by Deana Birch
The three of us sat down in the conference room and Mario studied me with his arms crossed over his chest.
After going through my résumé with Mario, Bob said, “We’re running out of time, Mario. We’re never going to find someone who meets all your specifications. The business is too niche. We have to make my replacement ourselves.”
“I’m not replacing you.”
“And I’m not leaving. But I can’t do this job and the one I need to be doing without help. I like Louana. I have a great feeling about her, and I’m hiring her.”
“Three-month trial.” Mario’s brooding continued, and I sank a little in my black rolling chair.
“Fine.” Bob turned to me. “Louana, you’re hired. You start now.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking at Mario first. Then I did the same to Bob.
“Can I go back to writing now?” Mario’s tone told me we wouldn’t be sharing welcome-aboard drinks later.
“Absolutely. Come on, Louana, I’ll show you around.” Bob pushed back in his chair and stood.
My career kicked off then, all thanks to Bob and our secret.
I smiled across the glass table to the man who’d taken me under his wing and whose stress smoking had increased as he worried about his wife. I was lucky to have him.
“Well, you should both be ashamed. It’s a disgusting habit,” Karen said, pursing her lips.
We all settled and I turned to Fern. “You’re an awful friend. Telling my secrets to my boss.”
“Oh, there’s more! Why, this week…”
I shot up. “Time to go.”
The ride home was quiet. Both Fern and Archie faded in and out of sleep. It had been a perfect day. Maybe a bit much for Karen, who seemed fatigued by the end of dinner, but for me, it was just what the doctor ordered.
When I got home, I called my mom to catch up on the last week. She told me about the new guy she was seeing, a biker with a heart of gold. Grand-maman would not approve, but I was happy for her. She deserved someone who would pay attention to her. It also relieved a little of my guilt from moving to Los Angeles.
⸎
3:12 a.m.
Jake: still want to be friends
My heart leaped into my throat and pumped against my tonsils. Talk about ambiguous. I bet he was drunk when he sent it. Friends how? What kind of friends did what we had done anyway? Maybe all of his friends of the opposite sex. I was beyond confused. And now I had to think about him again. Damn him. I must have spent ten full minutes staring at the phone, my mind racing. I could not let myself get any hopes up of Jake and I turning into something we were not capable of being.
The bartender’s words rang in my ears as the images from Google replayed in my mind. Jake Riley was not boyfriend material. He didn’t even have a home or car of his own. And if boyfriend was not going to happen, it left me as just a sex partner. But while the sex was mind blowing, it also meant I would be a glorified groupie. I hated the idea of sharing Jake with anyone else, which proved I was already attached. Seeing him again would only reinforce the attachment. In the end, I decided the safest way to deal with his message was to file it under “Drunk text, best to ignore” and put it in a neat little drawer in the back of my brain. Maybe he even sent it to the wrong person.
⸎
With my bikini on, I headed to the chairs by the pool. Walking Archie could wait until later; I was sure he and Fern were still sleeping off the exuberance of the previous day. Sunday mornings, poolside, had become my quiet retreat. No one in the complex was awake. They were probably all tired from either working or partying on Saturday nights. I put my earbuds in, unhooked the top of my bikini, dropped it on the ground, and let the music transport me. To better educate myself about my job, I was reviewing the history of film composers and their scores. Elmer Bernstein was up next. His style was melodic, even when expressing tension. I wasn’t sure this appealed to my personal taste, but I recognized the lesson and appreciated the process.
The work week was uneventful. Mario wrote initial themes for The Drifting and Bob and I strategized for future projects. On Wednesday, I invited Vincent’s assistant and my only friend, Casey, to lunch.
We sat at a table outside Café Med on Sunset, and I filled in Casey on the details of my weekend.
His brows scrunched together. “Louana, how old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” I knew what was coming.
“You cannot spend your weekends with old, dying—sorry, it’s the brutal truth, girl—people. You need to get out and mingle. Shake your gorgeous little ass! And Jesus, woman, stop cooking for everyone!”
I laughed. “I like cooking for people.”
He snarled. “How are you getting along with the other thing?”
I knew he would bring it up at some point. His crush on Shane Murphy wasn’t going anywhere. I prepared my defense. “What thing?”
“Don’t play coy. Jake Riley. Have you seen him again?” Casey’s hazel, catlike eyes lit up.
“No. Anyway, I think he’s on tour.” Next tactic: deflect. “This pasta is amazing.” I took a bite.
Casey knew how to read people. He’d told me it was one of the things Vincent valued most in him. He searched for clues on my face as I chewed.
I tried to deflect again. “Hey, you know I met one of the actors from The Drifting? He goes to the same yoga studio as me. Back tapper though. Double whammy of annoyance.” I shivered. “I didn’t recognize him at first, and then it hit me. Bam!”
“Louana?” Casey’s voice was calm, eerie. “What happened with you and the very hot, very sexy Jake Riley?”
“What? Nothing.” My fork speared another noodle.
“You are blushing, Miss Higgins.”
My eyes widened. It was true—my face was hotter than a five-alarm fire. Damn it.
“Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me? Details, woman! Stat!” His hand slapped the table and our drinks jiggled.
I caved. At this point, hiding it was futile; Casey had figured it out anyway. “It was a quick fling. It’s over.”
“What? Why?” he shrieked, and fellow customers glared in our direction.
“Calm down.” My hand attempted to hide my face.
“No! Why? Tell me why it’s over? Is he into, like, super kinky shit? Like dressing up like a baby and having you change his diaper and breastfeed him or something?” His voice was quieter and, thankfully, for my ears only.
“Ew, no.” I crinkled my nose. “Who even does that?”
“You do not want to know, trust me. Can you at least tell me why it’s over? He was just here last week.”
I ran my hand through my hair to flatten it. “It’s over because he made it very clear our friendship,” I air quoted the word, “finished when he went back on tour. So it’s done. But then he…”
“But then he what?” Casey leaned closer.
“He drunk texted me.”
“What did he say?”
Sheesh. So much for trying to keep anything from Casey. He should consider a career in the FBI.
“That he still wanted to be friends… But I don’t know if he meant, like, regular friends or if he was just drunk…or… I don’t know.” I shook my head and pushed my plate toward the center of the table.
“Why do you think he was drunk?” A thin, blonde eyebrow arched.
“He sent it at 3 a.m.” I reached for my water glass and took a drink, hoping this would be the end of the inquisition.
“Well, what did you say back?” Nope. Not ending.
“Nothing. I never replied.” I returned the glass to its sweat ring and shook my head.
Casey paused and peered at me for too long. “I need to see the text.”
“What? No. Why?”
“Maybe if I see how he wrote it exactly, I can help you figure out what it means. Hand it over, girl.” His elbows met the table and he opened a hand to me.
I dug my phone out of my bag, entered the code, pulled up the message, and put it into Casey’s outs
tretched palm. Maybe he could help. Then I realized he had taken matters into his own hands. Shit.
“What are you doing? Casey! No! Please don’t.” He was too fast—perhaps a former thumb-war champion. “Jesus. What did you do?”
He handed back the phone and I read what Jake would assume to be my words.
Me: Please clarify.
Casey softened. “I’m helping, Loulou. Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen? You become friends with a rock star? You could still sleep with all the hot men around him.”
I rolled my eyes and signaled the waiter for the check.
“Whenever you want to thank me is fine.” His smile beamed brighter than the California sun.
“Dinner and dancing Friday night?”
“That’ll do.”
⸎
It took some self-discipline not to check my phone during the afternoon, but I wasn’t going to let the pitter-patter from the butterflies of hope change my policy of no personal calls or texting while working. I was out the door at six, and a surge of disappointment bubbled up inside me when I didn’t find any new messages on my phone.
At home, I changed and was reheating my dinner when his message came.
Jake: Is this an ok time?
Me: For what?
Jake: I know you’re not a fan of texting, but I’m on a bus with zero privacy and this is the only time of day when we are both awake and available. Can we please chat this way?
Chewing at a bite of my dinner, I pondered the situation. I knew he was right, and if I wanted answers, I would need to give in a little. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine.
Me: ok
Jake: Why did it take you so long to get back to me?
I groaned to the empty chair facing me. I thought he was going to be the one explaining.
Me: I honestly did not know what you meant. I STILL don’t.
Jake: I’ve been thinking about you. I want to get to know more about you, so I STILL want to be friends.
Me: Again, I’m at a loss.
Jake: Why?
Me: Everything is so blurry with you. I hate texting.
Jake: Thank you for enduring the torture.
I rolled my eyes. This was going nowhere, and I hadn’t learned anything new.
Me: If you just want to be friends, great. Call me when you get back and we’ll have a beer to catch up.
Jake: I never said I JUST wanted to be friends.
Me: Then spell it out for me. What DO you want?
Jake: I already told you.
Me: You’re making me crazy. Texting is making me crazy.
Jake: You make me crazy.
If he was flirting via text, I had no idea. What I did know was that this conversation needed to be over. It wasn’t giving me any answers.
Me: Have a great tour.
After sending the message, I placed my phone back down onto the table. I was halfway to the sink with my dirty dishes when it rang.
Jake calling.
Default mode activated!
“Louana Higgins.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Excuse me?” I tucked my chin in.
“Louana, listen.” He slowed and calmed. “This is not how I imagined this would go.”
“Really?” I wouldn’t back down so easily. I was tired of his convoluted mixed signals. “Please then, Jake, tell me; how? How did you imagine this would go? That you could just say I want this without telling me what this is, and it’s decided you get it? Because you’re in a band? Because you’re sexy as all fuck and great in bed? That my panties will magically melt off when you’re around, and I will agree to any kind of contact with you on any terms because it’s a fucking honor to be in your presence?”
Dead air...
“Ouch,” he finally said.
But I wasn’t done. “Yeah, ouch. Ouch that you think I’m some kind of groupie dying to be at your beck and call. Ouch for me too.”
And I hung up.
Until the words had gone spewing out of my mouth, I hadn’t even been aware of their truth. I was reeling; I was even shaking. The kitchen drawer where my fury filters were hiding called to me, and I grabbed a lighter and went outside to enjoy my anger with my feet in the pool.
As I calmed down, I realized I was madder at myself than Jake. I had fallen victim to hope and history. Hope of changing a broken story which was sure to finish with heartbreak. And afraid history would repeat itself with a famous boyfriend. Jake had distracted and enchanted me even when I knew being with someone like him was impossible. But I was still mad at him too. He couldn’t just presume I would be alright with whatever arrangement he had imagined in his head. It reminded me too much of Dimitri and how he assumed I was happy with him making decisions for me. Repeating a relationship where the man had all the power was not an option.
When I got back inside, my phone showed three missed calls and a text.
Jake: You don’t know what I think, but I can assure you it’s none of those things. Also, don’t hang up on me again. It’s rude, and you have nicer manners than that. Good night. x
⸎
On Tuesday at 6:45 p.m., my phone rang, and I knew without looking that it was him. I listened to it ring until he relented. But I couldn’t help myself when the ding of a new message sounded. I had to see what he wrote.
Jake: You may be stubborn, but I am patient. x
My brain told my face not to smile, but it was too late.
⸎
A night out with Casey was the emotional lifeboat of my week. We dined at a posh West Hollywood restaurant, guzzled champagne, and danced until we dripped with sweat. When the Uber dropped me off in the wee hours, I stumbled in my door, kicked off my heels, and threw my little dress on the couch. I pulled my phone out of my bag to charge it and saw his text.
Jake: you still ignoring me?
Maybe it was the night, or maybe I was done playing games, but I decided to write back.
Me: yes
Jake: typing…
Shit! He was online.
Jake: u up?
Me: yes
Jake: is that all you’re going to say?
Me: yes
Jake: are you thinking about me?
He had me there. Shit. Fuck it.
Me: yes
Jake: I’m thinking about your front door. Do you remember your back up against it?
Me: yes
Jake: Did you like it?
Me: yes
Jake: Then why are you avoiding my calls?
He had me backed into a corner, or, in this case, a front door. I had one move.
Me: good night
Jake: Sweet Dreams. x
I woke to a dry mouth and throbbing head. Champagne’s sole purpose should be christening ships. As I squinted, my eyes adjusted to the light and I rolled out of bed.
In the kitchen, I chugged a liter of water and opened a second before picking up my shoes and dress. Then I remembered Archie. Crap. It was already past ten. I pulled on a little sundress and slipped into my flip-flops. In the courtyard, Fern and Archie sat by the pool. Archie saw me come out, tilted his head, and wagged his tail.
“I’m so sorry, Fern; I was out late and just woke up. I’ll take him now.” I bent down to Archie, scratched his ears, and kissed his nose. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. I remembered you said you were going out. I hoped this would happen. It means you had a good time. I walked him a little while ago. Hair of the dog?” She offered me her drink.
“No thanks.” It didn’t feel right to judge her morning cocktail with my head in its current state. I was in no place to lecture about responsible alcohol consumption.
“I’ll see you later.” I hobbled back through my apartment door and forced the second liter of water into my body. I knew the best way to get over this would be continued hydration with some sweat. I checked the hot yoga schedule on my fridge, pulled on my shorty shorts, and m
ade my way to maximum detoxification.
The class seemed super busy for 12:30 on a Saturday. But after a few people yawned—exposing the loitering odors of the previous night’s beverages of choice—I understood this class had one sole purpose: hangover helper. I was not alone in my quest for relief. Over the ninety minutes that followed, we limped along together. The guy behind me may still have been drunk, and the girl next to me belched while in half moon pose. We did lose a couple on the way, and I noticed a few people in the back stopped moving when we got to the floor. I stayed in the final relaxation longer than I was accustomed to, allowing the yoga to work its magic on my shriveled-up body.
When I did peel myself up off the mat, I found newbie actor and unfortunate back-tapper, Brandon Cole, waiting for me at reception. To say I was happy to see him would be untrue.
“Hey. Louana, right?”
“Yup.” I instantly regretted my lack of attire.
“Hard night?”
Telling him I had been out with Casey Wolfe would have been easy. He would obviously know him. But even though Brandon was an attractive guy, and nice enough, I knew I would never be able to get beyond his shoulder tapping. Him being an actor, maybe. But a shoulder-tapper was a bucket of ice for my libido and friend zone. So instead, I added another yup, smiled, and wished him a nice weekend.
I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool with my book. Dinner was leftovers, and I called my mom and went to bed before ten o’clock. Super exciting Saturday night. I told myself I’d work on making new friends again soon.
On Sunday morning I was back at the pool for my sunbathing ritual. This week I was listening to Thomas Newman, who I admired more than Bernstein. In the middle of the score to White Oleander, my phone dinged.
Jake: Good morning gorgeous.
He was trying his hand at charm, and to his credit, it half worked.