I think of Jane, her beautiful eyes and smiling face, her love of books and sense of humor.
My little nerd.
“So, what do you say?”
“What?” I realize Angelo is still talking and I’m ignoring him.
“Come out for a few days, show your face, and take some meetings. No pressure, no promises, just get yourself out there again.”
My sigh must have been audible because he continues, “It’s just to keep you fresh. Give you the best choice of the new stuff. I’ve got five films lined up that I think you should look at. Real interesting. Great opportunities to step into a new vibe.”
“I’ve already stepped into a new vibe.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake David. Do I have to fly out there and drag you back myself?”
“There’s no ‘back,’ Angelo. I live here now. In Midnight.”
“You can live wherever you want,” his voice is calm and it irritates me. I’ve heard him use this tone over the phone with actors sulking in rehab, or throwing tantrums over their budgets. “But work is here. If you want to continue to work, occasionally you’ll need to pop back in L.A.”
Damn. He’s right of course.
And a part of me wants to go back, to see friends and colleagues, visit my favorite bars and restaurants. I glance out the window of my bedroom, enjoying the sway of the trees. My L.A. house has a great view of downtown. At night, the lights twinkle and move, like an illuminated ocean. My last few nights there were lonely. I spent them outside, feet in the pool, eyes on the skyline, wondering if I would miss it, any of it. And then I flew out here.
I wonder if Jane would like L.A., just for a few weeks. Or if her schedule would allow her to fly out over the summers, or her academic holidays. We could be bi-coastal, both of us keeping our jobs, and traveling in between. California could be Jane’s vacation spot, while I’m on set. Midnight can be my vacation spot, while she’s educating the next generation.
If she’d even want to. L.A. is its own animal. It’s certainly not for everyone.
“I know you’re moving on and doing different things, but it’s been three months, David. Can you spare me a week?”
I rub my hand over my face. I want to talk to Jane, to invite her, to show her off. I want to bring her into this other side of my life, to this other world.
But a part of me doesn’t want to bring her. A part of me is afraid. Afraid the magical bubble we’re in here, the summer sun, and the small town, the weird house with no furniture. I wonder if it will burst the moment we leave, and the influx of photographers at the airport, L.A. traffic on the freeway, wheelers and dealers in the meetings and late nights negotiating contracts will wear on her.
I wonder, to be honest, if Jane will see this other side of me, the business side, the showman side, the work side, and lose interest. Interviews and photoshoots look very different from behind the scenes. God, I wonder if she even knows how much make up I have to wear when I’m on set.
I do want Jane to see this, to know this part of me, but I wonder if she wants to, if this side of me and my life interests her at all.
“Ok, Angelo.”
“This week?”
I nod, “Sure.”
“Great. I’ll book the flights. It’ll be good to see you.”
Angelo hangs up and I dial Jane. Her phone rings and rings but she doesn’t pick up. It’s the first time I’ve called her and she hasn’t picked up.
A mechanical voice repeats her number and tells me to leave a message at the beep.
I pause, not sure what to say, but wanting to see her before I head out.
“Hi Jane, I hope you’re feeling better.” I swallow, nervous suddenly, as if we hadn’t spent almost every one of the last 60 days together. “I missed you last night.” I pause again. “I’m headed to L.A. this week, not sure when exactly, but I want to make sure I see you before I go. Call me.”
I hang up and put the phone on the mattress next to me. I stare at it, willing it to ring.
The room is quiet. Even that ridiculous sunshine, the piercing light that greets me most mornings, seems subdued today.
A small voice, quiet and subtle and frequently ignored, whispers in my ear and I don’t want to listen to it, but I have a feeling it’s right.
Things are different somehow. Something happened, between dinner at Dory’s and Jane pulling out of my driveway in her own car. It didn’t involve the students we saw. It didn’t involve the drive to my house. I don’t know what it was, what it is, but as I stare at my phone, waiting for her to call, I know she won’t.
But I don’t know why.
28
Jane
“So you’re ignoring him?”
“I am not ignoring him.” I roll my eyes. Penelope continues spritzing her collection of orchids and herbs on her deck, back towards me.
“He has left you two messages, and knocked on your door-”
“I think he knocked on my door,” I interrupt, wishing I had never told her that.
“Of course it was him. No one else knocks.” She peers at me over the thick black rim of her glasses which, I know for a fact, she only wears for fun. The lenses are plain glass. “So, why are you ignoring him?”
“He’s going to L.A.”
“Son of a bitch,” she slams the watering can down on the deck plants her hands on her hips. It takes me a minute to realize she’s joking.
“I mean-”
“How dare that asshole visit his friends. Or conduct business. Or travel at all.”
“Very funny, Pen.”
“I say we kill him.”
This time I do roll my eyes in front of her, glad she can see me do it.
“I think we need a break.”
“Ok, Rachel Green.”
“Look-”
“You know what you’re doing, right?”
I stop. “What?”
She stands there, hemp skirt, bare feet, lilacs woven in her hair. Cat fur sprinkled across her crocheted top. She would look ridiculous if she weren’t so goddamn perceptive, and possessed of some magic skill that makes everything she wears look amazing. Honestly, the woman could dress herself in a garbage bag and work a runway.
“What?” I repeat myself.
“You’re pushing him away.”
“I am not,” I huff. “I’m just…taking time.”
“Have you told him you need to take some time?”
“No…”
“Huh. Weird. Because he’s about to fly across the country for a week or more, which would lead one to think that this would be the perfect time to let him know you need a bit of space. Quite logical, actually. Your schedules work perfectly.” She returns to watering her plants. “All you have to do is return his call. Or pick up when he calls. Or,” she sends me a withering look over her shoulder, “not hide in your house when he knocks on your door.”
“It might not have been him.”
“If it hadn’t been him, you would have opened the door.” She fixes me with a pointed look and I know she’s right.
Damn.
“It’s just…things are moving fast.”
She nods.
“And it feels…like a lot,” I continue.
She nods.
“So, I think a bit of time apart is the prudent thing to do.”
She nods.
“I’m being very sensible,” I practically shout.
“Have you told him any of this?”
“Well-”
“Then it’s all bullshit.” She stares at me. I open my mouth to defend myself, but she continues. “If you felt things were moving too quickly, or you genuinely needed some time to think, you would tell him that. You would make yourself clear. You love to make yourself clear.”
I open my mouth again, but she continues. “But you didn’t. So everything you just said is bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit,” I sulk.
“It is,” she points her watering can at me and it feels like a weapon. “It�
�s bullshit and you know it. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?”
“You’re running away,” she shakes her head, “like a little bitch.”
“I am not a little bitch!”
“You are right now. Refusing to return calls, not answering doors, ignoring your fella’s attempts to get in contact with you, not being honest and open with your feelings?” Penelope shakes her head in disgust. “That is what a little bitch does. A tiny, tiny bitch.”
“Who’s a little bitch?”
I hear Kate’s voice behind me as she approaches the deck.
“Me, apparently,” I open the gate for her and she climbs the stairs two at a time, heels in hand, Brooks Brothers blazer over her arm.
“How can you dress like that in the summer?” Penelope asks as she pulls out a deck chair.
“Because mergers and acquisitions sometimes happen in warm weather,” Kate smiles, seating herself in the chair, back straight and elbows on each armrest, and for a minute, I am convinced she was Cleopatra in a past life. Or Queen Victoria. She looks at me, “Why are you being a little bitch, Jane?”
“She’s being rude to her boyfriend,” Penelope mutters.
Kate’s eyebrows lift.
“That’s just it though,” I pull at the hem of my shirt, oddly self-conscious on this subject, even in front of my friends, “he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Fine, ‘partner,’ whatever,” Penelope shrugs.
“No, none of that. Nothing. We’ve never discussed that. That’s the issue. I’m not being a little bitch. I’m being sensible and collecting myself, so I don’t get too carried away.”
“Uh,” Kate points a finger at me. “I’ve seen you two together. It’s a little late to try and avoid getting carried away.”
“Exactly.” I look down, hands in my lap. Penelope and Kate are silent. Waiting. I sigh. “I’m already carried away.”
I look up. They’re still silent. Kate glances at Penelope. Penelope shrugs.
“Don’t you get it?”
Still silent.
“I’m in love,” I grit out, my jaw tense. “I’m in love with a movie star.”
Penelope glances at Kate. Kate shrugs.
“Jesus you two. Don’t you get it?” This time, I do shout.
“Clearly not,” Kate folds her hands in her lap, elbows balanced on the arm rest, back straight. I feel a twinge of sympathy for anyone who is on the other side of that table, when she does her mergers and acquisitions. Poor bastards don’t stand a chance.
“What’s the big deal?” Penelope places the watering can on the deck floor, and picks up her mug. The scent of yerba mate wafts over to me, carried along with hints of lilac from her bushes and fresh basil from the herbs to my right. Penelope takes a sip, the hand-made mug, constructed of sparkling clay, winks in the daylight.
I stare at the two of them. Both geniuses in their own way. Both idiots too.
“I’m going to get hurt.”
Kate shrugs again. “I guess. But it’s only love.”
Penelope slides a side eye to Kate, then back to me. “What’s so bad about getting hurt?”
“I don’t…want to get hurt.”
Kate rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well,” she plucks a leaf from the lavender plant and rolls it between her fingers, bringing it to her nose. “Shit happens.”
Penelope grins. “No one likes getting hurt honey.” She glances at Kate. “And shit does happen.”
“Well, sure, but there’s a difference between getting hurt by accident and running straight into the firing squad.”
Kate tilts her head, pondering my metaphor. “I guess.” She looks down at the crushed lavender between her fingers, sniffing one last time, and then sprinkling them on the deck at her feet. “But in my experience, firing squads happen too, so I wouldn’t worry about that either.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Don’t get attached. You only get hurt if you let yourself get hurt. Don’t let yourself.”
“My god,” Penelope finishes her drink and places the sparkling mug on a collection of metal loops and rings that form a table. I glance at it, wondering when she took up welding. “You are both so dysfunctional. It’s unreal.”
“I am not.”
“Why would you say that?”
Kate and I speak at the same time.
Penelope comes closer, her hemp skirt sashaying behind her as she drops elegantly to a crossed-legged position between us. Placing a delicate, paint-smeared hand on Kate’s perfectly pedicured foot, she smiles. “You can’t prevent yourself from getting hurt. Only a fool thinks they can.” She looks to me, “And trying to prevent love is not only a waste of time, it’s a waste of life. Why would you try to avoid one of the best parts of living?”
“Because it doesn’t work out,” Kate mutters, studying the tips of her fingers, where crushed lavender lingers.
I nod, pointing to Kate.
Penelope glances between the two of us, a look of sympathy, if not outright pity, on her face. “Love happens, you two, sometimes out of the blue. And trying to avoid it because you’re worried it ‘won’t work out’” she uses her fingers to signify quotation marks, “doesn’t work either.”
Kate sits silently, her face mulish. I glance at her, her perfect clothes, perfect hair, a queen’s demeanor. I can’t remember ever seeing her lose her cool, lose her temper, or even seem flustered. If ever there were a person who could talk herself out of feeling an emotion, it would be she.
I on the other hand…for all my intellectual trappings, book loving, and nerd living, the truth is…I’m vulnerable. I’m inexperienced. I haven’t dated a lot. I haven’t fallen in love often.
“I am completely over my head,” I mutter. “I’m head over heels with a guy who is so totally out of my league, who could have anyone he wants, and I just…” I shake my head.
Penelope rests her hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
I pause, pressing my lips together, and look between the two of them. The truth is hot and hard and choking in my throat. I close my eyes.
“I don’t believe he could ever really love me.”
I open my eyes. Penelope has that sad look on her face again, a combination of pity and grief. Even Kate, behind that flawless complexion, seems depressed.
“Honey, why…”
“It’s a fairy tale.” I smile at them both, knowing tears shimmer in my eyes. “And there’s a reason we read fairy tales. They help us sleep. They humor children. But they’re not real. Nerdy, boring women do not sweep gorgeous, international men off their feet. That’s not how this works.”
“I think you’ve already swept him off his feet, sweetie,” Kate speaks quietly. “We all think that.”
Penelope shakes her head, eyes still on mine. She has that same quiet intensity of Dory, the quiet compassion of Christine.
“You are such a fucking idiot.” Hmm…and the language of Jessica.
“I am not-”
“We already had this conversation,” she points to me. Kate nods. “Remember? Before he even arrived. We were joking that you two would get together and you immediately, without even a pause, shot down the idea.”
Kate nods again.
“Excuse me?” I stare at both of them. “Since when did shooting down a daydream about dating a movie star make someone an idiot.”
“It wasn’t the shooting down part, Jane. It was the why.”
“What why?” I look to Kate.
“From what I remember,” she shifts in her chair, “you said that it would be impossible because of who you are, not because of who he is.”
Penelope nods.
“I don’t see your point,” I say, even as a nugget of self-realization eats at the corner of my mind.
“This keeps coming up with you, honey,” Penelope has her hand on my knee, as we both sit on the floor of her deck, surrounded by flowers and herbs growing from lopsided, home-made pots as Kate peers
down at us from her chair like an empress surveying her minions. “You have such confidence in some areas of your life, but absolutely none in others.”
“Remember that article you wrote for the New York Times? Ripping apart that famous author for her homophobia? I couldn’t believe the way you put yourself out there like that, but you did, and it was fantastic.” Kate pointed to me, “It also got you a book deal.”
“And how many years did you spend applying for professorships? Five? Six? I mean, how could you have kept doing that, if you didn’t believe, deep down, that you were awesome and would eventually succeed?” Penelope taps my leg.
I shrug. “I’m good at writing.”
“Were you always?” Kate asks. “Or have you spent the last few decades studying, writing, editing, practicing, and learning how to be great at your job?”
Penelope peers at me, “Did you come out of the womb with a PhD and a tenure-track job? Or did you bust your ass to get one?”
“I busted my ass,” I mutter, eyes downcast.
“Right. And now you’re facing something else, a romantic relationship which,” Penelope holds up a finger, stopping me before I can interrupt her “is something I don’t think you’ve done very often before. I think this is all a bit new to you.”
“I mean, I’m assuming you’ve fucked some dudes,” Kate leans forward with her usual romantic sensibilities.
“Yes, thank you Kate. I have, yes,” I nod at her.
“Well,” she looks to Penelope, “even I know that fucking is not the same thing as really getting to know someone, really trying to be with someone. Maybe the only experience you have is plowing through bros, and now you have to learn to rein it in.”
Penelope licks her lips and glances at me. “I think we’re a little off track.”
“I don’t plow through bros, Kate,” I say, laughing. The image alone is worth a giggle. “I just…have never pursued romance.”
“Yeah, we’re off track,” Penelope pats my leg again. “So, you haven’t had much experience with romantic love, with being in a relationship. Well, it seems that you’re in one now. So, it’s time to learn. And you love to learn, so what’s the problem?”
“We’re not really in a relationship.”
Jane Air Page 18