by Stacy Travis
“So it’s not disrupting your workflow to be here, out of your regular office?”
She slid the jar of breadsticks toward me, and I took another one, but I didn’t eat it. I was still too focused on the conversation. “Not really, but I’m only doing like a third of the stuff I normally do. My boss doesn’t realize it, but I’m neglecting half my clients. But it’s fine. I’ll make up for it when I get back. All good.”
“But you like that particular firm?”
She leveled me with a look that said she was on to me. “Why do you ask? Do you have a different job in mind for me, perhaps something that requires me to wear a revealing costume of some sort?”
“Well, yes. There’s always that. And let’s definitely put a pin in that to discuss later. But no, I was just wondering how rooted you are to your job. In LA. How rooted you are to living in LA?”
Now she looked wary, clearly unsure what I was suggesting. “Meaning what?”
“There are a lot of PR firms here.”
“You’re suggesting I move?
“You could.”
“I could.” She nodded her head like she was considering the concept. “I would consider it.”
“You would?” I was overjoyed. That had been so easy.
She nodded, but then her gaze pierced mine. “But I have a question for you. Would you consider working less than you do? Taking weeks or months between projects instead of days?”
I felt my face fall into a frown. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but she’d caught me off guard, and I’d never—ever—considered working less. If I slowed down, I might quickly coast to a stop. That was what my agent always said. I’d always believed him.
“I know. It’s asking a lot,” she said. “But hear me out. I look at you, and I see how much you enjoy the time when you’re not working. And I know you love your career, but you don’t have much of a work–life balance. I’ll bet you could give yourself the gift of more free time and not sacrifice your career.”
I had no answer to that. And the idea made me nervous. “I… I mean, maybe…”
She immediately grabbed my hand. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not saying you need to make a big change all at once. I’m just saying think about it. Get a little more comfortable with the idea.”
Why is she talking to me like I’m a scared child?
Because you are terrified of changing your life, and no one’s fooled.
“Right. Sure. I can think about it. I suppose it’s possible.” I hemmed and hawed, not knowing what the right answer was. What she was proposing wasn’t crazy. I knew most people had a much better work–life balance than I did, but my situation had never bothered me. In fact, the constant busyness fueled me.
The idea of doing things differently did not fill me with excitement.
It scared the hell out of me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nikki
My week in New York was amazing. We walked all over the city. We laughed. We spent hours and hours in bed—and on the couch, in the kitchen, and on the bathroom floor. I fell in love with Chris over and over again. We ate dim sum for Sunday breakfast, and we watched the sun setting over the Hudson from his balcony every chance we got.
The best thing about us was how easy we were with each other. I felt like Chris was the missing half of myself I never knew I needed. I knew I loved him. And I knew loving him was about to get a lot harder, because he’d soon be on location for a new project, and we wouldn’t see each other for months.
I wasn’t really okay with that.
Before I realized it, we were walking in Central Park on my last day. It felt oddly familiar, the foreboding of an imminent and unwanted goodbye.
“Would you consider staying? A few more days? A few more years?” Chris asked as we wandered past the boathouse and took a moment to gaze out at the water.
“I would love to stay. But I have work.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I do know.”
He pulled me in with one arm around my waist and tilted my face up to meet his. His lips were soft and inviting, communicating his sincere desire that I never leave. I never wanted to leave. And that was the problem.
When we broke the kiss, I felt like I needed to explain it differently than I had before. He needed to understand what I wanted. I needed to tell him what I wanted. Thus far, I’d been afraid to do that. “The thing is, I do want to stay. I want to be all in.”
“Really?” He looked childishly optimistic and pressed his forehead to mine. “You would move to New York? Please say yes. Please say yes.”
“I would. But it would be for the wrong reasons.”
“How could there be wrong reasons when it means we can be together?”
He really didn’t get it. Maybe he never would. “Chris, me moving to New York would mean that instead of being in LA and missing you because you’re always working, I’d be here, missing you because you’d be working.”
“Not all the time. I get breaks.”
“Not that I’ve seen so far. And Chris, you’ve been great. I know how exhausting it was to fly to LA for twenty-four hours. That was insane. I know you care about us. But you’re constantly working. I don’t want to move my life here so I can sit in an empty apartment most of the time, waiting for a FaceTime call. It’s not about my job or whether I’m passionate about my job or whether I’m in the right job—it’s about wanting more. I’m saying it. I want more. I’m asking for more. And if you can’t give it to me, I understand, but I have to ask. Because that’s what I want.”
I’d finally laid it all out, and I felt great. Whatever happened from that point forward, I would know I advocated for myself and asked for what I wanted.
He nodded. “I hear what you’re saying. But does it have to be all or nothing? If we live in the same city, we’ll see each other more than we do now.”
“More. But not enough. I want it all. You told me I should ask for what I want, and that’s what it is. I want a partner who’s with me. Not all the time, but at least most of the time. Because I want to share the everyday stuff. The newspaper headlines over coffee and spontaneous late-night sex.”
“And you can’t do that with me. Because of my job.” He looked dejected. No, he looked lost. And for a moment, I had a glimmering thought that maybe he was reaching the limits of how satisfying his workaholic existence was. Maybe I could help him adjust, even a little bit at a time, to finding more of a life balance. But then he said, “I get that.”
“Chris, I so respect your career and how hard you work at it. And I know you’re really trying with me, but your commitment to your job—the amount of time you work—doesn’t leave enough of you left over. I can’t ask you to give up projects you have your heart set on. I can’t ask you to work less.”
“You could.”
“You’d resent me for it.”
“I don’t think I would.”
“I can’t do this for you. You have to want to want it.”
There was a bench a few paces away, and he led me there. We sat. “So are you ending things with me? Because, just to be clear, that’s not what I want. Not at all.”
“It’s not what I want, either. And I’m not saying we end things. I really love you. I don’t want to end things. I just don’t know where we go from here. I don’t know how we can move forward.”
“Maybe right now, we can’t. Are you happy enough doing what we’re doing? Maybe we can see… if something changes?”
His desperation to believe made me sad. “Chris… do you honestly see that happening? You have to want it to change.”
A balloon floated past us, and a boy ran over to retrieve it. His navy coat was buttoned up to his chin, the down so thick that he could barely move his neck to see where the balloon had gone. Chris picked it up and handed it to him. “Here you go, bud.” He bopped the balloon up into the air, and the boy chased it gleefully.
“So like that… kids… having a family…” I felt
for him. He’d been on autopilot for so long, he’d never taken the time to think about what he was missing. Like kids. Or having a family.
“You can have all of that. But not if you’re working yourself to the bone every day of the year. It just doesn’t compute. What would be the point of having kids if you never saw them? You’d have to find a reason within yourself to change. It’s a big deal. It’s not a one-conversation-in-the-park sort of thing. It’s a lot of conversations and a lot of thinking.”
I watched the boy, who was completely bewitched by his balloon, and I desperately wanted Chris to have more than what he was allowing himself. He was a good person. He deserved to let himself out of his career jail, but he could only do it if and when he was ready.
Chris was silent for a while, so I couldn’t be sure whether he was still thinking about our conversation. Then he shook his head. “Maybe this is why I’m meant to be an actor and nothing more. Fictional characters are superior and I can play them really well. They have all the right words, the scripts tell me what to think and feel. The directors make me look better than who I really am.”
“I call bullshit on that. I’m not even going to let you believe that for a second. You’re better than any story any movie ever told. So just stop it.”
“But what if I can’t give you what you want? Me, the real guy. What if I’m not good enough because I’m scared to make sacrifices in my career?”
Hearing him say the words broke my heart. My only hope was that he said them out of fear and didn’t entirely believe them. “Chris, you are better than good enough. Please know that. And listen, I’m not asking you to sacrifice everything. I’m not planning to sacrifice everything for you either. But I have to give up some things, and I’m okay with that. The sacrifice gives how I feel about you more meaning.”
He looked at me. “I like that. It reminds me a little of…” He looked unsure about continuing.
“What?”
“In the movie I did—with Triss—that was an issue her character struggled with. I told her that loving someone completely and leaving that person to go to war made the sacrifice that much greater.”
“And that much more tragic.”
“I overlooked that aspect. But I see it now.”
I couldn’t help smiling at him. He was so sweet and so like the baby birds on my balcony, singing at night because they didn’t know any better and just learning how to fly. I took his hand and kissed the center of his palm.
He inhaled deeply and held it. When he finally let it out, his resolve seemed firm. “I guess I need to reevaluate my life choices.”
It was so sincere and sweet, I felt my face crack into a wide grin. “Yes, you do. You need to reevaluate your life choices.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nikki
During dinner on our last night together, Chris told me about his parents.
We’d walked to St. Tropez on West Fourth Street because Chris liked the idea of recapturing our time in the South of France, at least through the food and vibe of the restaurant, which had square wooden tables decorated with a small succulent in the center of each and twin bottles of oil and vinegar.
We sat side by side at the bar, facing a wall of wine bottles and a single bartender who poured wine flights and served the handful of us sitting there. The benefit of the bar was that we could sit next to each other, which meant Chris either had his arm over the back of my chair or he leaned in toward me, crowding my space and pressing kisses to my temple, cheek, and neck like I was a most cherished possession he needed to keep close.
Chris chose a bottle of red wine for us to share, and while the waiter uncorked the bottle, he rattled off half a dozen appetizers he wanted us to share. We had similar taste in food, and he knew that as long as there was salad involved in a meal, I wasn’t picky.
“How about the mussels, the zucchini tart, the flatbread, and the grilled octopus. Oh, and a salad,” he said, smiling at me and raising an eyebrow at my creature-of-habit ways.
The waiter zipped off to put our order in, and I pounced on the chance to learn more about his family. I was surprised by how insistent he seemed about talking about his parents. It seemed important to him. Then I learned why.
He was careful to explain that the reason he’d told me the sanitized, fictional story about them was partly out of habit, partly out of protectiveness. He grabbed my hand and didn’t let go of it, even when it came time to taste the wine and sample the oysters.
His foot tangled with mine under the bar top, and I spent most of the dinner staring into the dark pools of his eyes. I wanted to memorize everything about his face and take it home with me.
I could tell that talking about his parents was hard for him. He liked to be picture perfect, or at least he didn’t like drawing attention to what he saw as shortcomings.
“They’re completely co-dependent, bound together by guilt. It’s not love, it’s guilt,” he said. “My dad should leave, but he loves her too much. And she should let him go, but he puts up with her affairs, and she likes the comfort of having known him most of her life. It’s totally twisted.”
“Or…” I said, treading lightly, because I knew he was raw and vulnerable, opening up about something he’d stuffed away for years. “Maybe it works for them.”
He shook his head. “My dad loves her too much.”
“What’s too much? How do you define too much? Is he happy?”
“I never thought about the possibility he could be.”
“Think about it now.”
Chris was silent and stony faced. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking or placating me for suggesting it. “I guess, maybe. It’s very different from how I’d be happy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He was quiet for a while, and I could tell he really was thinking about them and trying to come to terms with who they were. I was surprised when he asked, “Would you like to meet them?”
“I’d love to meet them. Of course.”
“They’ll love you. I know we have at least that much in common.”
I had no idea when I would next be in New York, which was all wrapped up in the uncomfortable subject neither of us wanted to discuss. I’d told Chris what I wanted, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to meet me halfway. I had to get my brain around the idea that maybe he never would.
“Parents should be given user manuals before they’re allowed to have kids. It might help,” I said as I considered what he’d told me about his family.
“It’s not a bad idea. You think your parents could have benefitted from that too?”
I shrugged. I loved my parents, but they had as many flaws as the next person. We all did. “You know how I told you that I tend to beat myself up for being too serious? How I always felt like I lacked spontaneity?” I asked.
“Yes, and I disagree. I don’t see your seriousness as a problem.”
“Exactly. I think I was confusing being crazy and spontaneous with living my life and being present.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to be crazy or spontaneous? Because I may have to argue against that. I like it when you’re spontaneous. Like agreeing to come to New York.” He kissed my forehead. “And I especially like it when you’re a little crazy, like… oh, so many examples… hard to pick just one.” He reached for the hair at my temple and followed the strands down to the ends. He did it slowly several times. The effect was hypnotic, and I almost lost my train of thought.
“What I’m saying is that just like your parents, my parents did a number on me. I still love them, and I know they didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m starting to believe that where we end up in life has a direct correlation to the ways in which our parents gave us the wrong message.”
He looked interested in that topic of conversation. “Explain, please.”
“Well, you know my parents live by the beach in SoCal.”
“I do know that, but that’s all I know, because you’ve been purposefully vague.”
He nodded, but his eyes left mine, like he was picturing them grilling. “Doesn’t sound too bad, actually.”
“It’s not. It works for them. They’re total leftover-from-the sixties hippies. They used to follow the Grateful Dead, and now they follow Dead cover bands. My dad sells T-shirts, and my mom has a store on Etsy. They make a shit ton of money. Living in a trailer is a choice, not a hardship.”
A genuine smile spread across Chris’s face. “I would so love to meet your parents. They sound awesome.”
“They are awesome. They love me, and they’re supportive of me… to an extent.”
“What does that mean?”
“They have this life rule that’s very Deadhead. It’s all about living in the present and not stressing. Well, I’m a stresser. It’s part of my DNA. And I always felt like I had to apologize for it. But now… I get that I can be both.”
“I’d say you’ve hit a good balance.”
“Yeah? It wasn’t always the case. But I do think I’ve made remarkable progress.”
Chris raised his glass. “Cheers to that,” he said.
I clinked and drank and loved how we were together. I tried not to question how we could be so compatible and so in love and potentially not work out as a couple. I couldn’t even lay odds on our chances for success, because I didn’t know if Chris could change his workaholic tendencies. Neither did he.
What he did know, however, was that he’d be in LA the following week for a movie premiere, and he wanted me to go with him.
“Of course, I will come if you’re sure that’s what you want. You know me and premieres.” The one in Cannes hadn’t gone especially well.
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. Are you sure you want me tripping down the red carpet with you? Getting the paparazzi all excited about your klutzy arm candy?”