After only one day on the market, the condo sells. Max and I have to be out in three weeks. Max, of course, can’t wait to move in with Sabrina. He’s kind enough to offer to go condo shopping with me, and he tries to keep his gloating to a minimum. I know I want to be in the city, but other than that I’m open. Unfortunately, as my price range is quite a bit below my current living arrangements, each place I look at is a bit disappointing.
Gavin and I are like ships passing in the night. We constantly miss each other’s calls. We can’t seem to master the time zone issues. I haven’t told him about the living situation changes because I know he’ll say I should just move to London. I don’t want to have that conversation again. I know I’m being distant, and it’s probably clear I’m holding back. Each time we talk, it goes nowhere, and one of us gets off quickly out of sheer frustration. It’s not good.
Work is my focus. I’m making headway on my writing projects and have gotten to the point that I have to travel to do my interviews. I go to Detroit to meet several former auto plant workers, along with a former auto executive who went from making two million dollars a year to tending bar just to keep the lights on. I travel to Iowa and meet several farmers and their families who tell me their own heartbreaking stories. My last trip is to Phoenix to meet former techies that lost it all when their companies abandoned their satellite offices in the desert.
These stories become bigger than just a snapshot of the economy’s impact on real Americans. It’s become about the way that people adapt to trauma and reinvent themselves. Each person I meet has had their life turned upside down and inside out, and yet they’ve all persevered. Quite remarkable.
I’m making great progress researching backstories for my piece when Gavin calls. We’ve barely spoken in days, but I just want to type my notes before I lose my train of thought. I foolishly pick up and basically ignore him as he goes on about some problem he’s having. My half-listening skills are so pathetic that I can’t even begin to guess what the problem may be.
Understandably, he gets frustrated, and I finally just shout at him that I have to go and hang up. I throw my phone in my bag and try to pick up where I’d left off, but I’m too upset to work. My mind blanks. I can’t recall what I’d been thinking before the call, and now I’m pissed. Pissed at him for calling while I’m working. Pissed at me for losing my temper when I haven’t talked to him in days. Pissed at him some more for living so goddamn far away. Out of frustration, I kick at my bag but miss completely and stub my toe.
Trying not to howl and draw even more attention to myself, I reach down to massage my foot. A pair of flip-flops worn by surprisingly well-kept man feet step into view.
“You okay?” Mr. Pedicure asks.
Just wanting him to go away, I ignore him and continue to rub my foot.
The man taps my shoulder and crouches down. He has my cell phone in hand. “You chucked this.”
I take my phone and gently toss it on my table. “Thanks,” I murmur.
He stands and leans against the bookshelf adjacent to my table. “I’m Charlie, Charlie Murphy,” he says with an outstretched hand. “You look like you’re having a tough day.”
“Yeah, Charlie Murphy, you could say that. Hi, I’m Lily.” I shake his hand. “Thanks for getting my phone.”
Charlie’s good-looking, with wavy chocolate-brown hair, olive skin, and golden brown eyes. He’s around six feet tall and well built, clearly someone who works out. He’s no Calvin Klein model, but he has the “boy next door” thing working really well for him.
“Why the tough day?” he asks.
I could never begin to tell a complete stranger the truth, so I give him the simplest non-answer. “Boyfriend drama.”
His golden eyes find mine. “Well, I find that hard to believe. Any guy fortunate enough to have you should be thanking his lucky stars.”
I sigh internally. We were having such a nice moment, and he had to ruin it by flirting. The last thing I need is another man trying to get into my life. If he only knew what I was really like, he’d run in the opposite direction. I’m like that one piece of candy in the chocolate box, the one that looks so yummy on the outside, but once you take a bite, you find out it tastes like rusted nails, and no matter what you do, the taste lingers in your mouth for days. With just that one bite, the whole box is ruined.
“If only it were that simple, Charlie,” I reply. I look at my watch and see it’s starting to get late. I quickly shove my things in my bag and say, “I’ve got to run. See you around.”
I run home and find Max halfway through a bottle of scotch and a bunch of empty beer bottles scattered around the kitchen. How does that saying go? Liquor before beer, in the clear, beer before liquor never sicker? I think Max is probably in for it, by the look of things.
After twenty minutes of trying to make heads or tails of his drunken babbling, I think I have the story. It seems things with Sabrina took a turn for the worse. She’d tried to lay down some new rules for life together, and it did not end well.
“Pull up a bottle. Mer’s brother dropped off a bunch of new samples today. This scotch only sucks at the beginning. By your sixth or seventh shot, it tastes less awful.”
I pour him a glass of water and place it in front of him. “What a ringing endorsement. I’m a tequila girl. The scotch is all yours.”
He pours the water into the pot of a nearby plant, refills the glass with scotch, and slides it across the table to me. “Listen here, Slugger. You can drink with me, but we drink like men. No sharing our feelings. No crying. No overanalyzing. Absolutely no head shrinking. We talk about men things, like guns and cars and boxing and stories where we were badasses. So, if you’re going to sit at this table, check your vagina at the door.”
I bring the glass up to my mouth, but the smell is so foul I can’t bring myself to take a sip. “You know about boxing?” I ask.
“No, but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it. Who says you have to know about something to talk about it? Didn’t I tell you we’re talking like men here?” He’s hilarious when he drinks. He already talks with his hands when he’s sober. When he’s drunk, it’s more like his whole body moves when he speaks.
I pat him on the arm. “How ‘bout them Redskins?”
Max shoots the rest of his drink, sighs, and says, “Sabrina loves the Redskins.” He lays his head down on the table and starts to cry. So much for talking like men.
He pours his heart out for about an hour, mostly incoherently. At one point, he becomes convinced he needs to run to her and beg forgiveness. He stands up, takes three steps to the door, and then crumples to the floor in a heap, passed out. I try to get him to bed, but he’s out cold. I pull the blankets from his room and make him a bed on the kitchen floor before curling up with my own pillow next to him, determined to keep an eye on him. The last thing I need is to wake up to a dead roommate.
All of his talk has made me feel horrible for the way I treated Gavin today. I try to call him, but his phone goes right to voicemail. I’ve never known him to turn his phone off before. Suddenly, I miss him so much it hurts. I dig out his blue shirt and put it on. It no longer smells like him. I feel as though I’m losing him.
Twenty
When I finish my first cluster of stories, they’ve completely surpassed my expectations. Em helps me shop them around, and we find there’s a lot of interest. I’m also getting calls from magazines requesting me to write specific pieces. I feel like I’m actually making a go of this freelance reporter thing.
One of the assignments is taking me to Boston next week. It’s a medical piece, and I’m feeling a bit out of my depth, so I’ve buried myself in research.
Lately, Charlie’s been at Politics and Prose every day too, working from open to sunset just like me. He’s a sweet enough guy, and I have to give him credit for his effort. He always compliments me on how I look, which is a little surprising when I run there every day and generally look like a wreck. His crush is cute, but I’m c
areful not to encourage it. There’s only one guy I want crushing on me.
One day, the bookstore has to close midafternoon—an electrical issue or something. Before I can start my trek home, Charlie asks if I want to grab a late lunch together. I know it may send him mixed signals to say yes, but I’m starving. We walk to The Grille From Impanema, a Brazilian restaurant in Adams Morgan. It’s one of my favorites. Not only does the owner always make it a point to stop by and tell me stories about her childhood in Brazil or the crazy antics of her grandchildren, but they offer Brazilian-style tapas. I never pass up on the opportunity to try a little bit of everything on the menu. Judging from the way Charlie’s eyes bug out when I order, he must not be used to a woman who orders more than a salad. All I can say is thank God for yoga pants!
After we place our orders, Charlie and I stare at each other, not knowing what to say. I’m nervous, and I don’t know why. I never get anxious talking to people, but there’s something about him that makes my mind go blank. He’s not remotely intimidating, though. Quite the opposite. He has this ‘aw shucks’ look about him that makes him seem so sweet and innocent. If he only knew the darkness in my life, he’d probably run away as fast as his legs would take him.
“So, Charlie, you from around here?” I ask, trying to break the awkward silence.
He smiles shyly. “Nope. I just moved here from Chicago.”
I unfold my napkin and lay it on my lap. “That’s a big move. What brought you here?”
“I was working at The Tribune, but got booted out in the last round of ‘downsizing.’ I started doing some freelance work and found out that if you’re doing freelance, DC is a pretty good place to be. So here I am.”
“There’s no shortage of stories here, that’s for sure!”
“Have you always lived in DC?” he asks at the exact same time I say, “Are you from Chicago originally?” We both quietly laugh. I gesture for him to go first.
“I’m from McCallsburg, Iowa originally. Grew up on a farm. Pop always wanted me to take over, but I get queasy at the sight of blood. After the third time I passed out into a big pile of manure, I told him farming wasn’t for me. It broke his heart when I left for Northwestern.” He points to me. “Your turn. Are you from here?”
Crap. I don’t want to talk about me. Right now, he’s just sitting across the table, looking at me with bright eyes, as though I’m just a typical woman who lives a typical life. If I tell him the truth, even a modified version of the truth, that light in his eyes will disappear and be replaced by pity or fear.
I can’t deny that I love the way I feel when he looks at me that way. For that brief moment, I feel normal, and I don’t want to lose that feeling. Is it so wrong to want to have one small part of my life that’s just about me and not my drama?
“Lily?” he says bringing me out of my thoughts. “Are you from around here?” he asks again.
I smile. “Yup.” I point behind him. “Oh, look. Our food’s here!”
The food is amazing, and as usual, I’ve ordered way too much. That doesn’t stop me from putting it all away though.
I manage to shift the conversation away from our personal histories and steer us toward more professional subjects: stories we’ve written, stories we’ve botched up horribly, upcoming projects. Occasionally, he asks something personal, and I either dodge the question or feed him a white lie. The conversation flows easily, and we end up staying till long after the dinner rush has come and gone.
It’s nice to be with someone who’s not surrounded by drama. No paparazzi. No hit men. Charlie’s just an average guy. His days seem to be filled with ordinary things like going to work, going home, and spending time with friends. Rinse, repeat. His biggest problems are an occasional flat tire, too many parking tickets, and annoying landlords. And, he’s here. In the US. The same time zone and everything. The simplicity is enticing.
Charlie understands my work and is excited about my projects. To be fair, Gavin is too. In fact, he often has really good ideas, but Charlie understands the technique and strategy that goes into the work. It’s nice to talk to another professional in the same industry. And if I’m being honest, I’m starved for attention. I guess that’s really what it comes down to.
Our server gives us the evil eye from across the restaurant, a clear sign we’ve overstayed our welcome. I leave a huge tip and pick up my to-go bag. “Thanks for hanging out with me,” I say to Charlie as we walk out the door. “This was fun.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
I smile. “I’m good.”
“You sure? Where do you live? You might be on my way. I get nervous thinking about you running home at this hour. There are some scary guys out there.”
He smiles and gives me those eyes that make me want to believe the world is just full of rainbows and puppy kisses. He’s such a sweet guy, and I should come with a Surgeon General’s warning that being in my life will result in being sucked into a black hole vortex of death and destruction. I feel like a selfish bitch for even spending time with him. Max has warned me about letting anyone new in right now. Not only for my protection, but for theirs as well. I need to keep Charlie at a safe distance so when the shit hits the fan, he won’t be hurt by the fallout.
I smile. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”
He shakes his head, looking disappointed. “My father would whip me if he knew I’d let a woman walk home alone. I can hear my grandparents rolling over in their graves! You’re killing my reputation as a gentleman.”
I pat my stomach. “I need to work off the enormous amount of food I put away.”
He frowns but holds his hand up in defeat. “All right. Just be careful.”
I wink. “See you, Charlie.”
I walk away from Charlie feeling lighter. This afternoon has been a little vacation from my life, and it was delightful. But, sadly, I know it was all a lie. Charlie may be a fun distraction, but he can never know the real me.
My good mood has dissipated by the time I get home. The dark funk I’ve been in for weeks has returned. When I open the door, Max grabs his dinner plate and bolts to his room. I can’t say I blame him. Lately, I’ve been cranky and short-tempered. I don’t mean to jump down his throat all the time. If only he’d stop saying things that drive me crazy, we’d get along so much better.
It’s not all on him—I know I’m to blame. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. It’s as though I’ve lost patience for everything and everyone. I could really use an emotional makeover. Despite my downright nasty behavior at times, Max sticks by me. I’m lucky to have him, even if the sound of his voice is like nails on a chalkboard these days. Thankfully, I manage not to kill him long enough for him to finally take me condo shopping.
After looking at what feels like a million places, I think I’ve found one I’m happy with. Not as swanky as Meredith’s building, but it does have twenty-four hour security. I make sure Sully and Greene give it a once over and award the security their seal of approval before I put in my bid. I want to be in a high traffic area, and the building is in DuPont Circle. Doesn’t get much more high traffic than that.
It’s a two-bedroom with a den, so I could set up a proper office and comfortably work from home. There’s even room for Max. He swears he and Sabrina are going to work it out, but I’m not holding my breath. I still haven’t met her, but she doesn’t strike me as the type to back down. I’ve yet to hear anything about this woman that sounds as though she’s worth the headache and heartache she causes. I’ll never say it to Max, but I secretly hope she doesn’t take him back. He deserves much better.
I suppose Gavin’s friends could be saying the same thing about me. Most of the time, we only exchange voicemails. When we do speak, we spend more time bickering than talking. If he asked, I couldn’t tell him one thing that’s currently going on in his life. I’m not sure if it’s because he hasn’t shared or I haven’t been listening.
He’s still the first thing I think about in the morning, and throu
ghout the day, a million little things come up that I want to share with him, but I don’t. Why don’t I? How simple would it be to send a text to let him know I’m thinking about him? When I look critically at all of our exchanges in the last few weeks, it’s always been me who starts the fight. He tries, but I always push him away. I wish I understood why.
Scared I might push him right out of my life, I’ve decided to work harder to improve our relationship. Over the week leading up to my trip, I make a concerted effort to call at good times and to focus on him when we talk. Once I’ve let him back in, I’m smiling again. It’s like a blanket of sunshine has wrapped itself around my life. I smile at people on the street, instead of cursing them under my breath. Even Max notices that Angry Zombie Bitch has taken a leave of absence. When Gavin and I are in sync, it’s as though all is right with the world again. All of this long distance is still hell, but when it’s good, it’s so good. I have to hope it’ll all be worth it one day.
******
A few days before my flight to Boston, Em calls to tell me she’ll be in town for the night. She’s scheduled to be a talking head on some news show about the economy earlier in the day, and then tomorrow she’s guest-lecturing at GW. In between, she has a full evening planned for the two of us. I don’t know where she finds all the energy, but I dutifully get gussied up to hit the town. I glance at the clock and realize she’s due any moment, so I quickly finish getting ready.
Max lets out a wolf whistle when I walk into the living room. “Well, look at you, letting your inner hooker out! Can that skirt get any shorter?”
I put my hands on my hips and glare evil death rays at him.
“No, really, it’s a question,” he says with a smile. “Can you even call that a skirt? It’s more like some fabric hoping to be a skirt but not quite getting it done. Just who are you trying to catch with that trap you’re wearing?”
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