by JD Hawkins
I draw close, the sun still in my eyes, the two of them still playing in the dirt.
“You made a friend there, Duke?” I say.
The girl ruffles him one more time and says, “Beautiful dog.”
She stands up slow, and I get ready to give her the eyes, the smile. She turns to face me, and both of our smiles drop like they’re illegal.
It’s her.
For a few seconds we hold each other’s gaze like animals on each other’s territory. Then the tension breaks the only way it can—with both of us laughing incredulously.
“Holy shit,” she says, shaking her head.
“Two times in two days. You’re either really good or really bad at stalking me.”
She laughs and it sounds just like it used to, maybe a little stronger, a little more confident. Fluttery, like a bird springing into the air. I take a second to appreciate the way the sun glistens on the sweat of her shoulder, how her skin glows with the redness of pumped muscles. Suddenly I’m back in that humid summer, when we rode out to a lake, went skinny-dipping in the midday sun. We fucked right there on the rocks, bodies wet with sweat and water, hot and flustered, thirsty for each other. I swallow down my dry mouth and suddenly wish I could take her back there, no questions asked, no complicated history behind us.
“I’ve never seen you up here before,” I say. “And I come run here pretty often.”
She shrugs. “I just moved to this part of town last week.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I got promoted at work, so I could finally afford a place that doesn’t feel like a converted closet.”
I laugh a little, enjoying the way she relaxes in front of me, the sound of her voice bringing back all kinds of thoughts.
“What do you do now?” I ask.
“I’m a producer,” she says, nodding. “You ever heard of Hollywood Night?” I shake my head. “Figures,” she grins, “you’re not exactly the demographic. It’s a kind of celebrity gossip show. You know, ‘this pop star got a nipple piercing,’ ‘this actor is dating this model’… It’s not exactly the most artistically stimulating work, but ratings are good and so is the money. I can’t complain.”
“That’s good,” I say.
Ash looks askew at me.
“You still do that?” she says through a dimpled smile.
“Do what?”
“Say ‘that’s good’ when you’re trying to be polite but don’t know how.”
I laugh and look at Duke, who’s sitting watching us with his tongue out like he’s got front row seats to a play about old friends.
“Hey listen,” I say. “About yesterday, at the shop—”
Ash waves it away.
“Sorry for bailing.”
“I get it,” I say, hoping she doesn’t read too much into it. “First tattoos can be intimidating. I meant it, though, about if you decide to come back. We’ll squeeze you in.”
“Thanks.” Ash smiles, and there’s a slightly guilty silence between us, as if we’ve just brushed something under the carpet and agreed to keep it there. The silence goes on a little too long, and I search my mind for something to say. Something other than the things neither of us wants to address. Something other than goodbye—I’m not done drinking her in yet.
“Oh,” I say suddenly, remembering. “You remember a girl named Isabel that we used to hang out with? From art class?” I say.
Ash wrinkles her nose up in thought.
“Isabel… Wait…braces? Coke-bottle glasses? Always wore that ripped pink cardigan? She was a band geek, but she was great. Really funny.”
Through a laugh, I say, “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Of course I remember her! She went to Europe, right? Right after high school. I was so excited for her, but we lost touch pretty soon after that.”
“Well she’s back now.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ash says, punching my shoulder with a sudden burst of excitement. “And she didn’t even tell me? I would’ve loved to hear from her again.”
I hold up my hands in defense. “I only bumped into her by accident. She walked into the tattoo shop a month or two ago. Wanted a hand tattoo but we ended up talking about old times instead.”
“Wow,” Ash says, looking out over the city as she remembers. “Isabel… You know, I always thought she was kinda beautiful in this strange, subversive way.”
“You should see her now. It ain’t subversive anymore, she looks incredible. A trail of drooling guys wherever she goes. If the rock ‘n roll chick type is your thing.” I shrug, and Ash looks at me in open-mouthed awe. “Yeah. She’s in a band—they just signed a deal with a major label after doing the indie thing for a few years. They’re only in L.A. to record an album, I think.”
“Seriously?” Ash says, looking almost proud. “God…she always talked about wanting to do that. I remember going to a couple shows with her, those fake IDs she got us, how she messed around with her old ukulele whenever I went to her house. This is incredible. I’ve got to see her before she goes.”
“She wanted to see you too,” I say, stopping short of admitting how much we had talked about Ash. I remember something and frown. “Actually, I think she said she was playing somewhere local in a couple of days. Put a flyer up in the shop.”
“Wow,” she says. “Living the dream, huh?”
I take a long moment to think about what I’m about to say. Then decide to take the risk.
“You wanna go?”
It takes a second for Ash to stutter over her response, and I imagine she’s doing the same thing I am, trying to wrestle with a whole lot of complexity before she can give an answer so simple.
“Yeah…why not? Tell you what, call me when you figure out what night it’s on and I’ll see if I’m free. With the hours I work I don’t get out much, but I can make an exception for an old friend.”
“Let’s exchange numbers,” I say, pulling my phone out. “I could pick you up. Maybe we can get a drink afterward and catch up, or something.” I don’t clarify whether I’m talking about all three of us or just me and Ash, but she doesn’t ask and I let it remain open-ended. No need to push things now—it seems smarter to just see how the night plays out.
We swap numbers and as she’s putting her phone away Ash looks up at me through her side-swept bangs, with that mischievous look that always got me thinking unsayable things.
“You still ride a motorcycle?” she says.
I smile back.
“Nothing beats a bike for L.A. traffic. You still like riding in back?”
Ash lets out a furtive laugh, already turning away to leave.
“Give me a call. Let me know,” she says, starting to run.
“Absolutely,” I say, struggling to hide how good it feels knowing that I’ll get to see her again.
3
Ash
I go through the morning at work like a coffee-fueled automaton. Executing the tasks on my to-do list with the detached determination of somebody who has bigger things on their mind. I buzz around the production office, handing out copies of scripts and shooting schedules, hashing out last-minute alterations to the night’s program, and prepping a couple of guests, but mentally I’m still up there on Runyon Canyon, replaying the conversation with Teo, reading between the lines, searching for double meanings.
Even on the surface, it’s crazy. An invitation to a concert? Casually delivered like we were just a couple of old high school buddies who did chess club together? No sense of the hurt and drama in our history. No acknowledgement of what he did to me, to us.
Then again, maybe it doesn’t really matter to him, maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was exactly what he seemed to treat it as: Bumping into some girl he used to know, and asking her out on some semi-date. Could he really have forgotten how badly things ended between us?
It was so easy—too easy—to be comfortable with him. Talking like we used to, laughing like we’d won. His eyes still fixed themselves on m
e like everything I said mattered, his presence so deep and strong I felt like I could fall into him. He still talked with that cool, guarded manner of holding something back. Still had the look of someone who didn’t tell you everything, who kept himself a mystery, so that even when you were talking about one thing, you felt like he was thinking about something entirely different.
I used to love that, it used to make me want to unlock that enigmatic smile and find out what went on behind those narrowed eyes—but now that I know how much Teo can hurt me, I can’t stop worrying about what could happen if I let myself get lost in him again.
For so many years I’d thought about what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again. I’d filled entire journals with the things I wanted to tell him. Angry, hurt, confused things. I’d imagined him turning up and begging for me to take him back. I imagined him turning up having completely forgotten about me. I’d envisioned passing him on the street, a battered, destitute criminal the way everyone in our town assumed he’d end up, or seeing him at a club partying it up, surrounded by sleazy hangers-on and pornstars.
And in all of those situations I knew what I would say. I’d had seven years to refine it, to practice. So that when I did get my shot it would really hit home. No room for him to mistake what I meant, no way he could ignore what he’d done to me.
Except the moment had come—twice in the last few days, in fact—and each time my mental script got thrown right out the window. What good was seven years’ practice when the sight of that rugged jawline made me forget everything since then? What good was holding a grudge when that look made you feel so good?
Seeing him again made me realize what I really wanted, and it wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t to deliver the perfect ‘fuck you,’ or to gloat over some sense of high ground. All I really wanted was to go back to the past, seventeen and in our own secret world.
Except I can’t. I can’t forgive the unforgiveable. Not that it’s even an option.
Now all I have are a bunch of questions, a half-promise we’ll see each other again, and full confirmation that he’s as beautiful and dangerous as I remember, maybe even more so.
“Crap!” I splutter, as my phone alarm goes off and I realize I’ve been staring at a blank sheet of paper on the desk in my new office for nearly an hour.
In five minutes I’m about to have the biggest meeting of my career. A pitch meeting with the higher-ups that I had to push, pull, and fight for like some lawyer on an unwinnable case. I may be new to the job title of producer, but I’ve been working my way up on this show for years and I know its internal workings like the back of my hand. I’m ready to push boundaries and forge my own path. I just need to get my head back in the game, and stat.
“Crap crap crap crap crap,” I mutter to myself like some nihilistic mantra as I snatch and sweep up the papers I’d prepared for this.
This is my first real chance to drag some quality kicking and screaming into Hollywood Night. To take the televisual equivalent of a gossiping neighbor with a bad sense of humor and try to make something meaningful. Something people tune in for and remember, instead of just leaving on as background noise, or because they’re too lazy to change the channel.
Clutching the stack of papers unevenly to my chest, I leave my new office (still only half-furnished) and blast through the corridor to the meeting room. At the door I see that two of the execs are already there. I knock lightly and force a bright, confident smile as I enter.
“Hey,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I’m a little breathless with a swig from my coffee mug. “Hope I’m not late.”
“Right on time,” Sean says genially.
Sean’s in his fifties, and has the gentle, detached presence of a man who doesn’t seem to stress all that much about his work, but is so experienced in his field that he doesn’t really need to. With his bald head and Lennon glasses he could pass for a New York Times columnist, though any one of them would probably swap places with him in a heartbeat. If you watch any primetime TV at all, chances are Sean is behind at least a third of them.
“Just to let you know,” he says, “Ted won’t be able to make it today. He’s got some other things to attend to.”
“Oh, ok. I see,” I say, pretending to be surprised. The truth is that I’ve only seen Ted once in all the years that I’ve been working here. If you could call Sean’s engagement with the show ‘hands off’ then Ted’s involvement is ‘not even in the same hemisphere.’
The wiry woman with the red hair in a tight ponytail and permanently pouted lips looks at Sean, ignoring me. I grit my teeth and work hard to keep my smile firmly in place.
“How long are we giving this?” she says in a dry, bored voice.
“However long it takes, Candace,” Sean shoots back, chuckling nonchalantly toward me, almost apologetically.
Candace McGill has a reputation for being rude, manipulative, and arrogant—and that’s the nice version. As the executive producer and show runner, Hollywood Night is her baby—and by baby I mean the excuse she uses to party with celebrities and hit on young actors. She’s as slim and dangerous as the cigarettes she chainsmokes, with a team of surgeons at her beck and call to keep her looking fantastic for her age—which I suspect is just a little younger than the Easter Island heads she looks uncannily like. My only hope for pushing through some of my ideas is that she doesn’t care enough to bother shooting them down. Judging by the amount of work she does, that’s not entirely impossible.
“I’ll keep this quick, I promise,” I say, sliding my papers around on the meeting desk. “I just wanted to go over a few ideas for some slightly longer features we could run. Interesting, more in-depth subjects that could give viewers a little more actual insight into Hollywood. You know, a more unique perspective that people might really respond to.”
“Oh God,” Candace sighs, looking out of the window in boredom. “This again. Honey: We’re a late-night gossip show, not PBS. All you’ve got to do is put pretty faces on the screen, get actors to look like well-adjusted people for the interviews, tell rumors nobody cares about as if they’re worth anything, collect a paycheck, and thank the Lord there are enough morons in the world to keep us in a job.”
Sean laughs gently, though we both know Candace isn’t really joking.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I reply, hoping to appear calmly diplomatic, “but even still, don’t you think there’s a little room for some more—”
“To be honest,” Sean interrupts, “ratings are decent, but we’re having to work pretty hard to keep them there. It’s competitive now, what with TMZ and TrendBlend, no doubt about it. Sorry to say so, but it may not be the best time to take risks.” He shrugs in apology.
“That’s exactly my point,” I say, leaning forward eagerly. “Most of our competition is coming from internet sites, right? And the whole ‘celebrity scoop,’ fast news cycle, short attention span thing is something we can’t really compete with. They’re always going to get there faster and more easily. Production value is our strongest suit. That’s why—”
“Sweetie,” Candace says, looking at me fully now, as if finally interested, “we don’t have to compete, because they don’t have the access, the power, or the money. And if the geeks posting online do want to come after us, they’ll have a hell of a fight. If people want rumors, we’ll have the sleaziest, dirtiest ones. If people want scoops, we’ll make them ourselves.”
Sean laughs again, this time a little more nervously.
“Right. I’m not saying we should change the show entirely,” I say, backtracking a little to take the sting out of Candace’s words. “But we could also do things that a lot of the internet blogs and video sites can’t, such as really insightful features.” I grab the printouts I’d made and slide them across the desk. “Remember last Christmas when we had to pull two segments at the last minute? I used the b-roll I had with some make-up artists just telling personal behind-the-scenes stories about actors and projects they’d worked on. It was a t
hirteen minute segment.”
Candace rolls her eyes.
“How could I forget?” she says dismissively.
“Well, we didn’t put the segment up on the site—but somebody took it and uploaded it anyway. It got thousands of views, and a ton of comments. People really seemed to like it. If we had put it up on our site it would have been in the top three videos for the year—and that’s without people bouncing from our other videos.”
Sean studies the sheet of figures and nods slightly, while Candace glances at it and pushes it back toward me.
“So what were you thinking?” Sean says.
“Ok,” I say, leaning forward and taking a deep breath. This is it. “I’ve been talking with this really interesting woman who owns a yoga studio downtown. Just a couple of years ago the place was really struggling, but then these MMA fighters started going there, and in turn a lot of celebrities started going too. Apparently they really love this place. It’s the new hot thing for actors here. We could take tons of angles on this. The feel-good story about a business turning things around. The idea of celebrities and regular joes going to the same classes, the way something like yoga can bring people together on equal ground—”
“Somebody pass me the remote,” Candace sighs. “I’m already bored.”
I let the comment slide. “Frankie—the woman who owns the studio—tells me there are some big actors who’d be willing to talk to us about how much they love the place.”
“Sure,” Candace says, “and there’s a bum down the street who’ll give you Clooney’s number for the price of a forty. Honey, this is L.A. Everybody is somebody’s cousin when they want something from you. We’re not a charity organization set up to dole out free advertising. We run some infomercial crap like this and people will change the channel.”
I clench my teeth, if only to stop me from saying something that would get me fired on the spot, and though the silence only lasts a few seconds, it’s tense and hard.
Sean lets out another gentle chuckle to break it.