Chasing Chaos: A Novel Read Free

the crowd.
    The
table where Daphne sat was Greta’s table. It was the table where she and Greta
ate brunch every Sunday, no matter what. Greta took a seat next to Daphne and
pulled off her leather jacket—it had been a cool April—revealing her customary
black tank top. She didn’t need the jacket underneath the gas heaters that
dotted the patio.
    Daphne’s
eyes caught on Greta’s scar, extending from the armhole of Greta’s shirt and
across her shoulder in a crisp white line. The scar was the final remnant of
reconstructive shoulder surgery required when Greta’s shoulder couldn’t quite
heal itself after she was attacked five years ago.
    When
she was attacked five years ago at the apartment she and Daphne had shared.
    When
she had almost died from a vicious blow to the back of her head.
    When
her attacker had left her bleeding out on their well-worn kitchen floor.
    The
dislocated shoulder had been the least of their worries, then.
    Greta’s
red-gold hair had grown long, no longer the short, curly bob she’d always worn
when they were younger, in college and after, when she’d first moved to Los
Angeles six years ago.
    “I’ve
discovered the benefits of ponytails,” she’d told Daphne a few months before,
explaining the longer hairstyle.
    But
Daphne smiled, seeing that today Greta wore her hair down, with only the front
pulled back in a bare metal clip, the rest of her curls hanging nearly to her
shoulder blades. Her hair was beautiful. Greta was beautiful, if
unconventionally, and it seemed that Greta finally believed it.
    They
lounged together, in jeans and casual tops, in a place where all others wore
designer clothes and sat at conspicuous tables to see and be seen. Daphne
reflected on her lingering feelings of guilt over their shared past. It was
true that she and Greta had made it. They’d escaped their families. They’d
escaped everything they’d left behind in North Carolina and found themselves
here, where they finally felt like they belonged, and they were here together.
Still together, despite everything.
    But
Daphne knew there were some things she could never have. Sometimes Daphne joked
with Greta about being a bad luck charm, but Greta always told her to stuff it.
The words made Greta angry because she knew Daphne still blamed herself for the
attack. Greta also said there was no such thing as luck.
    But
Daphne knew the truth. She was bad luck. She knew she could only date guys like
Dan because nothing worse could happen to them than what they could do to
themselves. And the good guys? They didn’t even know her real name.
    If
Daphne wasn’t completely happy, she’d be OK. Few people were completely happy.
    “You
look sleepy,” Greta said, direct as always.
    “I’ve
only had one cup of coffee.”
    “That’s
not why.”
    “Let’s
get some coffee first, and then we can talk about it.”
    Greta
nodded.
    A
server appeared, a woman. Female servers were one of the many changes Greta had
instituted since she became partial owner of Rivet. No more rampant sexism ,
she’d said.
    “Ms.
Donovan,” the server said to Greta. “Ms. Saito.” Daphne recalled the young
woman’s name. Carrie. She was a recent hire, just out of film school at UCLA.
    “Hey,
Carrie,” Greta said. “I just want a BLT and fries.”
    “Me
too,” Daphne said, stifling a laugh. Around them, patrons ate such delicacies
as steak smothered in poached eggs, hollandaise and lump crab meat, and frisée
salads covered in all sorts of things like “lardons”—basically French bacon.
She’d had the quiche, and it was delicious. But she and Greta were simple
girls. Burgers. BLTs. Their taste in food was one of the reasons they were
friends.
    “And
could you please bring a whole carafe of coffee and leave it on the table?”
Greta asked.
    Daphne
sighed with contentment. Truly, Greta was the best.
    The
server turned to leave. “Carrie,” Daphne said, calling her back. “Working on
anything interesting?”
    When
Carrie