At first, I thought someone had slipped a hit of acid into my Aviation cocktail. There was this weird, trippy, muddy-headed dizziness, a warping in my mind that made me close my eyes tightly against it. When I opened them, I was no longer standing but seated on a huge area rug. It was one Evie had dragged up from my apartment just for the party.
It was only my second drink, so there was no way I was anywhere near drunk. We hadn't opened the Absinthe yet, so I couldn't exactly blame it on the hallucinogenic alcohol either. So, what else could it have been? And then it struck me.
"Asshole!" I stood up and yelled across the roof of my three-story building. I grinned, lopsided and silly. Not my usual language, but really, who drugs you at your own birthday party? "Who slipped me the acid?"
I was angry, but I was having a difficult time remaining that way.
Not a single person turned to acknowledge my outburst, let alone give an answer.
The party was in full force. I had to hand it to Mari and Evie. They'd done a bang-up job with the whole surprise shebang. Streamers and twinkling lights like windswept diamonds were strung a few feet above our heads, swaying in the ocean breeze as music drifted across the roof and floated out into the breezy night to be lost over the rolling sea. Mirth tangled and entwined with it all.
Mari had sworn to me there would be no party. We were going to have a quiet girls' night in—just her, me, Katya, Rachel, and Evie. Her promise echoed in my memory: "I swear to you Nika, absolutely, no way, are we planning anything over the top. Just some takeout of your choice, lots of champagne, lots of cake, and lots of chick flicks. A very quiet ringing-in of your twenty-fifth. But for the record, I think you're nuts." And then she hugged me, kissed both cheeks, and dashed off. I should have known she was up to something by the minx-like twinkle in her eyes.
My heart soared, even through the haze of the assumed drugging.
Everyone had shown up, including quite a few extras I didn't know. I briefly glanced down at a sleeping figure on the sofa, one of the many pieces of furniture belonging to my best friend Evie. Seth and Lucas probably helped drag it up here. Ethan may have even lent a hand; it was a heavy piece of furniture. I wasn't exactly sure who had been in charge of what, but I was sure they were the best handful of friends a girl could wish for—awesome friends, in fact. They had all chipped in and worked so hard to make this secret a success.
The party was all the doing of Evie and Mari, all their planning and plotting for a big unforgettable birthday celebration, and it was a great turnout. At least forty-five people milled about on the revamped rooftop above the three-story 1920s hotel that had been converted into apartments decades ago. Once upon a time, this had been the hot spot, crowning jewel of Long Beach. It rested right across the street from a swanky, beachside nightclub of the roaring twenties, and diagonally from the infamous Villa Riviera. It was rumored certain celebrities of that era had kept apartments at the Villa, where they'd also kept their mistresses. Another tale was that some of them, long since turned spectral, still roamed the halls of the grand establishment.
In its heyday, my building would get the overflow from the Villa after-parties. It didn't possess as many glamourous tales, but it did have its fair share of ghosts wandering its antiquated halls. There were sixteen apartments contained within, each one with its own spooky tale. We'd dubbed the premises The Gothic Melrose Place a few years back due to the fact at least half of the place was inhabited by people of the gothic-alternative set. And, well, then there were the haunts.
Mari had been the last of us to move in, and with her arrival, the once grey and dreary roof was transformed into a small, city skyline oasis. She'd installed a lovely little garden, trellises and lanterns, and comfortable outdoor seating. It was the perfect outdoor sanctuary after a hard day of cubicle farming, waiting tables, or in my case, being a "Hollywood Someone's" Girl Friday. Tonight, it had been further modified into party central, once again becoming the hot spot it used to be.
There was loud music, dancing, drunkenness, noshing, snogging, and laughing. Someone even strung up a bat piñata—now that was most likely a William addition. We both loved our bats. It was currently being massively bashed in by some tipsy partiers. Trinkets and treats were beginning to spill forth, causing a loud round of cheers and diving—grown adults, mind you, not children.
Oh, how I love my friends.
There was absolute revelry taking place. My grin blossomed wider. Life was perfect, and I was elated.
My five-year stint as a Personal Assistant to a Tinsel Town bigwig was worth all the sacrifices made. The payout was substantial at the end. All the late-night calls to fetch Chinese takeout and videos, the last-minute requests for client airport pickups, the personal shopping, the mega-crazy event planning, and sometimes even being a pseudo chef, wrapped up just two weeks ago. Just in time too. The anxiety and stress levels had reached a peak no amount of Tums could assuage. I couldn't handle the long bouts of sitting in Los Angeles traffic any longer or the insane hours. It was time to take care of me. It was time for my dreams.
There was finally money in the bank, and it was more than enough to cover rent and bills. By no stretch of the imagination was I anywhere close to being a millionaire. But I certainly wasn't hurting, and I wouldn't be for quite some time. No more Ramen noodles or PB and J for this girl!
The past few years, nearly every moment of my life had belonged to someone else. I'd been on call 24-7. The forfeit of my time, all the hard work and careful budgeting, would be resulting in closing on the perfect, five-room bungalow on Broadway next week. My life was mine again, and I would take up my mother's business where it left off when she died.
She'd had a wonderful little shop that was a combination coffee, tea, and bookshop. She, along with her best friend Amelie, had baked all the delectable and magical little confections and pastries themselves, as well as hand blending their own brand of teas.
Thinking back on the shop was always a morsel of bittersweet. I'd grown up from infanthood behind the counter and in the kitchen. I'd cut my teeth on biscotti and various book bindings, graduating in middle-school to busser, and then barista in high school. During what would have been my college years—had I chosen that route rather than following in her bohemian, witchly-hearted footsteps—my mum taught me some of her more difficult secret recipes passed down through her family's maternal side. I never knew until much later they were somewhat on the unusual side of the cooking arena. Other moms didn't prepare food like my mum. Lavender infused butter was always utilized for her Slumber cookies, while Mugwort and Elderflowers were added to the Dream cookies, and her teas were all mysterious and purposeful.
A haze of sadness drifted over me. Her death was still something of a mystery. A cold case the cops called it. They'd chalked it up to a botched break-in, assuming she'd startled the killer when he slipped into her shop through the unlocked back door while she'd been closing up for the night. It was a Friday night. The shop always stayed open until two a.m. on Friday and Saturday to accommodate those coming back from clubs and parties—the night owls and insomniacs of the neighborhood. They'd assured me it had been fast. A sharp blow to the back of the head, which she probably never saw coming. There'd been no sign of a struggle. It was a small comfort. I missed her deeply every day.
Certain details would never leave me. I'd been scheduled to work that night, but a last-minute ticket to a concert fell into my lap from Evie to see Dead Can Dance at the Wiltern Theatre. Mum wanted me to spend more time with my friends and insisted on covering my shift. So, I'd ecstatically joined them. It had been the night I met Robert. It never sat right with me that the culprit was able to just slip into our shop. Mum was always vigilant about keeping the doors locked when she was there alone, particularly at night. Guilt, happiness, and unanswered questions had a way of taking over my brain whenever I let myself dwell too long on the incident.
Mum wouldn't want me to be sad on my birthday or be reflecting on something I had no power to change. So, I shook myself out of it and brought my thoughts back to the happier events at hand, like my shop.
Sweet Alchemy, named after my mum's shop, was set to open in a month. It would be a warm and cozy home away from home in which to read, relax, and enjoy all the items crafted from her recipe book.
Being completely over my ex was an additional perk. The demise of that somewhat toxic relationship left me feeling deeply adrift and betrayed for close to a year, but I was done with all that. Enough time had passed, and I was more than ready to jump back into the dating pool.
I looked good, felt good, and had wonderful friends. I was truly happy and aglow from the absolute contentment of it all.
Life was freaking awesome.
I took in the great view of the lights of Ocean Boulevard. Headlights and taillights blazed along the busy thoroughfare; people all eager to get somewhere on this beautiful Friday night.
I turned my gaze to Queensway Bay and the "island" lying just a quarter mile or so offshore. It was also brightly illuminated, as if for my celebration tonight, and resplendent with colorful, flowing waterfalls.
Closing my eyes, I lifted my face to the night, enjoying the ocean air ruffling through my hair, not caring if the wind was displacing my carefully positioned and pinned curls and waves. Its caress felt too good to be bothered.
My gaze drifted in the opposite direction, to the Villa Riviera sitting catty-corner across the street from my place. It was a historic, sixteen-story French Tudor Gothic structure built in 1929. I completely agreed with an article I'd read recently, calling it the city's "most elegant landmark." It was a wonderful sight to be greeted with every morning when I opened my French doors to let in the salted breeze of early morning. The building was topped with a steeply pitched copper roof, tarnished by a green patina, which not only had a lit bell tower in the center, but the entire roof was aglow in lights. Thanks to whoever gifted my drink with the heavy dose of drugs, it seemed like the fierce-looking gargoyles perched high up along the ledges of the uppermost floors were moving about in front of the bay windows, as if patrolling their home.
My smile grew at the thought. I adored those gargoyles. In the more reckless days of my youth—okay, just last summer—my best guy-pal, Ethan, and I would sit fearlessly on the outcropping right outside his apartment window. With our arms wrapped around the necks of the gargoyles that flanked his tenth-floor window, we'd spend hours taking in the night as we reveled in our lives and what was yet ahead, soaking up the sights and sounds of the sprawling city from high up on our perch.
I sighed, fully contented.