tiffany: (ii)

It never rained in California, but for some reason you’d always picture her holding an umbrella, wrapped in a long winter coat, her cheeks dusted pink from the winter cold. What made it stranger was that Tiffany suited summer, she glowed in the heat; a sheen of sweat on her looked like a face mist or a glossy highlight. But you always imagined her caught in winter, in the middle of a downpour, regardless of how sunny her smiles always were.

She was social, she had too many friends to count and she relished in sticky Californian weather, but in your mind’s eye you always saw her in the cold, always saw her alone.

You weren’t sure who that said more about – you or her?

* * *

It didn’t take you long to find out that she was famous. A quick Google search, a brief Instagram stalk seemed to tell you everything you thought you needed to know. Millions of people loved her from all four of the furthest corners of the Earth.

It suited her. You saw it like a reel, one scene after the other: Tiffany with a guitar in the studio, Tiffany on a music video set draped in gold jewellery, Tiffany on stage, clutching a microphone, breathless as a couple thousand fans sang her song back to her, tears in their eyes as they screamed her name, hands held out to her, asking for anything, something, one tiny little piece of her.

You wondered if she’d given it – a little tiny piece of herself to each fan who said they loved her. And if she had, had she kept any pieces for herself?

Los Angeles was her home. Did she come back to retrieve the pieces that she’d left here? Maybe that’s what she was doing – going from place to place, following the trail she once left, picking up all the bits and pieces that she’d given away?

You looked at her sometimes and thought it possible. Even if she hadn’t given the pieces away, maybe something had taken them from her? Maybe she’d lost them? Maybe she was just trying to get them back.

* * *

The hike was her idea. To hike this late at night was also her idea. But you were the fool who’d agreed to it in the first place. She’d called you randomly an hour prior, a certain excitement in her voice, and asked you to come see the Hollywood sign with her. When it came to Tiffany, the word ‘yes’ seemed to fall from your lips always, and this time was no exception.

You picked her up and, as night fell, darkening in around you and her, you drove to the hiking trail. She didn’t say much during the drive. You noticed that the excitement present in her voice when she’d called you was no longer there when she climbed into your car. It was like something had it out of her at some point between when you put the phone down and pulled up outside of her house. But you chose not to comment on it. Tiffany always had her reasons.

Wordlessly you both thudded the car doors closed and sauntered over to the trail’s worn beginning.

“If we die,” she said suddenly, “it’s your fault.”

“This was your idea.” You reminded her.

“If you hadn’t said yes, I wouldn’t have come.” She looked at you, a small smile on her full lips.

“If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have said yes.” You wondered if she knew how stupid you were for her. But, regardless, following her had always seemed like the right thing to do. She always led like she knew exactly where it w