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2.

"Don't hold back, Brad! What's she like?"

Sundays were his day off. The restaurant was closed and he used the reprieve to catch up on everything; time with his daughter, the housework he forbid his mother to do when she was there, (not that she listened) and whatever sleep he could get.

And the weekly brunch at Dave's house in Malibu, a tradition that had started back when they were in culinary school together, though back then they shared a shitty apartment off of Hollywood Blvd. and once word got out in their friend circle that Bradley could cook, every single Sunday, they would all cram into the postage stamp sized dining area to enjoy a feast. At first, there was ten of them or so, a somewhat manageable, if cramped number. But as their friends started bragging to their friends, the gatherings got to upwards of thirty. They would balance plates of crepes and fruit and peppered bacon, people literally spilling out all over the apartment. It got to the point where they had to limit the guest list to only five close friends or so but the word of mouth about those brunches had helped him earn his very cooking gig, two months shy of graduating.

They sat on the patio, watching the palm trees swaying gently in the breeze. Dave and his wife were forever trying to get him and Lea to move out there, buy a little bungalow and escape the brutish environment of Los Angeles. Like arguing with his mother, he could tell his best friend he was content where he was until he was blue in the face and he would keep making a point to mention moving.

He bit into a strawberry, sneaking a glance at the Little Tykes plastic table where Lea was sitting with Dave's twins. "She's a regular person, I guess," he shrugged in response to the question.

Kari shook her head, obviously disappointed. "Oh, c'mon, Bradley. You can do better than that. She showed up to the Grammys in an egg, for goodness sakes. Give me something here."

Dave laughed. "You forget who you're speaking to, Kar. This is the same guy who still owns eight-tracks. Probably had no clue who she was." He smacked his friend on the arm. "No offense, man."

"I knew who she was," he replied defensively. "Alright, maybe I wasn't extremely familiar with her music but only because I like harder stuff, mostly. But yeah, she was...nice. Stuck around for a good fifteen, twenty minutes talking to my staff, taking pictures. She didn't seem all into herself like most of the famous people I've met."

The words he spun were casual but if he had been honest with his friends, he would have admitted in the three days since she'd come into the restaurant, he couldn't stop thinking about her.

It was silly and he was mildly embarrassed that he was a forty-four year old man with a crush on a pop star that he had met for a total of ten minutes.

More embarrassing still was how he'd fallen directly down the rabbit hole of Spotify, listening to each of her albums, start to finish. And he hadn't even begun to consider the videos yet. He had a nagging feeling he'd just sink further into a ridiculous infatuation, one that clearly had no basis in reality.

"Oh well," Kari sighed. "Did you at least get a copy of the picture?"

"No, James has it on his phone and I guess he had to sign some kind of release to take it."

Inwardly, he was glad he didn't have a physical copy in his possession. The thought of looking into her eyes again, even via photograph was enough to produce a sweat.

They chatted freely, finishing up their meal and Lea ran around the yard with the boys, waving to him gleefully as she darted by.

A pang of guilt smacked him square in the center of the chest. If he weren't so damn selfish, Lea could have a backyard like this one and access to more opportunities, probably.