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s all I was going to say.”
Eventually Sam wanders down the hall to pee, then stops in the door of Fiona’s room on the way back. He’s not sure what he’s expecting—chaos, maybe, shit everywhere—but instead it’s calm and tidy, a pale quilt smoothed over the queen-size mattress and little jars of essential oils lined up on the dresser. There are framed photos of her and her sister, plus one of her and Thandie with their arms around each other, so young they look like they’re going to a middle school dance. The smell of vanilla and sandalwood hangs in the air. He’s just wandering over toward her bookshelf when he hears Fiona’s voice behind him: “Looking for drugs?”
Sam turns to look at her leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and a half smile on her face like she’s onto him. “Guns, actually.”
Fiona nods seriously. “Guns are in Claudia’s room.”
“I was going to check there next.” Sam turns back to the bookcase, his gaze skipping across the titles: plays, mostly, but a decent amount of fiction, an essay collection or two. The shelves are stuffed to the gills, bowing a little bit. It’s no wonder she and Erin got along. “Oh-ho!” he crows, prying a paperback copy of The Alchemist out from between a gruesome-looking true crime book and a battered hardcover of The Velveteen Rabbit. “What do we have here?” he asks, holding it aloft in victory.
Fiona rolls her eyes. “I never said I hadn’t read it,” she says, crossing the room and taking it out of his hand before tossing it onto the bed. “I’ve read a lot of things.”
“I know you have,” Sam says quietly. He turns back to the bookcase and runs his finger along the spines until he gets to Weetzie Bat, pulling it off the shelf and holding it up. “Can I borrow this?” he asks.
Fiona’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” He shrugs. “You’ve read mine. I want to read yours.”
Fiona looks at him for a long moment like she’s waiting for the gotcha. “Fine,” she says, when she’s satisfied there isn’t one coming. “If you promise to bring it back.”