Now That I've Found You Read online

  I take off my baseball cap. “That’s because I’m wearing a wig.”

  “Oh?” She stares, waiting. It takes a minute for me to realize that she wants to see my real hair. I sit up straighter, fighting nerves as I remove my wig and wig cap.

  Gigi sucks in a breath, and I wince. My hair is growing back slowly, but it’s in that in-between phase where the growth is not cute. I’d die before I let anyone other than my family or Kerri see it.

  “Why on earth did you do this, Evie Marie?” Gigi asks, running her hand tentatively over my head. “My goodness, girl.”

  “Well, I…,” I start. But I don’t know how to answer this question. “I guess I thought there was no point in having great hair if my life was so terrible.”

  She shakes her head, frowning. “You should have been proud of your thick curls. I have them too, you know.”

  “I know.” People always tell me how much Gigi and I look alike. I’ve seen the side-by-side pictures, and I won’t lie, the resemblance is a little freaky. We both have light-brown skin, round faces with high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes.

  She continues to run her hand over my head, and I lean into her touch. My scalp welcomes her massage and the fresh air. It’s just going to be Gigi and me here all week. I’ll never have to put this silly wig back on again. I feel my anxiety melting away.

  “I think it looks nice, actually.”

  I whip around at the sound of a deep, unfamiliar voice and quickly cover my head with my hands.

  I find myself staring at a tall, thin boy with deep-brown skin. His hair is cut into a fade with short dreadlocks at the top. He’s wearing ripped jeans and the same red GABRIEL’S GROCERIES T-shirt that Mr. Gabriel wore … along with one of Gigi’s aprons.

  He looks slightly familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s also seeing me without my wig and basically just heard me admit that I cut my hair because I hated my life! That is why I practically shout, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Language, young lady,” Gigi chides. Suddenly, it all clicks—his T-shirt, the voice I heard in the background when I called from the airport. This is the boy who answered Gigi’s phone a few months ago.

  “I’m Milo,” he says easily. He walks closer and holds out his hand for a shake. That’s when I notice his gold hoop nose ring. And the fact that he’s cute. Really cute. Classically handsome, as Gigi likes to say, with a square jawline, thick eyebrows, and full lips.

  I shove my baseball cap back onto my head.

  A bright smile is plastered on his face. “Milo Williams,” he continues. “We’ve met before and spoke on the phone once.”

  I stare at his shiny white teeth and shake my head. Pointedly, I say, “We’ve never met.”

  “You have,” Gigi corrects, standing up and placing her hands on my shoulders, trying her best to soothe me. “Milo and his band sang carols for us last Christmas.”

  I blink at him, trying to think back. All I really remember from that night is Gigi “surprising” my parents and me with carolers. They were four boys around my age, and they wore ridiculously ugly Christmas sweaters. One boy had a guitar, and now that I think about it, that boy might have been Milo. Another boy had a saxophone, but that’s as much as I can recall. I think they sounded okay. I don’t remember them sounding bad. But I spent most of the time texting Simone, who was in Ibiza with her girlfriend’s family for the holidays. I barely paid attention to the carolers.

  I look him up and down, and my eyes freeze at the slippers on his feet. Gigi’s slippers. I suck in a breath and point. “Where did you get those?”

  “He got them from me,” Gigi says. “He’s my guest. Really, Evie Marie. What’s gotten into you?”

  I think the correct question is what’s gotten into her? I look back at Milo, who is still sporting that easy smile. When he finally realizes I’m not going to shake his hand, he stuffs it into his back pocket and shrugs like it’s no big deal that I’m being incredibly rude.

  I’m remembering the phone conversation I had with him in May. He said that he delivered Gigi’s groceries and that he was her friend. I figured maybe they chatted a little when he dropped off her food. I definitely didn’t expect him to be walking around her house and wearing her apron and slippers!

  “Milo helped me cook this wonderful dinner for you,” Gigi says. “We’ve been in the kitchen since two o’clock.”

  Well, it’s definitely time for him to go now. Gigi and I have important things to discuss, and we don’t need an audience.

  I stand up and force a smile. Curtly, I say, “Thank you so much for helping Gigi with dinner. I guess you’d better get going soon so that you can grab dinner for yourself.”

  Milo blinks. “Oh, um. Actually—”

  “He’s staying for dinner,” Gigi finishes.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say, looking between the two of them. I have no idea what’s going on here! Who is this guy?

  Gigi shoots me an admonishing look. “He’s staying for dinner,” she repeats. “Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  Milo and Gigi walk to the kitchen side by side. Her cats trail closely behind.

  I stand there in confused silence. Gigi glances back and beckons for me to join them.

  With heavy, reluctant steps, I walk toward the kitchen, feeling like I just stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  Chapter Four

  The three of us settle around Gigi’s huge white dining table, she and Milo sitting side by side across from me. Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness” is playing on her record player, and Milo is smiling as if this is all normal. Like the Evelyn Conaway offering you hospitality and claiming you as a friend is something that happens to people every day.

  “Gigi, how long has he been delivering your groceries?” I ask.

  “Since last summer,” Milo answers, as if I directed the question to him. Gigi nods.

  So it’s been a year. Why didn’t I know this?

  Maybe you were so concerned with your own life you didn’t think to ask.

  I shake away that thought and look at the dinner in front of me. The table is covered with fried chicken (explains the smell), baked macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and corn pudding. It looks delicious, but this isn’t the kind of food that Gigi usually eats. She’s been a clean-eating vegan my whole life.

  “I made everything except for the mac and cheese,” she says proudly. “You can thank Milo for that.”

  “All I did was follow directions from your recipe,” he says. “I really can’t take credit.”

  Gigi frowns at him. “What have I told you about taking credit when it’s due?”

  He laughs and nods. “Okay, okay. You’re right.”

  It sounds childish and unreasonable, but now that I know Milo made the mac and cheese, I don’t want to eat it.

  “I thought you didn’t like this kind of stuff,” I say to Gigi, while Milo rubs his hands together and licks his lips.

  She shrugs, piling food onto her plate. “Life’s too short, baby. We might as well eat whatever makes us happy.” She pauses and then adds, “Within reason, of course.”

  Gigi says a prayer, and then she and Milo begin eating. He stuffs his face like a barbarian. Apparently, over the course of their friendship, Gigi’s never made him sit through her infamous etiquette classes like I had to.

  Gigi passes the salt to Milo, and he hands her the hot sauce. She compliments him on the mac and cheese. He tells her that her collard greens have just the right amount of kick. All the while, Otis Redding continues to croon softly in the background. It’s clear that this is a routine for them. A regular dinner on a Wednesday night. Gigi is visibly more relaxed than I’ve seen in years, and I should feel more relaxed too, happy even. But I can’t seem to pick up my fork and join in on this meal.

  My confusion morphs into agitation. I came here to see Gigi and talk to her about the ceremony, to tell her about the decision I’ve made. It’s too important not to discuss. I wish Milo would beat
it.

  Instinctively, I glance up at the clock above the stove to check the time. But this clock is new … and it’s bright red.

  “When did you buy that?” I ask, nodding at the clock.

  Gigi stops chewing and uses a napkin to dab her mouth. “Oh, Milo bought it when my old one stopped working.”

  “But it’s red,” I state, almost accusingly. Gigi hasn’t decorated her house with anything but shades of cream for as long as I’ve been alive.

  “I know.” She smiles. “It’s so bright. I like it.”

  When I glance over at Milo, he’s staring at me with a wary look on his face, a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce. Good. He should be wary.

  “So you’re in a band?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of band?”

  “It’s a funk and R&B mash-up,” he says. “Like Bruno and his band, the Hooligans … just not as good.”

  “Oh, I think you could be better than that Bruno fellow,” Gigi says. “Don’t sell yourself short.” To me, she adds, “They practice all the time. One of their videos even went virtual.”

  “You mean viral, Ms. C,” he says, laughing.

  Ms. C?

  Gigi waves her hand and says, “Yes, yes, viral.” Smiling, she turns back to me. “Milo is a very talented musician, Evie Marie.”

  This interaction is strangely similar to the way Gigi used to talk to her friends about me. I feel a tightening sensation deep in my gut. He has to want something from her. An industry connection? Money? Both?

  But it’s not just my skepticism that makes me feel this way. From the outside looking in, you’d think he was her grandchild and I was the guest.

  “Your mother told me things were going well in Botswana,” Gigi says. “I’m glad they decided to come home for a little while, though. I never liked the idea of you being there by yourself so much.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” I say, thinking of Simone. Which then makes me remember her huge Beautiful You ad in Times Square, which then makes me upset all over again.

  “When I was in middle school, we watched your parents’ documentary on global warming,” Milo says. “It was really good, eye-opening. Do you know what they’ll do after Botswana?”

  “No.” I try my best not to glare at him. Why won’t he just go away?

  Maybe the best tactic is to broach the subject little by little until he eventually leaves.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the ceremony on Sunday?” I ask Gigi.

  She looks at me and sighs. Before she can reply, the phone rings. Milo stands up to answer it, but Gigi stills him, placing a hand on his arm. “Let the answering machine pick it up,” she says.

  Milo sits back down, just as a woman’s upbeat voice leaves a message.

  “Hi, Peg,” she says. “It’s Candice calling. I was hoping you might have changed your mind about coming to the gala tomorrow night. Give me a call back. Love you.”

  Evelyn Conaway is just Gigi’s stage name. Her real name is Peggy Connor. So this woman must be a close friend if she calls Gigi “Peg.”

  “Was that Candice, as in Candice Tevin?” I ask.

  Candice Tevin is one of the most famous fashion photographers, like, ever. She and Gigi grew up together in Brooklyn, and she got her start in the ’70s, when she took a bunch of pictures of Gigi for a Vanity Fair article. Since then, she’s gone on to photograph anyone and everyone. She even took a few pictures of me once, when Gigi set up a photo shoot for my eleventh birthday. I’ve always wanted her to photograph me professionally, but who even knows if that will happen now.

  “Yes,” Gigi answers. She points at my plate. “You haven’t eaten any of your food. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Candice Tevin invited you to a gala?” I ask, ignoring Gigi’s attempts to distract me. “What kind of gala?”

  Gigi shrugs. “She thinks because I signed some photographs for her fundraiser tomorrow it means that I actually want to attend. That’s what everyone has been doing for the past month, inviting me here and there. Calling, sending things in the mail. It’s been ridiculous. I even think there was a paparazzi man outside of the house last week!” She turns to Milo. “I told you that, didn’t I? He was sitting in a black car.”

  Milo nods, then glances at me. “I don’t know if it was paparazzi, though. I don’t think it’s something either of you should worry about.”

  “Gigi, that’s perfect!” I say, waving away her paranoia. “You haven’t made a public appearance in so long. The gala can be like a warm-up for Sunday’s ceremony. You have to call her back.”

  Suddenly, Gigi gets quiet, fidgeting with her pearl necklace. Then, “I’m not going to the ceremony. You’ll accept the award on my behalf.”

  “What?” My empty stomach drops. “But, Gigi … you have to go. What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have to do anything, actually,” she says, finally putting her fork down. “And while I’m slightly flattered that they’ve chosen to honor me in this way, I’d rather not be bothered with any of it. You’ll do as I say and accept the award on my behalf, Evie Marie.”

  No. No, no, no.

  I stare at her with the sudden realization that my well-laid plans are unraveling in front of me. This is going to ruin everything.

  “But you have to go to the ceremony,” I repeat. “Gigi, everyone is expecting you to be there. Are you afraid because of what happened between you and James last time? It was so long ago, no one is thinking about that anymore.”

  She holds up her hand. “You know better than to mention that name in this house.”

  The room goes deadly quiet. Then Milo drops his fork on the floor and Gigi and I both jump.

  “Why are you still here?” I snap.

  Gigi looks as if she wants to jump across the table and shake me.

  “I actually have a band meeting,” Milo says carefully, sliding away from the table and excusing himself. “Thanks for dinner, Ms. C.” He leans down to hug her and nods at me. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Don’t forget to put your hamper outside your room,” she says to him. “I’m doing laundry tonight.”

  “His room?” My head is spinning. I feel like Gigi has been fully taken over by a pod person. “Wait a minute, he lives here?”

  “Not exactly,” Milo says. “You know, the grocery store is right around the corner, so—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you!” I snap again. I turn to Gigi. “You can’t be serious! He’s living with you?”

  Distantly, I wonder if I’m overreacting, but I can’t seem to calm myself down. After the worst summer of my life, I was looking forward to spending time alone with Gigi. By the end of my trip, she may very well hate me, and I can’t help but feel like every second counts—like Milo’s presence is ruining everything and pushing Gigi and me further apart.

  “Evie Marie, where are your manners?” Gigi hisses, looking horrified. “And stop with all that yelling.”

  “Sorry,” Milo says to me cautiously, and I realize that I’ve ruined their family dinner. Quietly, he says to Gigi, “I’ll be back later.”

  He quickly exits the room and heads upstairs to what I assume must be his bedroom so that he can take off his slippers.

  “Gigi, what is going on?” I ask. “Why are you letting this boy stay here?”

  “He needed help, and I’m in a position to help him,” she says.

  Something about her sympathetic tone makes me even more upset, and I don’t know why.

  “You didn’t think to tell me about this?”

  “I tried telling you. I left you a voice mail last month. One of my many calls that you didn’t answer.” She pauses to level me with a look before continuing on. “As I’ve said, I am trying to help him.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling numb. It was the same way I felt for days after the video leaked. I had hoped coming to Gigi’s house would be the end of that feeling. “But what about me, Gigi?”

  She goes completely still.


  “What about me?” I repeat. “On one of your voice mails, you said that you would do anything to help me through my situation. Why is it so easy for you to help him, but you won’t help me, your actual granddaughter, by coming to the ceremony?”

  “How would I be helping you by doing that?” she asks. I don’t say anything for a moment. How do I tell her that my entire career is riding on this? “Talk to me, Evie Marie. You don’t talk to me anymore.”

  This is the moment. Now is as good a time as any.

  Quietly, I say, “Gigi, I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it?” she asks. Her expression grows increasingly worried. She reaches across the table and gently places her hands over mine. “You can tell me anything, baby.”

  I gulp. I guess I’m about to find out if that’s true. I start with the first reason that I need her at the ceremony.

  “Well, I think making an appearance together, no matter how brief, would really help. Just having you there with me. I think it would remind people that I’m not just some screwup. I’m Evelyn Conaway’s granddaughter. I’m part of a legacy.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you care so much about what people think,” she says, shaking her head. “Why are you letting that influence your decisions?”

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from talking back. That’s so easy for Gigi to say. She didn’t grow up in today’s world. It’s so much easier to ignore what people say when you aren’t bombarded with their opinions every time you open an app to check your mentions or casually go on the internet.

  “This is a big opportunity for me, Gigi. I can still be a serious actress,” I say. “I can still be great.”

  Just like you. Just like Mom and Dad.

  She waves her hand dismissively. “You’ve had a little taste of how nasty people can be. I never wanted this life for you. You’ve lost sight of who you are, which is probably why that whole video business happened in the first place. You should be grateful that this has forced you to take a step back. You’re saving yourself from a life of unhappiness.”