Fade In

by Mabie, M.

  On one hand I'm pissed that he's blaming me for his behavior, and on the other hand I see where I am at the very least an accomplice to the murder of our relationship.

  He's right though. In the last few years, I didn't notice right away when he didn't show up. I didn't care that his focus was on his career and not me. He just started acting like I was acting. Now that I have been a little more—fuck—needy lately, I've been angry at him for just doing what I didn't even give a shit about before.

  I am a bitch. A selfish bitch.

  I am the bigger asshole in the booth by the window.

  “I'm sorry. Kurt, I don't really know what to say. I didn't mean to do that to you. I just… I don't know what to say.” And for the first time in ages, there is no punch line. I have no clever quip, no retort to what he's said to me.

  Kurt grabs my hand in his and rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “It's okay. You don't have to say anything. I just wanted to let you know that I feel bad about this and I do love you, even if I was a terrible boyfriend.”

  I feel conflicted, but still set in my decision.

  We spend a few minutes sipping out coffees and ordering our breakfasts. It’s almost comfortable.

  “So how was your appointment with Dr. Meade yesterday?”

  His concern shocks me. Was this the guy I could have been dating if I hadn’t been such a fucking do-it-myself control freak? It is just like me to push someone away and then blame them for it later. I almost want to cry. Almost.

  “It went well. He didn't like my masturbation joke...again.” I smile and wait for him to return one. When he does, I keep going. “I thought it was growing on him. He told me to start taking this blind stuff seriously.” I try to make my answer sound playful and jovial, but he sidesteps it.

  “That might not be a bad idea.” When he says this, he grimaces like he knows I won't take well to the advice.

  Is it possible to choke on humble pie? I'm overwhelmed. I'm frustrated and ashamed.

  “I know you're independent. Shit, everyone knows you're independent. But asking for a little help might do you good.”

  I have to let that sink in. I watch him intently, looking for a recount on his suggestion, but one doesn't come. He reads my silence correctly and goes for a different angle.

  “Are Coop and Winnie ready to bash my teeth in?”

  Good boy. Change the subject. I'm granted a reprieve.

  “No, not at all. Winnie is so wrapped up in the show and wedding plans and Coop has been really busy at work. They have bigger fish to fry. And I'm sure they will love this right here. Maybe I will tell them you stood me up,” I say, smiling but only half kidding. It isn't a bad idea.

  Kurt shrugs his shoulders and offers me an apologetic grin. “It would be easy enough to believe.”

  We're given our food and eat while we chat about things. It is the best date we've had in months. It's just too bad that it's likely our last.

  After he pays for our breakfast, instead of sliding back into his side of the bench, he slides in next to me. Scooting back against the window, I shift sideways to face him. He's turned in towards me, too.

  His handsome face is earnest. The color in his hazel eyes looking bluer with their red, tired rims.

  “Tatum, if you ever need anything, please call me. Will you?”

  I nod my head yes, still a little shocked at his closeness.

  He continues. “I'm sorry that I didn't, I don't know, try to fix this before it blew up. I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings on more than one occasion, and I'm not saying this to hurt you. Yet again, now that I'm thinking back on it, you should know you hurt me, too. This probably is for the best.” He pauses and clears the audible lump in his throat. “I really want you to be happy. And after thinking about this for way too long in my apartment this weekend, I realized I want to be someone's man and not just their date.” Smiling, he cups my cheeks in his hands and leans in to kiss me.

  His lips are sweet and taste like maple syrup. It's a sweet kiss.

  His hands tighten on my face, and he pulls away just enough to talk and look at me. “And until I find her, whenever you get horny, you call me. Got that?” He's joking. Well, he's also totally serious, but it makes me feel a little better anyway.

  “Deal.” I smile and he kisses me quickly once more before he slides out.

  “Anyway, maybe we could be friends? With benefits? Yes?” He looks for approval, but not long enough for it to show. “No? Either way, call if you do need anything from me. Now that would be fucking weird, huh?” Ours eyes meet and I can tell that he's not sure if he wants to go. Maybe he was thinking I'd stop him.

  I don't.

  He begins to walk off and turns to say, “See you, Tatum.”

  “See you, Kurt.”

  With that, he leaves our diner with some of his confidence and swagger back.

  I call Winnie when I get home and consider asking her to come over and help me lick my wounded ego, but that doesn’t really appeal to me. I tell her about meeting Kurt, and she thinks it was good but a little weird. I know she never really liked him. She tolerated him though, because that's what best friends do.

  Cooper calls that evening and asks if I needed anything. He says that he has an evening showing in my neighborhood and wants to stop by afterward. At about seven thirty, he knocks on my door.

  “Hey, Tater. I brought you some ice cream. Winnie told me about breakfast. How are you dealing with it?”

  I take the bag from his hand and walk towards my kitchen. Pulling the Karamel Sutra-flavored Ben & Jerry's out of the bag and setting it on my marble counter, I shrug my shoulders at him.

  For some reason, I've always felt small or really young around Cooper. Sure, he's older than I am, but not by a lot. It's only a difference of a little over three years. Always my protector and, next to Winnie, my best friend, he looks at me with brown eyes full of sympathy.

  Finally, I answer him. “I don't know. What do you think about it? I mean, is it all my fault? Did I create that whole thing? I'm I really that awful?” After I rattle off my self-deprecating list of questions, I turn to the drawer and pulled out a fork.

  “No. You're not awful. You're my kid sister and, therefore, awesome by association alone.” He playfully messes my hair and pokes at my ribs. He then tells me, “I did see it happening, but I just thought that was how you both liked it. I mean, it really didn't register for you until lately? You know he was just playing the part you gave him. It wasn't his fault your part changed.”

  What the hell is up with this day? Did I miss the RSVP to Tatum is a Dickhead Day?

  “I know!” I snap and quickly rein in my aggressiveness. “I just feel so cold and mean. I didn't consider that I was acting like that. I suppose I can be that bad.”

  I put a bite of the over-the-counter, sugary medication into my mouth and let it melt.

  “He did give me an open invitation to hook up until he finds a new girlfriend. Sounds bad, but I might take him up on it.”

  Cooper looks genuinely offended. “Don't. You deserve better than that. Maybe this is just something you needed to happen to see that things are changing. Even if you don't realize how much you're changing, too. Tater, you have to.”

  I again rake my fork through the half-frozen, half-melted ice cream, poking around for a good bit, and shake my head.

  My eyes start to burn, but I fight back almost escaping tears. “I don't want to. I just like my life, you know? My job. My apartment.” The thoughts of it all just vanishing begin to steal my composure. “I love my independence, Cooper. And up until lately ,I loved my fine-as-fuck boyfriend. What is the next thing to go? Huh?” I look at my big brother and pray that he has the answers like he always did when I was small.

  “Oh, come here.” Cooper opens his arms and comes to me. His embrace is warm and strong, just like him. I set the cardboard container down and hug him back. He says into my hair, “This is going to be okay. We'll figure it out.” He kisses my head before lettin
g me go. “What did Meade say? Is it getting worse? You don't really talk about it much. You know you can tell me.”

  He's gathering data for our offense.

  “It's getting worse a little at a time. Shit, have you seen my legs and my head?” I point to both. “It's like there are booby traps everywhere. Only, I'm the one who set them up. He says that I need to simplify and get prepared, but I don't want to. I don't want to, Cooper. This is my life.” My voice is desperate.

  He shakes his head. “Well, simplifying doesn't sound so bad. Right? And getting prepared will just help you stay in control. Not lose it. We need to get ready for this. I know that it fucking sucks. Shit, I would be mad at the world.”

  “I'm not mad, I'm frustrated.” I'm annoyed that I can't do things like I once did. Frustrated when I need help that I'm too damn proud to ask for and then furious at myself when I fuck everything up with no one to share my blame.

  “Okay, well let's make a plan.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  Cooper states, “We will get organized. Prioritize.” This is why I love him. He knows what I need to keep moving.

  In college, I once failed a test I’d studied so hard for. I swear on Matt Lauer—whom I will forever have a crush on—that that motherfucking professor had it out for me. I just knew he did, but Cooper maintained that at least we knew what I didn't know.

  So he gathered all of my returned assignments and papers and helped me study for that Pap smear of a final. He suggested only working on the stuff I didn't do well on and not the stuff that I did.

  He helped.

  He pointed out the necessary things I needed to focus on. Yet he has never once offered to fix something for me. Cooper never hesitates to help me do it on my own.

  I hug him again really hard, knocking the wind from him, saying, “I love you, Coopie pants.”

  He lovingly pushes me off him.

  “Back up. I know.” He smiles. “Now, let’s get your shit together. I'm gonna need a piece of paper, a pen, and a spoon. I never understood why you eat your ice cream with a God dammed fork. You are such a weirdo.”

  Cooper and I sit there at the bar in my kitchen until we've eaten all of that tub and finish off the partial tub I already had in the freezer. My assignments for the next week are to start working on finding people to hire for a personal assistant, a cleaning company, and a car service.

  He told me that he would help with the driver since he knows of a good one who he uses when showing properties to people who didn't really know New York that well yet, offering to forward his contact information in the morning. “Ask for Ray Dabney. He's good.”

  I'm still a little rattled by the weekend, but I fell asleep last night feeling like it was going to be all right—comfortably with the lights on.

  This morning, I gather all of my weekend's work out of my home office. I put on my favorite blue wrap dress, pairing it with my peep toes, and feel ready to kick this week's ass.

  In the cab on the way to the studio, I answer a few emails I received about the never-ending bounty of drama that Hollywood's biggest train wreck, Chelsea Royce, supplies us with. The typical childhood sweetheart actress, she put out a terrible record, dated an awesome young man, broke up with him for a bad boy, and does an amazing job in a movie only to follow it up with a leaked homemade porno and a stint in rehab. All too common in twenty-something Hollywood, but people can't help but beg for more for it.

  This will be an easy week.

  Entering the downtown building among all the energy of the city, I wave my badge, which hangs on my briefcase, at the security guard and take the elevator to the thirtieth floor that houses the offices for the show.

  “Good morning, Tatum. Here are your messages. Did you have a nice birthday?” says Cynthia, our receptionist.

  Cynthia is a sweet, almost naïve girl. Her stick-straight brown hair is most often pulled into a half-up, half-down ‘do that is very neat in the morning and slightly askew by late afternoon. I like to think she's from the country or some similarly Podunk place, but she most likely just comes from upstate.

  Always quick to be polite and helpful, she usually wears a smile that is very genuine and only shakes her head at me when I say something off-color in her presence, which is usually about three times a day. Nevertheless, she comes in early each morning—I guess before everyone else—and stops at my office each evening before heading out to inquire if there is anything else she can do for me.

  I like her a lot. And the devil in me can't wait for the night when we decide to go get a drink and she gets piss drunk and lets me into that seemingly innocent little mind.

  Lying to her about my birthday, I tell her, “I did, thank you.” Then I ask, “Is Winnie in yet?”

  “She is. She, Tilly, and Wes are in the writers’ room, and I think Neil just left to get your coffees.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I walk around the pit, which is really a round pool of desks and cubicles where most of the show's staff resides, and into my office at the end.

  Some of the perks of being a producer are the liberties that the network give in to. My office is sleek, but not cold. Shit, I guess it's a lot like my condo—decorated in dark browns, creams, and silver. I know I'm boring in the decorating department, but clean and simple always make me feel calm. And clutter, again, is my enemy. So call me a minimalist. I don't care. You break a knee cap once a week on a piece of furniture and have tabletop shit flying everywhere and then you can judge my strategies.

  Settling into my morning and lining out the day, I set into some of the tasks I chose for myself. I received the driving company's contact information from Coop, so I forward it to Neil, my work assistant, so he can call and inquire about their services.

  Then, grabbing my things to head into the writers' room, I run smack into Neil coming through my door.

  “Shit, Tate. Are you okay? Geez, I'm glad I already put the coffee down. You would have been soaked.” Neil is what I like to call “metro-gay.” He's flamboyant in a posh way and more ladylike than most women I've met. He's classically queer.

  “Dammit, Neil. Can you get me a few possible contacts for a new personal assistant?” I blurt while checking to make sure I have all of my weekend's notes still in my hands.

  He freezes. I take in his perfectly pressed gray trousers that he's coupled with suspenders. This morning, Neil is sporting lime green glasses. He looks adorable.

  “I like the glasses,” I tell him.

  “Tatum, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rush in here like that. Are you firing me?”

  Now I can see the worry that my request gave him. I didn't even think about how that sounded. You can make another tick mark under the heading ‘Tatum Is An Asshat.’

  “Fuck no! You're mine forever, Neil. I need a personal assistant for outside of work. I need to...” Waving my hand around my head, I sing, “Simplify.”

  His cheeks puff out like a blowfish as he exhales his relief. “Oh, thank God. I almost shit my pants. Sure, of course. When do you want to interview them? Should I set up a time for them to come here, or I could help you do it at your place?”

  “I'm not sure what the week looks like yet. Just get some information about PAs who might, I don't know, live around my area, have experience with, uh, all of this.” Waving again like a crazed lunatic, I'm forever talking with my hands. “Someone who is young, even though you can't say that. Just say energetic. And available to start next week.” I stand there while he absorbs my plight.

  “Got it. You need me in there?”

  “Nah. It's going to be a simple week. You can set up in my office if you want. Oh, and do you want to grab lunch after the morning meeting? We can talk about what you find out and I'll tell you about breaking up with Kurt.” If my last unintentional bomb didn't nut check him, then that will.

  His eyes almost fall out of his head. “You can't do that! Ahh, this is going to be the longest morning! Damn you, Tatum Elliot. You're a wicked bitch.”

  I
nod in agreement. “Yeah, I learned that too this weekend,” I tell him as I start around the pool of desks floating in the pit. “Do some work.”

  The writers' room, which is fundamentally just a conference room that has everyone's shit in it—everything from laptops to the most current tabloid covers taped to the back wall to the three televisions we have hanging on the wall above the windows—is the nucleus of our show.

  When I walk in and see everyone already hard at it, I'm pleased. Wes and Winnie are the main attractions, but this show is my baby. Yeah, I'm the momma.

  “Okay, guys, this should be an easy week. Chel-Ro went batshit-crazy at a strip mall in Santa Monica. Then she wrecked her lawyer's car.” I point to the screen that is conveniently reporting about the whole situation as I speak. When the segment is over, I say, “See? So I'm thinking we play up the mall thing and the car committing suicide from not wanting to be seen with her driving it. What have you guys got?”

  They laugh a little and agree that she's a total hot mess that we can't pass up.

  Wes leans over the table to say, “Wow, someone is on a mission.” He sits in the lead chair at the head of the long, smoke-tinted glass top table wearing his signature lame graphic t-shirt, sports jacket, and jeans. Then he adds, “Winnie said you dumped pencil dick? You doing okay?”

  I somehow maintain my cool. “His dick resembles nothing even close to a pencil. That could be slander. He has a great dick,” I retort, pointing my pen at the quizzing expression on his face. “Actually, I'm doing great, and so is he. We had breakfast yesterday like adults and it's fine. So mind your own fucking business and let's get this week lined out. I have shit to do.”

  “Ha! Look out!” bellows Tilly, Winnie's assistant. “That girl is on fire!” She’s singing and laughing at my obvious take-charge attitude about my breakup.

  “Well, if you're all ready, then let’s do this. Over the weekend, I took home some of the segs that the junior writers have been working on and there are some really great ones. There is one about a mock award show for retired models—so funny and kind of sad.” I laugh from thinking about it. “There was a good one with a fictional metal band called Death Face but needs a little working on. There was bit about the bearded duck hunter show. A parody thing that the Devons are working on and it's killer. I think we probably have a good show with those.”