still no AC, but with a good wash it looks presentable. Kind of like me, I half-laugh to myself.
Exhausted after a full day of errands, I run through my mental checklist of all the prep I’ve done for this last-minute surprise visit from Liv. The house is clean; the bedding has all been changed, and I even made Liv’s favorite ranch dip. Oh, and I bought a month’s supply of wine, which I doubt will be enough. And Advil.
Liv told me to put makeup on and to “not wear sweats.” She says this like I wear sweats all the time. Which I don’t. I wear workout clothes too. I believe “athleisure” is the name. I quickly look in the rearview mirror, checking to see if my cleavage situation isn’t too much. It’s been about a decade since I’ve worn this top, and well, let’s just say gravity can do a lot over ten years. Thank God, it still fits. Working from home with little to no social life apart from going to Zumba and chauffeuring Maddie around means my regular attire has me looking like a hobo who found some leggings in a dumpster dive haul.
I don’t know what Liv has planned, but honestly, I’m a little nervous. I can tell when Liv is in “go-mode” and she’s full throttle right now. She hasn’t lived in LA for a while and she doesn’t know what it’s like anymore. She has no idea what kind of hell it is to be single in this town.
Back when Liv and I lived in Atlanta, we hardly ever had a night alone. The amount of calls that came in to our answering machine nearly wore it out. We always ran out of tape (it was a long time ago). We gave out our number like evangelists give out bibles. Except we weren’t saving souls…we were saving money! I don’t think we bought a drink in four years.
We’d go out almost every night of the week, which always began with the same ritual: 7:30 p.m.—turn on the shower and turn up the music. One of us would bathe while the other put together outfits. The bathroom would become a fog of steam, perfume, and hairspray as we perfected our looks. 9:00 p.m.—out the door with two drinks under our belt and on a mission for trouble.
As I head to the airport in my best jeans and a skimpier than I’d like tank top, I wonder what it’ll be like going out with Liv now. Things have really changed since those carefree Atlanta nights. I feel older, but none the wiser.
LAX traffic is as anticipated, slow as molasses, and inching forward to the terminal I see Liv waiting for me curbside with her bulky suitcase. She must have packed her entire closet. But she’s wearing the same fitted leather jacket that she’s worn for ages—which is still fashionable. That makes me smile, and I realize then that nothing has really changed at all. Any worries I had about her visit instantly vanish and I’m overcome with giddy excitement.
As I pull up to the curbside, I roll the windows down and turn up the first song on the playlist I made for “Liv and Bex Take LA,” and sing along at the top of my lungs. “Get outta my dreams and into my car!”
“Hi!” Liv squeals and does a little jump up and down. She heaves her suitcase into the back seat then jumps in the front seat beside me yelling, “Shotgun!”
We throw our arms around each other and I inhale her familiar perfume. It’s hard to believe we’re in the car together after so many years and miles apart. When we were little, Liv and I would always run out to my mom’s car, racing to get the front seat. We could have easily ridden our bikes to the country club pool, but Liv liked riding in my mom’s Mercedes. Liv came from a one-car family, and that one car was a total beater, so she loved riding in our convertible any chance she could. We’d always yell “Shotgun” at the same time, but Mom would say, in that slow southern drawl of hers, “Honey, let Livy ride up front.”
And now, with Liv up front beside me, I know this week will be fabulous and just what I need.
“So,” Liv cuts into my reverie and says in an authoritative tone, “first drinks, then some food, then we review your updated profiles.”
Stop the train. Did I say