It didn’t work, though. In my mind, Layton’s eyes were fixed on me and really seeing me, checking my reaction. His inspection of me felt real, sending tingles over my skin and need clawing down my spine. I itched to see Layton in real life and not only in my mind, which was so strange considering I’d only met him once.
Finally, we arrived at my stop. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the bustle of exiting the subway station and holding on to my present was enough to put an end to my overactive imagination.
I sat on my patio, my feet up on the table and a beer in my hand, the night quiet except for Harriette’s rustling around in the yard. I shut my eyes and breathed in the salty air.
Why did I have to go and send flowers? And I don’t mean calling up 1-800-Flowers like some dumb bachelor. No, I’d googled for the most highly recommended boutique florist in New York City and called them up myself.
“I need something special for someone . . . unique,” I’d said over the phone. “A one-off, rich in colors and, hmmm, let me think. In a champagne glass?”
The guy with an accent told me he could work with that, and set about e-mailing me a picture of an oversized champagne glass and a quote. I’d responded right away with an affirmative.
Okay, before you start handing out awards for “Dude of the Year,” I must admit, I’d seen this move in a movie. It was a romantic dramedy where the guy never seemed to get the girl he wanted until . . . he really tried.
Story of my life, really.
I’d had a ton of women. Gingers, brunettes, and even a few Asians. I liked them all. They liked me too. I was funny and I set them at ease. They weren’t perfect. Too skinny, heads covered with overly curly hair, they loved the Jedi Force or enjoyed graphic novels—those were my kind of girl. Around me, they felt good about themselves, at ease and confident. They complimented me and meant it.
I was self-made, successful, and a bit of a romantic. All those characteristics were in my favor. And my personality wasn’t so bad, I’d been told. I listened to people, really listened, and I was generous. In and out of bed.
Although I’d been told this, I’d never gotten the girl, the one everyone else wanted. And the minute I saw Charli walk onto the plane, I knew she was that kind of girl. The one everyone wanted.
Yeah, she tried to hide behind the bitchy attitude, the New York snobbery, but for a minute or five, I broke her down. I saw behind her prissy shell and couture armor, and I wanted that. All of that.
“I did, my pretty lady,” I said to my only true girl. “I saw it and broke her down.”
Actually, my one-and-only sat at my side, panting from chasing after her ball and dripping drool onto my knee. I shifted in my seat, wincing when my cargo shorts bit into my ass, and sighed at the sight of my T-shirt clinging to my stomach—a reminder of why my dog was my only girl.
On a long exhale, I told myself I should settle for one of the women who found me appealing, inside and out, rather than chase the unattainable. But I couldn’t stop my mind from conjuring up images of Charli, or running away with the idea of seeing her again.
I had a plan.
If she’d only e-mail me back.
Harriette looked at me like What the fuck? Her soft doggie eyes were so droopy and inviting, and even though she adored me, even she didn’t believe I had a chance.
“Here’s to hoping the flowers help. Come on, girl.” I stood, patted Harriette on the head, and went back inside the house.
“Charli! Over here. Charli!”
Janie waved at me from a far corner of the crowded bar at Chowww. It was her birthday, and she insisted we celebrate here. The place was loud, trendy, and expensive, so it was no surprise.
“Hey, girl, happy birthday!” I squeezed her tight and kissed her cheek, wedging myself into the small space next to her and the bar.
She leaned close, raising her voice so I could hear. “Craig is going to stop by, and Haley, Shani, and Bianca are all coming.”
“Well, I get to buy you your first drink. What are you going to have?”
I motioned for the bartender, a sexy brunette with her hair slicked back in a long ponytail and thick eyeliner accentuating her eyes.
“Cucumber martini,” Janie yelled over the black lacquer bar, and I chimed in, “Prosecco.”
When we had our drinks, I clinked the rim of mine to hers. “Cheers.”
Once we’d each had a sip, I yelled over the music, “So, you ready for a great year? Last year in your twenties.”
“You know it.” She twirled around in her tight spot, her eyes taking in everything around her, but I knew what she was doing.
“Stop,” I said.
“Oh, come on. I’m just looking for a few prospects.”
“Do not include me in your list of available women.”
“Why not? You look smoking. Plus, it’s my birthday and I’ll do what I want.” To make her point, she gestured at my black blouse and skinny jeans. “I mean, really, Char. No one wears a tight blouse like that and painted-on dark jeans with stiletto ankle boots if they’re not on the prowl.”
Deflecting, I said, “Speaking of which, you look hot. Love those leather pants.” Janie was in skintight red leather pants and a white frilly blouse. “And look at those shoes!” Preening, she lifted a foot in the air and twisted her ankle from side to side, and I grinned. “They’re definitely perfectly cheetah.”
“What am I going to do with you, girl?” She pinched my cheek and winked. “Perfectly cheetah . . . ha! You’ve talked that way since I’ve known you. Probably since birth.”
We sipped at our drinks for a moment while some Euro-synthesized rap-style music blared in the background, the bass vibrating all the way through me.
“Oh, there’s Bianca,” she said. “Don’t tell her we’re going spinning on Sunday. She’ll want to go and then beg to go to a later class, and we’ll never make brunch or see him.”
“Janie, my love, I don’t think we have to intentionally leave her out. Not to mention, no one wants to go to spinning class before the sun is up on a Sunday.”
Proud of myself, I tried inserting a small life lesson there. Janie was my closest friend, after all, and that was like a marriage. You accepted a person in sickness and health and everything in between—bitchiness included. And she was technically older in years, which I equated with experience.
Janie was an early-to-rise freak—like five o’clock every damn morning. She did more before seven than most people did all day. I’d agreed to go to a spinning class with her on Sunday at six. Apparently the teacher was a god and she had a thing for him.
“Hey there, ladies,” Bianca crooned over the music, air kissing both of us and waving her bracelet-clad arm in the air. Her blond hair was sleek and straight, her makeup pristine complete with red lips, and she wore a wrap dress on her size 2 body.
Suddenly a herd of men surrounded us, offering to buy her a cocktail. She zeroed in on one rich-looking Wall Street type and said, “Sure, a lemon drop,” batting her fake eyelashes the whole time.
Bianca wasn’t my favorite but she was another friend of Janie’s from high school, and I didn’t see her much. She worked for her parents’ jewelry business and sold couples expensive jewels crafted from the rainbow of happiness. The one that follows getting engaged.
Janie and I met in college in upstate New York. I was a junior credits-wise but a freshman age-wise. I couldn’t go to bars or anything, so I’d been sitting in some coffee shop listening to indie rock one evening and Janie had strolled in with her posse, giggling and carefree. She gravitated toward me, probably wanting to fix me and make me happy. That’s Janie. She loves a good fixer-upper project.
We’d been friends ever since, even after I graduated and moved to Manhattan. I was so happy when she moved back after graduating. Now I was a regular fixture in her social life; pretending to love it had become my specialty.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of cocktails, sushi, birthday cake, and dancing. Bianca left w
ith the rich dude, Janie found herself a lawyer—Jewish to boot—and I shared a cab with Shani and Haley back to the Meatpacking District.
Once again, I found myself snuggled up in bed with Lucy on my lap, the heat from her fan the only thing warming my legs.
It had been a week since I’d fired Maggie, but I had my daily e-mail from her begging for her position back. There was an e-mail from one of our junior writers with a fairly interesting pitch on juicing and dating, and how the two mix or don’t. And one more message, which no longer filtered into my spam folder.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Hi, Charli –
Thanks for getting back to me. Sorry it took me so long to reply, but we went into the last week of production on Seven Sins of Serial Dating, and I barely came up for air. It’s a pretty decent movie for a chick flick and all that fun stuff.
There’s no way to say this without it being weird, so I’m just going to ask.
I was wondering if you wanted to go to the premiere? It may be presumptuous to ask, but I could leave some tickets for you. You may even think I’m nuts for asking.
Seriously, it’s funny, all good laughs, and I thought it would be great for you to get away to see it.
Let me know.
No obligation.
—Lay
What the hell was that? Come to the premiere? Did he mean with him? By myself?
And what was with the “Lay?”
Two Weeks Later
“Go to Drybar, get your hair done, and make sure you throw a pair of clean panties in your purse,” Janie said over the phone.
“I’m not going to sleep with him. I don’t even know if I’ll see him or talk to him. Plus—”
“I didn’t mean him. Who knows who you’ll meet at this thing, Char? O.M.G.” She spelled out the letters . . . for real. “You may see Ryan Reynolds. Make sure your bra and panties match.”
I rolled my eyes and shifted my feet, avoiding a ticklish spot.
“You pick color yet?” the nail tech asked, interrupting my conversation.
“J—what should I wear? The red dress by Chanel or the black Givenchy? I think the black is safe.”
“The red, definitely.”
“Hold on,” I said into the phone and directed my next words to the nail tech sitting at my feet. “Let’s just do a French on my toes.”
“Don’t do a French,” Janie yelled in my ear. “It looks like fingers on your feet. And you don’t want that if you end up in bed with some guy.”
“Janie, may I remind you I’m going for work? If Sherri hadn’t come down with the stomach flu, I wouldn’t be going at all.”
“Not true. Your pen pal invited you.”
I’d made the mistake of coming clean to Janie at brunch on Sunday after spinning . . . I must have been dehydrated or something. I told her all about my plane ride home, about Layton, and about how we occasionally corresponded over e-mail.
Our virtual chats had only become a regular thing over the last two weeks when he started working on a new project. He began sending me little clips and jokes under the guise of wanting to make me laugh after hurting my feelings. I had declined his offer to attend the premiere, saying deadlines were keeping me grounded in New York, but then Sherri got sick.
An interoffice plea for one of us to drop everything and fly to Los Angeles to cover the premiere made its way through the office, and in a weak moment, I’d agreed to go. Of course, my boss let me raid the fashion closet, including allowing me to keep the Blahniks I picked out, and off I went to California.
“Hello? Are you there, Char?”
“Yeah, I got distracted with the colors. I wasn’t going to go when Layton invited me.”
“You’re there now, so time to party, babe. I want to hear every detail, and don’t do the French—”
“Okay, okay.”
“And don’t forget the underwear in your purse.”
“Good-bye, Janie.”
Once I ended the call, I told the nail tech, “You know what? Let’s go with that dark gray shimmery color,” and leaned back into the vibrating chair.
I spent ten minutes trying to clear my head to no avail when my phone pinged with an e-mail alert. Unable to ignore the ding, I pressed the mail icon and wished I hadn’t.
The first message glaring at me was from my mom, and I silently wished it had gone to spam.
Of course, she still had an AOL account. Who the heck still used America Online? My mom. Her e-mail address was ancient, a relic from her groupie days. She had no reason to part with it since she didn’t really use it much. Except to bug me. I tended not to argue with her on these matters, but I was starting to think it was time we had a conversation.
I had always felt some strange sense of guilt when it came to my mom. First, she’d given up her groupie lifestyle to be with my dad. I didn’t quite get her earlier choices because they seemed so opposed to how she tried to be now, but she was my mom and had sacrificed a big chunk of who she was for the privilege.
We weren’t supposed to get everything our moms did, which was fine because I truly didn’t. Believe me, understanding her wasn’t easy. I was the resident nerd, the smart girl who was pushed ahead because my teachers couldn’t teach me alongside the regular kids my age.
Sighing, I clicked on the message to see what she had to say.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Charli, darling, I understand you’re in California. I called your office and learned you’re not there. Obviously, I wish you would’ve told me. I’m not going to call you because of the time change, and because you might be working. We all know you’re set on being some major career woman, and don’t you forget it either!
I loved your dad, and you’re just like him. He’d be so proud, which is why I hope you meet up with Garrett in NYC. He would have liked that too. Dad, I mean.
Please don’t be rude.
Love you,
Mom
P.S. Call me!!
I’d call her later. Much later. Like when I got back to New York and was too swamped to meet Garrett. I dashed off a quick e-mail in response, saying I loved her back and yes, my job was extremely important to me.
Is it?
Then I scrolled down through the rest of my e-mails.
Work, big sale at Bloomies, schedule change at the spin studio, and . . .
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Hey, Charli! Hope you made it to LA safely. I assume you’re taking a car to the premiere. I’ll be there by five, so I should be there when you get there. I need to sit somewhere near the front for the presentation, but if you save me a seat, I’ll move back with you for the movie?
Only if you want. I know you’re working.
Oh, check this out. Look at these bloopers from taping today. Check out the actor who gets seriously messed up.
—Lay
Inserted at the bottom of the message was a video where the guy who plays a superhero gets jacked up trying to run down a set of stairs, clipping his shoulder on the wall and tumbling the rest of the way down.
He laughed like a hyena, though, so I guessed he didn’t mind or get hurt.
I was laughing and smiling too until I realized everyone in the spa was staring at me. Embarrassed, I sobered quickly and shoved my phone back in my purse, and pretended to be fascinated with the color of my toes.
“Thanks, Tony,” I called out to my tailor.
“No problem, Layton. Knock ’em dead tonight. Especially this young lady,” he said, clucking his tongue.
I felt a blush creep up my cheeks like a college girl in love and immediately thought about worms and dirt. When my skin cooled, I turned around.
“Nah, she’s just a friend, but it’ll be nice to see her.” I didn’t voice out loud my next thought. It’s been an ongoing fantasy.
; “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tony shooed me out with his hand into the bright California sunlight.
I shoved my Aviators on my face and headed toward my car. I needed a shower and to ditch the track pants for my tux. I hadn’t worn my penguin suit since the last awards show I attended, and it had desperately needed a little adjustment here and there, if you know what I mean.
Earlier in the week, I’d braved the smirky salespeople and ran into Neiman Marcus to buy a new pair of loafers for this occasion and a crisp white shirt. I was skipping all the other accessories; they just seemed to accentuate my shape—or lack thereof.
Once I got in my car, I cranked the AC and checked my phone. I’d sent Charli my phone number earlier in the week, but hardly expected her to use it.
She’s not here for you. She’s coming for work. It’s a coincidence.
I couldn’t help but whip off a quick e-mail. Corresponding with her had become my favorite pastime, an addiction I wasn’t willing to admit to having. I knew exactly what I wanted to send her—I’d been sending her funny outtakes all week from filming. She always wrote back the funniest comments like, “Even I could do that stunt without getting injured.” Our banter had turned into my favorite part of the day, and some days, I imagined it was hers too.
After I hurt her feelings on the plane, it became a bit of a compulsion to try to make her smile. Flowers were one thing . . . now I was going to see her face-to-face.
I didn’t expect much. Certainly nothing like my fantasies.
Maybe she was a personality girl?
I had that in spades.
Or she loved the strong, gentlemanly type?
I worked that too.
Whatever she wants, I’ll be, I chanted to myself as I stepped into the shower.
To See You Page 4