NoHo Noir Short Fiction: 'Love the One You're With'

When Lyla Fox got home, the first thing she smelled as she walked into the house was the delicious aroma of Indian takeout. She followed her nose to the kitchen where she found Celia and Larissa sitting at a table loaded with enough Styrofoam containers to fill their recycling bin.

Toluca Lake, CA 91602

6:23 p.m.

“Hello my darlings,” she said theatrically, mimicking their paternal grandmother’s customary greeting. She blew them a kiss as she headed for the fridge to pull out a bottle of white wine. It had been a Chardonnay kind of day.

She brought her glass over to the table and slumped down in her chair, content to sip the wine while watching her daughters eat. Larissa was wearing her sister’s engagement ring and admiring the way it looked on her hand, which was still little girl chubby although the rest of her had thinned out when she’d hit a growth spurt last summer.

“How’s Erik,” she asked and Celia wrinkled her nose.

Oh no, Lyla thought.

“She’s mad at Erik,” Larissa announced gleefully. That annoyed Celia, who put down her fork and held out her hand.

“Give me back my ring. You’re going to get it dirty.” That annoyed Larissa, who made sure to drag her hand through the Chicken Tikka-Masala sauce before handing it back.

“Oh for God’s sake Lara,” Celia said in disgust. “You are such a brat.”

I know you are, but what am I? Lyla thought.

“I know you are,” Larissa said, “but what am I?” With a smirk, she grabbed a samosa and left the table.

Celia made a big show of polishing her ring, huffing as she did so. Lyla examined her first born. She loved Celia but she was such a drama queen.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Celia said, as she slid her ring back on her finger. It caught at her knuckle and she had to push it to make it fit, which clearly annoyed her.

Lyla swallowed the rest of her wine and poured herself another glass. “You want some?” she asked, holding out the bottle.

“No thanks.”

“No?”

“Mom. I don’t want any wine. Jesus.”

Oh no, Lyla thought. You're pregnant.

She sipped at her wine and waited.

“I’m pregnant,” Celia blurted out.

“Honey, that’s wonderful,” Lyla said, thinking, it isn’t wonderful, is it?

“I’m not sure it’s Erik’s.”

Oh crap.

“That sounds complicated.”

“You have no idea,” Celia said.

Oh yes I do, Lyla thought.

“Is it that guy from your old writing group?”

Celia looked up, startled. “How did you know?” Lyla almost laughed. Even after all these years, Celia still thought it was magic the way her mother could figure out what she was thinking.

It’s not rocket science sweetie. Ever since he came to your Christmas party you’ve been talking about him.

“Lucky guess,” Lyla said and picked up a fluffy piece of naan. Scooped up some tamarind chutney with it. “What’s his name … Dell?”

“Dale. Dale Robitaille.” Celia fidgeted with her ring. “He asked me to be his writing coach.”

She looked at her mother to gauge her reaction but Lyla had long ago perfected the “mom mask” of bland neutrality.

Writing coach? Good one.

“He’s a really good writer,” Celia said defensively.

“Better than Erik?”

Celia grimaced. “Different. He’s edgier than Erik. Not as … squidgy.”

So he’s a bad boy, Lyla thought. God save us from the bad boys.

“Does he know about the baby?”

“God no. And neither does Erik.”

And they never will, Lyla thought.

“And they never will,” Celia said softly. Her head was bent over her plate but Lyla could see that she was crying. “I made the appointment today. Will you come with me?”

Oh sweetie. Are you sure?

Are you really sure?

Lyla took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it. “Of course I will,” she said. “But what happens next? You just marry Erik and move on with your life?”

“I can’t leave Erik,” Celia said impatiently. “He’s my writing partner.”

Celia used a paper napkin to dry her eyes and blow her nose.

“We just signed a three-picture deal.”