A Maladaptive Christmas Interlude

Griffin squinted into the windshield, one hand on the wheel and the other hovering just below the sun visor in a vain attempt to block the setting sun. The sky over Los Angeles had gone golden and blurry up ahead as the dark was taking over behind us.

We had entered a postcard-perfect residential neighborhood that made the one we lived in look like the rough part of town by comparison, and we did not live in the rough part of town. Every second house had a coordinated holiday display with warm white lights, tasteful wreaths, and not a single bulb askew or an inflatable Santa in sight. It was pretty, if lacking in any discernible character quirks. Not like our house, where the multi-colored lights wrapped unevenly around the trunk of the lemon tree in our front yard and up as far into the branches as it could reach before we said “good enough”.

Griffin swerved as a party bus, picking up its inhabitants for the evening to the tune of a Mariah Carey Christmas song which shall not be named, veered too close to our lane like it had booze in its tank instead of fuel.

“That song might be the death of me, but not today, ladies! This is not how we die!” he exclaimed.

From the backseat came a voice, laughing, but also somewhat alarmed. “Where are you taking me?!”

That was Hannah, my best friend since the fifth grade. A proponent of new age wisdom with low-key witch vibes, she was the only person I’ve ever known who could make me believe in psychic phenomena despite trying really hard not to, and pull off wide leg corduroys (though she generally kept them on in my presence).

She was sharing the back seat with my tote bag of randomness, a yoga mat, and a poinsettia she brought as a gift that was shedding its leaves all over the back seat like a bad omen.

“I thought we were going to your friends’ house,” Hannah said, peering out the window. “You did not tell me we were going to a Christmas party in Beverly Hills.”

“We’re not in those Hills,” I said, twisting in my seat to look at her. “We are going to our friends’ house. It’s just… a very large house. In a very nice neighborhood. But it’s not, like, a big celebrity mansion or anything.”

In hindsight, maybe I was lying a little, but going to a party on Christmas Eve at the home of well-known podcaster Styles Chilton and his former-model-turned-animal-rescuer Willow, had not been the original plan.

We were planning to have a quiet Christmas at our L.A. house. I was so excited about it that the conversation with my parents ended up only being mildly traumatizing.

“Well,” said my mother over speakerphone with a sharp inhale that meant ‘you always ruin everything’, “I guess we’ll just do Christmas without you.”

Griffin had tried to make it better by joining in. “We’re hoping to come home in the new year,” he said. “Flights are just…”

“Expensive,” I declared, as if no one had ever made that observation before.

“And crowded,” he added, as if that was the real reason.

“And I’m working,” I said with a tone of finality. It was true, and as close to the real reason we had elected to stay in L.A. for Christmas as I could give without being insulting.

From the other end of the call came the soft, gravelly grunt of my father, who had evidently meandered into the orbit of the phone’s reach, but stayed far enough away to prevent the heinous 5G waves from reading his mind and sending secrets to the government.

“It’s fine,” my mom finally said. “You never were built for Niagara winters, anyway”, as if they had found me on their doorstep instead of me being spawned from their own ‘built-for-Niagara-winters’ loins.

When Griffin and I had decided that we weren’t flying back for Christmas, it did occur to me that meant Hannah would be on her own. She always spent Christmas with us. We had this tradition where the three of us, in an attempt to find something to watch we could all agree on, would binge watch entire seasons of the X-Files. I couldn’t bear the thought of her doing it alone, and she booked the flight literal seconds after I invited her.

Hannah had already arrived when the invitation to the party came in, but Styles and Willow were more than gracious about us bringing Hannah along. The more the merrier!

She leaned forward between the seats, hugging her arms around her knees. “Is what I’m wearing okay? I didn’t pack for a glamorous Hollywood party.”

“You look adorable,” I reassured her. She was wearing a cozy knit sweater with a glittering pinecone pin on it, the aforementioned corduroys, and fuzzy socks inside her Blundstones. She wore her gleaming silver hair in two perfect messy buns. And on her face, not a hint of makeup, just flawless skin with the most incredible laugh lines a 43-year-old woman could have. Unlike mine, which made my forehead look like I was in a constant state of worry and confusion (Hi. Hello. You got me.)

“But more importantly, how do I look?” asked Griffin, pressing the button on his ugly Christmas sweater that made the little lights all over it start flashing, himself flashing a goofy gaping grin in the rear-view mirror for Hannah’s benefit.

“You look like a Vegas casino,” she quipped.

“New achievement unlocked!” he replied. “Just in case anyone takes me seriously about anything tonight.” Swoon. I always loved that he had a mostly non-serious way about him. Mostly.

“Seriously though, Han. They’re chill people. Yeah, they have money and they’re all gorgeous, but they’re not, like, Hollywood,” I said, punctuating that last word with air quotes.

“You keep saying that like it should mean something to me,” she said. “Not Hollywood how?”

“Not the doing coke in the bathroom on their private jet kind of Hollywood,” Griffin said.

“Why would they need to do the coke in the bathroom if it’s their own private jet?”, Hannah asked, making perfect sense.

“The point is, they’re more normal than you think,” I added.

“I don’t know if that makes me feel better,” she said.

We fell into a comfortable silence for a few blocks. And then Hannah, in her classic low-key tone, dialed straight into the topic I was dreading and hoping to avoid, because she could read me like a billboard 20 feet away.

“So, remind me again what you’re doing out here?” she asked. “Still freelancing? Any good gigs?”

I hated lying to Hannah. Not just because I loved her, but because she always fucking knew it. What she didn’t know, or in fact, what no one back home knew, was what we were really doing in L.A. That it wasn’t just an upgrade to Griffin’s massage therapy client list, nor was I still writing user guides for sex toys (seriously, nice work if you can get it).

Whatever you want to call it - fate, luck, the planets aligning in my All Your Dreams Will Now Come True At Once house - I was still in so much disbelief about the events that led to us moving to L.A. that I made Griffin promise that we didn’t tell anyone because, well, no one would have believed us.

How could I tell Hannah that country music superstar River Deane invited me to sing on a record with him after randomly hearing me sing at a karaoke bar? How could I tell her that his friend Styles ended up falling head over heels for a story I wrote and now we're co-creating a web series together? That the two of them were competing for my time and attention?

How could I tell her, or anyone, that all my wildest daydreams were coming true, and that I was teetering dangerously on the edge of fucking everything up? No fucking way. I had to keep her out of the loop.

All I could say was, “Yeah, a couple of projects. Very creative. Very collaborative.”

“Very cryptic and ambiguous,” she replied.

“You don’t believe me?” If anything, I thought what I had said was the most believable version of the truth.

“Babe, I believe you’re working on something,” she said. “But it’s the lie by omission of literally every detail that gets my tarot cards in a twist. Why you gotta be so mysterious?”

“Why you gotta be on my case? It’s just how I’m rolling these days,” I laughed.

Griffin, who had been listening to our conversation, piped up. “When we have news of a number one single or an academy award, you’ll be the first to know, Han.”

I could not believe he just said that. I was trying to pick my jaw up off the floor to throw it at him in retaliation for hinting at my secret endeavors, but then Hannah laughed.

“Alrighty then,” she said, sitting back in her seat, interpreting Griffin's joke as only a joke. She was satisfied, for the moment, anyway. Griffin for the win.

I turned to look out the window, cheeks flushed from the effort of concealing, not just from Hannah, but also from Griffin, that while singing with River was a thrill, Styles’ belief in my writing had unlocked something in me that made working with him fulfilling in ways I had never imagined, to put it delicately.

“And the Grammy goes to… Riptide! River Deane and Cara Becker.

The spotlight hit me and River on stage as we accepted our Grammy for Best Country Duo Performance. “Riptide” had gone straight to number one on the charts upon release and became Spotify’s most listened to song of the year.

River handed the award directly to me as he, in the comfortable manner of someone who has accepted many Grammys in his long career, began giving thanks to those who supported us on the project.

“Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my friend and creative collaborator, Cara Becker for agreeing to step out of obscurity and her comfort zone to make this record a reality. I couldn’t, wouldn’t have done this without you Cara.”

He gave me a little hug as I handed him the award to take the mic myself, wearing an understated but glamorous gown by a designer who asked to style me for the occasion.

“I honestly don’t know what to say. I’d like to thank all of the same people who River thanked, obviously. But also, my husband Griffin, for practically forcing me to say yes to this project and believing in me.

Griffin stood in the wings, beaming.

If I hadn’t agreed to River’s invitation, I never would have met Styles Chilton, and I’d never have thought I could drag my dusty old manuscript out for him to help me breathe new life into it.

Confusion, all around me. Hushed mumbling everywhere, and some not so hushed exclamations of “What the fuck, Cara?!” The auditorium spun out of control, and I felt like someone had spiked my drink. And then the spinning stopped.

On the stage next to me, holding our Oscar for Best Original Series for Sixty-Six, was Styles, wearing an incandescent grin. The audience applauded as we made our way off the stage and instantly to a rooftop afterparty, celebrating with Hollywood A-listers.

Griffin was beside me enjoying the sights, when Willow unlinked her arm from Styles’ to come and talk to me in all her stunning, former-model glory, wearing a body-hugging champagne-colored jumpsuit and holding a flute of bubbly in her hand to match. She leaned in and whispered, “I’ve booked a suite at a swanky hotel to keep this party going. Have you ever been with a woman before? Maybe our husbands would like to watch.”

“Cara,” Griffin said gently.

“What?” I snapped back to the present, blinked rapidly.

“You look flushed. Are you okay? We’re almost there.”

“Yeah, I’m good. Should we warn her about Willow?” I glanced back at Hannah, who was picking fluffs off her sweater.

“Nah,” Griffin said. “Willow’s alright.”

“Warn me about Willow why?” Hannah asked, leaning forward and raising an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Griffin said.

“She’s just a little… uninhibited at times,” I added. “But she’s lovely. She runs an animal rescue out of the house. You’ll love her.”