Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (11 page)

They entered the outdoor courtyard, and the sharp scent of the fresh-cut grass taunted her allergies. Otherwise, the setting
couldn’t have been any more romantic: the sun had set over the towering oak trees that blinked with mini lights. They passed
a humungous talavera mosaic water fountain in the center. The setting rivaled a Lifetime Valentine movie on steroids.

“This is good. Go ahead,” he said.

“Perfect!” she said, facing him. She bluffed chipperness, when really she wanted to shake that snide, barbed tone out of him.
“So, how was your week?”

Star hoped to hear that he’d been dead lonely without her, but Theo never had a chance to respond. A hot breeze blew their
way, and it entered with the aroma of expensive designer perfume.

“Theo? Theodoro Duarte?” said a sultry, husky Demi Moore–like voice.

Star couldn’t believe it—Craft Bimbo extraordinaire, Chloe Chavez! She floated in rocking a Bumpit in her hair, looking skinnier
than embroidery thread, her eyes more hazel than brown and her face masked by thick, albeit flawless, Hollywood makeup. Her
skin sparkled with Jared jewelry and she donned a sleek black low-cut number that would have been better suited for the Academy
Awards red carpet than a small-time Scottsdale art event.

In princesslike fashion, Chloe stretched out her malnourished arm to Theo. “Pleasure to see you again, Theo. This is a much
better scene than last week, wouldn’t you say? I’m really impressed at how quickly you repaired the mural.”

“It really wasn’t a big deal,” Theo said.

“Well, congratulations. I just heard the news that Sangria is your new home.”

What did than imply?
Star wondered. It sounded like a dis on La Pachanga. She expected the homeboy to come out in Theo, and that he would set
Craft Bimbo straight. She knew Theo despised Chloe as much as she did, because of the jokes they’d crack when watching her
craft segments on TV. The projects were cool, but her delivery of them sucked, as if she was a spokesperson who knew nil about
the product.

Instead, he shook Chloe’s hand.

A sour twang flinched in Star’s stomach while a spicy vignette flashed in her mind: Star shoving the media hag into the fountain,
dragging Theo to his car, forcing the shrine in his face, and blessing him with one thousand mini kisses all over his Schick-shaved
cheeks. Star released a shaky breath and summoned positive thoughts.

She’s a reporter, just doing a story. He has to charm her; that’s his job tonight. The press will be great for him. After
we are officially “together,” I’ll become his manager and handle this stuff. Why did I decide on braids and a frumpy green
dress? Oh God, I feel sick.

“Theo, I’d like to do a feature package on you about your art, as well as being a victim of vandalism,” she said.

He must have sensed Star’s repulsion. “Ms. Chavez, this is Star Esteban, remember you interviewed her for the mural? Her parents
own La Pachanga.”

“Oh,” Chloe said, pursing her collagen-filled lips. “I’m sorry, of course, Star Esteban. I didn’t even recognize you with
the braids. You look so
different
. As a matter of fact, I visited La Pachanga today to inquire about the Happy Face Tagger. Your parents haven’t filed a police
report.”

Star tapped her fingers against her thighs to restrain her anger, shifted her weight to her other leg, and just as she opened
her mouth, Theo cut in. “Actually, we were in the middle of a personal conversation. Would you mind if we finish up?”

Chloe threw out a Renée Zellweger squint-smile. “Sure, I’ll wait inside.”

Star watched the vixen swivel on her hoochie heels and sashay back to the gallery. The name Craft Bimbo didn’t do Chloe Chavez
justice, but Crafty Bitch sure did.

Theo touched the small of Star’s back and guided her to a filigree bench in a secluded corner. This was it. Her parents’ lecture,
Ofie, the
El Solitario
comic, using THEODUARTE as her computer password—it was all for this moment. She teetered so close on the cliff of anticipation;
she could feel the shrine heating up her leg from inside her purse.

“So, what’s up?” he asked. She sat down. He didn’t.

Star crossed her feet for good luck, and prayed for the best. “I have something for you.” She reached into her bag for the
shrine, which she had meticulously wrapped in hot-pink tissue and sealed with a red velvet ribbon. The blissful moment to
come would be even better than the steamy, carefree night they spent together on their first date. Better than his hands on
her waist that first day at the thrift store.

As she pulled out her artwork, the ribbon caught on the zipper of the bag and the shrine tumbled to the ground. Star scrambled
to pick it up and offered it to him slowly and cautiously, as if it were a precious artifact she had risked her life to retrieve.

He didn’t even touch it. “What’s that?”

She ripped away the ribbon, exposing the front of the cigar box shrine. He took one glimpse and stepped away. “Estrella, don’t
do this.”

She could have slugged him. Didn’t he know how hard she had worked on that gift? She rose from the bench for a stare-down.
“Just look at it? I made it for you—it’s my art. It’s a love shrine that celebrates every facet of our friendship. That’s
what I came to tell you tonight, that I truly love you and want to be with you.”

He got up, took a couple steps, and ran his hand over his head. Star noticed a chunky silver bracelet on his wrist. Since
when did he wear accessories? Why didn’t he say anything?

“Theo, I’m going to tell you the truth about last weekend, okay?” She drew in a heavy breath. “Remember the last Friday morning
when I came over and you were changing your clothes in the other room? Well, I kinda found the wedding brochures under your
magazines on your coffee table.”

“You searched through my things?” he asked, offended.

Star spoke faster; his cold attitude made her uneasy. “No, I picked up
Urban Latino
magazine because it was the issue with Manu Chao on the cover. The brochures were under that. And then when you asked me
to dinner and said you had a surprise… I connected the dots… I knew you were going to pop the question and I wigged out. I
do want us to go to the next level, maybe not marriage, but at least… Look, everything I’m wearing are gifts you gave me!
I’m here to tell you I’m serious now! I’ve matured so much this past week.”

Theo checked out her outfit, cocked his head back, and laughed sarcastically. “Back up. You thought I was going to ask you
to marry me? Don’t flatter yourself, Estrella. Those wedding brochures were for a bridal shop. The owner wants a wedding mural
on the side of her building.” Theo looked away and shook his head. “So that’s why you assaulted my mural.”

Now it was Star’s turn to be speechless.

“I’ve told you all along, I’m never getting married,” Theo stated. “My parents have been divorced twice. What the hell gave
you the impression I wanted to settle down with you anyway?”

Star had never been more humiliated in her entire life. Even more than the day she left the house in a bra and jeans and didn’t
notice until a motor cop pulled her over for a broken taillight.

Theo turned to face her. “Estrella, didn’t we agree to go our separate ways? It hasn’t even been… what? A week?”

Star choked back tears. Why did he turn into such a jerk? What happened to him? She coveted that spark they used to share,
the way he used to rest his head on her shoulder when they watched old movies, when he’d ask her to make him her special blend
of champurrado. She had all of it for three glorious years, overflowing in her arms, and now it all slipped through her fingers
like sand. Gone. She didn’t recognize this alien jock before her, and wished for a way to draw out one teeny thread of the
old Theo.

“It’s just that…,” she whispered. “I want us to be friends again.”

“To be your friend comes with a price.”

She wished he would comfort her, hug her like old times. Instead he put his hands in his pockets. “I can’t give you any more
of myself. You sucked me dry. I need simple. I invested so much in your life; it’s time for me to focus on mine. I want to
erase the past three years so I can move forward.”

“Are you saying you regret ever meeting me?” she asked, astonished at his biting attitude.

He paused. “I’m saying I regret allowing myself to fall in love with you.”

She leaped off the bench, grabbed his tense face, and kissed his lips with all her might, as if it were all she had left to
offer. He received it willingly and for half a moment she felt electricity between them. When she finished, her heart pounded
a million times a second as she searched his expression for a clue of what would come next. He gently pushed her away.

“Go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

“But—”

“Let me go, Estrella. Please.”

Star’s chest caved and her face tingled as if a thousand needles pricked her skin. She felt her stomach crumple like a ball
of used tinfoil. The setting around her became a blur. Her plan had just been crushed. Annihilated into bitter, toxic, invisible
dust.

“Theo, are you two done yet?” Chloe crooned from the back door.

“Yes, we’re done. Come on out,” he hollered in a friendly tone, which made Star even more appalled.

“Good luck with your new life,” Star said, sharp as a cactus needle. She marched into the gallery and reached the main entrance
door. From the corner of her eye she saw Theo lounging next to a relaxed Gwyneth Paltrow–esque Chloe on the bench, engaged
in pretentious chitchat as if nothing had happened.

She reached the foyer and took one last look behind at the carnage of her night: Theo still yakking at Chloe, but oddly, Chloe
watching her.

In need of a place to unload her fury, Star turned to a young waiter. “This cookie-cutter shithole stinks. It will never be
as good as La Pachanga! Tell that to your corporate honchos!”

Star shoved Theo’s cigar box shrine in the tall rubber garbage bin. As she fled, she saw the waiter from the corner of her
eye. He tossed a stack of empty food trays in the same container, raised his leg, and shoved his foot down hard to make room
for more trash.

The shrine, just like her heart, had been demolished beyond repair.

O
h shit! Chloe, get over here, you’ll never freakin’ believe this. No, God, no, please! Don’t let this be happening!” panicked
Ezra Mendoza, Chloe’s live-in boyfriend.

Rather than leap to his rescue, Chloe remained unbothered, sprawled belly down on the taupe leather chaise that rested on
her taupe floor rug in the center of her spacious taupe mod living room. Chloe loved her some taupe.

Her fingers traipsed through the new
Martha Stewart Living
, while she offered imaginary concern. “What is it this time? You got another crease in one of your vintage anime comics?”

Ezra’s lanky body sprinted across the generous concrete floor in nothing but boxers, plaid socks, and Buddy Holly glasses.
He slid to a halt when he reached her. “Worse! I lost a collector’s edition anime DVD!”

“Lemme guess—it was
Robotechiyaki of the Astro Boy and the White Lion Sushi Something Something…”

“No, Volume One of
Neon Genesis Evangelion.
Why are we so bitchy this morning?” he said while clutching his hip bones. “Oh. I know. The sun has risen on this otherwise
happy Monday morning. That means Mommie Dearest called with her daily dose of guilt trips.”

Chloe removed her frameless Prada eyeglasses and squinted. “
What
did you just say about my mother?”

“Hold on, that was uncalled for. I apologize.” He blinked at her with despair, as if he were a spoiled child in search of
his lost nanny. “I heard you arguing and I knew it was her. Didn’t you tell her about scoring the CraftOlympics gig? She should
be proud.”

Chloe turned her face back toward her magazine so Ezra couldn’t read her expression. “She still doesn’t get it.”

“What do you expect, doll? All your family knows you hate crafts and you’re trying to claw, steal, bribe, and cheat your way
into the industry.”

Chloe deleted that despicable comment from the air, even though he was right.

“Anyway, I need your help. That DVD is valuable!”

“I brought it from work for you. It was
free
, Ezra. For God’s sake, your dad is practically the Bill Gates of the lampshade industry. Ask him to order you a new copy
from Amazon,” Chloe snarked, reluctantly closing her magazine and tossing it on the imported Parisian wood coffee table.

She sighed, bored. “There is a disc on top of the DVD player in your ‘media room,’ ” Chloe said, flicking her fingers for
air quotes. Ezra’s ”media room” consisted of a utility closet where he operated his Web design business that consisted of
three clients—including her. “I saw it there yesterday when I printed out my new head shots.”

Detached from the crisis, she sat up, slid on her taupe satin slippers, and headed for the kitchen. He trailed, holding an
invisible box in his hands. “Great, you probably used up all the ink in the cartridges. Now I’ll have to buy new ones.”

“Wrong.
I’ll
have to buy new ones, because God forbid you pay for anything,” she shouted as she switched on the coffee grinder. “And I
wouldn’t have used it if you would have completed the task in the first place. I told you I needed fifteen press kits for
my boss to send to the CraftOlympics executive committee and guess what? Once again, I had to handle it myself. So until you
pitch in around here, I can print out rainbow wallpaper if I want.”

“Why didn’t you ask Frances?”

Chloe flashed him a death stare. “How many times do I have to explain? Frances handles
local
. You handle
national
, remember?”

It didn’t take much to set Ezra straight. They both knew who drove the sugar mama gravy train and he would be an idiot to
jump off. Ezra, a self-proclaimed snooty slacker, created Web sites for a living. Correction:
Part-time
living. His penny-pinching ways were insane considering his father became a millionaire by inventing a line of cheesy lampshades
that rotated and displayed silhouettes across the room. He literally handed over tens of thousands of dollars for his son
to launch his own business, not to mention a trust fund. Yet the antiestablishment Ezra refused to spend any of it because
“he couldn’t be bought.” Although he didn’t seem to mind Chloe earning the cush so they both could enjoy a lavish existence
in a trendy north Scottsdale loft.