Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel

by Amanda Heger

  One segment left.

  “See the guy over there? The one dressed as the Pillsbury Doughboy?”

  Marisol nodded.

  “He came to a taping of So Late once. Rushed the stage and mooned everyone. Then put his bare ass on James’s desk.” Evan had been like this the entire time. Laid-back, relaxed. Like being promised a spot on Who’s Got the Coconut was something he did every day.

  “Why aren’t you nervous?” she asked.

  “Let’s see. For starters, you made me dress up as a mermaid. So I already used up all of my potential embarrassment for the day.”

  “Merman.”

  “This tail doesn’t exactly scream merman.” He pointed to the pink sequined tail covering his legs. “But whatever—I’m secure in my masculinity. Plus, you’re the one going onstage. Not me. And I took two pain pills this morning.”

  “You got any more of those pills?” the giant gnome beside them asked. Clint.

  Evan rolled his eyes. “You have twenty thousand dollars. Buy your own pain meds, man.”

  “About that, Marisol—”

  “I heard they found your paperwork,” she said.

  “Weird, right? I guess someone—I think we know who—put it in a box with a bunch of toilet paper? Luckily for me, Thursday night’s seafood buffet didn’t go so well.”

  “Congratulations, Clint,” she said. “You deserve the money.”

  The lights flickered overhead, signaling the start to the next segment. Marisol took a deep breath and adjusted the stem on her giant banana costume. This was it.

  “Now, let's get down to business.” Sammy Samuelson paced the length of the stage. His suit seemed a size too small, and between every segment some poor guy had to rush onstage and powder his forehead. “We’ve had some wins this afternoon. We’ve had some losses. But what really need is someone to root for. An underdog, if you will.”

  A burst of applause.

  “Let’s bring down this gentleman right here in the center. Patriot Ninja Fighter champion, Kevin Clipton.”

  The spotlight scanned the crowd, and a muscular man wearing a dog collar and a headband with two brown floppy ears lumbered toward the stage. The applause continued as Samuelson made his way toward the other end of the stage. “We need two more people for our special celebrity challenge. Let’s see if we have any more in the audience tonight.”

  He held a hand over his eyes as though he were looking for a ship lost at sea. “Who remembers the 1980s children’s show My Robot Peacock?” Light applause. “Well, I have it on good authority that he is neither a peacock nor a robot. But that doesn’t stop him from dressing like one. Step on up here, Sam Urban!"

  There he was. That asshole peacock, with his stupid tail feathers, looking oh-so-smug as he stepped onstage. “He’s a celebrity?” she whispered.

  “No. That show aired three times in the 80s, then it got cancelled.”

  “Why?”

  “He got arrested. Held a kid down on the set of the show and farted on him.”

  Marisol blanched.

  “And one more,” Samuelson announced.

  Here it was. The moment she’d been waiting for her entire life. Some little girls dreamed about jobs and weddings and meeting rock stars. Marisol had dreamed of hearing her name over the Who’s Got the Coconut speakers.

  “I think you guys will like this one,” Samuelson said. “A living, breathing legend around these parts. Marisol Gutierrez.”

  “Go.” Evan squeezed her hand. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “Marisol Gutierrez? I know you’re out there. I see you in that banana costume.”

  Every face in the audience turned in her direction, but her muscles refused to move.

  “You okay?” Evan whispered.

  She shook her head, just a fraction of an inch. How was it that now, after all of this, she’d been hit with an epic case of stage fright?

  “Look at me.” Evan turned her face to his. “You okay?”

  No. She was definitely, 100 percent not okay. Everything she’d wanted for so long was right there in front of her. And tomorrow it would all be gone. “Yes. Just nervous.”

  He kissed her then. Only a peck, but it sent the crowd into a fit of applause.

  “Then get up there and kick the peacock’s ass.”

  It was exactly what she needed to hear. Somehow, Evan always knew exactly what she needed to hear.

  Marisol pressed her mouth to his—harder this time—and the audience went from fits of applause to full roar. With that long, lingering kiss she tried to convey all the things she wanted to say. Things like thank you and this is real and maybe, if she really let herself say it, love. And when the kiss ended, Marisol launched herself through the crowd and straight to the stage, ready to fight to the death for her place on the champion’s throne.

  • • •

  Evan swiped his key card over the door to So Late one last time. By now, almost everything was gone. Only a few boxes waiting to make their final trek to the network’s prop graveyard and a few pieces of bulky furniture remained. Once he and Marisol stuffed their costumes into one of those boxes, he’d never be back here again.

  He flipped on the lights, and the sound of his crutches on the concrete floors echoed through the hall. “I was going to say you could keep the banana costume if you wanted, but…”

  Marisol laughed and shoved a lock of wet hair from her face. A trail of water followed from the door to where she stood, pooling beneath her feet. “No room in my suitcase anyway.”

  She’d blown away the competition in the first round, slaying the peacock with her ability to complete obstacle courses while calling out the American prices of everyday grocery items. But the final round had ended in dunk tank situation she couldn’t survive. Not in a giant banana costume that made it impossible for her to balance on one leg while simultaneously guessing the cost of a new washer and dryer set.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”

  “Ahora does not need a new washer and dryer anyway.”

  “Definitely no room in your suitcase for that.”

  They stood there, him on crutches in his ridiculous mermaid tail and her dripping from her waterlogged banana, and a long silence stretched between them.

  This was it. The actual end. Here in this empty studio, they’d say goodbye. He’d start a new chapter in his life. A chapter that didn’t involve running scripts back and forth or men dressed in diapers.

  One that didn’t involve Marisol.

  “How about we change and take one last look around?” he asked.

  Marisol gave him a small smile, and he could see she felt the end nearing too. “I would like that. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be better after you take this off of me.”

  “Can you get it off yourself?” She grinned.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Interesting.” Marisol wandered toward some of the boxes.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” He knew she would. Which was why he loved her.

  Shit.

  He did love her. Maybe he hadn’t known her long enough to know if she was the one. Maybe he didn’t know every little thing about her life back home. But this version of her—the one who’d dive into a dunk tank dressed as a banana? Who’d force him to walk around in a sequined merman tail all night? He loved her.

  “I think pink is a good color for you.”

  “Marisol.”

  “¿Sí?” All innocence.

  “Marisol.”

  “Okay, fine. But do you have your phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  She stepped away from the boxes and slipped her arms around his waist. He had to duck to avoid getting smacked by the stem of the banana.

  “I want to take a picture. Of us,” she said.

  “You haven’t had enough of that?” But already he was fumbling toward his back pocket and pulling out his phone.

  “I want a picture of the real us. This one.”

  “Turn around.” Evan held
the phone out as far as his orangutan arms would allow and snapped a photo of their faces smashed together. Marisol’s surrounded by the yellow foam, and his surrounded by the flowing blond merman wig.

  “Will you email it to me?” she asked. “Since my phone…”

  He nodded. “I need your email address.”

  She held out her hand, and he gave her the phone. A few swipes of the screen later he had it back. She unhooked his tail and left him to wiggle it off while she dripped her way toward the bathroom.

  “Hey,” she called from behind the door. “Please tell your grandfather thank you for the donation. We will send him a letter, but please tell him personally from me.”

  “What?”

  “Your grandfather? Donald Abramson from Peoria, Illinois?” She emerged from behind the door, in her dry jeans and tank top. “Where should I put the banana?”

  “Leave it there. Donald Abramson? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. My mother read off some of the names to me. I thought it must be your grandfather?”

  Evan’s mind spun. “Nope. Not Gramps.”

  “Oh. I thought because of the city—”

  “That’s my dad.” He sagged on his crutches and let out a sigh. His dad would never apologize. The man had never apologized for anything. Ever. But this was his olive branch, and it was one that extended beyond the two of them. Evan made a silent promise to call him tomorrow.

  “Will you tell him I said thank you then?” she asked.

  He nodded then pulled off the merman wig. “Ready for the final tour?”

  “Do I get to sit on James’s desk?”

  “If it’s still there.”

  When they made it onto the set, Evan flipped on the lights over the audience seats. It gave the room a backwards glow, illuminating the empty chairs and leaving the stage mostly dark. The furniture still sat in its place, but the usual clutter had disappeared. There was no trace of So Late anywhere. Now it was a generic set that could adapt to whatever new show the network decided to try.

  “Sit.” Marisol pointed to the couch as she propped her feet on the desk and laced her fingers together behind her head. “Mr. Abramson, my producers tell me you have a new job on the way.”

  A bang-up impression of James.

  “You watched the show?”

  She smiled. “Last night, after the awards. I put the discs you gave me on my laptop.”

  “What did you think?”

  “You are going to have a lot of fun on your road trip with James.” A sadness crept into the edges of her voice before she went back to her official talk show host voice. “Mr. Abramson, before the show, my producers told me you have some unique talents.”

  Evan leaned back, with one arm stretched over either side of the couch. “Well, according to one Easton Sullivan, I have quite the eye—”

  “Nope. Not that talent.” She put her feet down and wheeled the desk chair closer to him. “They said you were a very good kisser.”

  He knew that dopey smile was back, the one that had gotten him into this beautiful mess in the first place. “Your producers told you that?”

  Marisol crawled over the arm of the couch and kissed his cheek. “Did I mention I am the producers?”

  “You didn’t.” He pulled her onto his lap, until she had one leg on either side of him. And in the length of one slow, breathless kiss, they were right back where they’d left off earlier. “Did your producers tell you anything else interesting?”

  He brushed the hair back from her neck and laid a barely-there kiss. Another behind her ear. Every time his lips met her skin, her hips moved a fraction of an inch. And with every movement his body begged to touch more of her.

  “No, I think they left the rest for me to find out.” She pulled his mouth to hers.

  His hands slid up her back, savoring every inch of her warmth. A part of him let out a few weak-willed warnings: this was a supremely bad idea, it would make tomorrow—when he was still here and she was gone—so much harder, someone could walk in, the doctor had advised him against rigorous activity. But none of those warnings matched the fervor of their bodies pressed together on that couch.

  “Evan?” she asked between breaths. “What are the chances that someone is going to come in here?”

  “Unlikely. Everyone’s at James’s party.” How is anyone so perfect? “But not impossible.”

  Marisol leaned in so they were forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lip to lip. “I will take the chance, if you will.”

  “I’m all in.”

  Day Ninety-Nine

  The Managua airport always made her feel like a rat navigating a maze. Start and stop. Turn around. Start again. Over and over until she found who she was looking for. And today, no matter how hard she tried, Marisol couldn’t find the one person she was looking for.

  She’d found the man with two screaming toddlers three times.

  Four times, she’d circled a lanky teenager surrounded by a half dozen bags.

  And more than once, she’d caught the eye of the handsome pilot who’d ducked into the bar.

  But Evan? Not once.

  Maybe he changed his mind? She pulled out her phone to check for missed messages. But nothing there said he’d missed his connection in Miami. Nothing to say he’d come to his senses and stayed put in the US.

  After she left LA, she’d told herself not to email him.

  She had.

  When he’d responded with tales from the Not Late Enough to Be Early tour, she told herself she wouldn’t hit reply.

  She had.

  The first time he’d asked if she wanted to Skype, she told herself she was stringing this along for no good reason.

  Still, she’d sat down in front of her laptop and logged on.

  And when Evan said the tour was taking a break and asked if she wanted to show him around Managua—help him shoot some footage for a documentary he’d been thinking about making—her heart latched onto the idea and refused to let go.

  But now, on her fifth trip around the commotion of the airport, Marisol’s stomach was in knots. What if he slept in footie pajamas with a trapdoor in the back? What if he hated the way she let mail pile up on her kitchen table? What if they’d both changed so much in the last few months that their thing—that unnamable pop between them—was a thing of the distant past?

  What if their two weeks had been up months ago?

  This was a bad idea. Maybe the worst idea. He wasn’t coming. Their expiration date had passed, and he’d simply realized it before she had.

  “Excuse me? I’m looking for this girl. About this tall, sometimes dresses like a banana?”

  She whipped around.

  Every maybe, every what if fell away. He was there. In front of her.

  “Evan!”

  He swept her into a hug, and she buried her face in his neck. All the old memories—the ones that had become dreamlike in the passing months—were real again. The way he smelled. The feel of his scruff against her cheek. The curl that insisted on performing a one-man revolt.

  “I got stuck in customs. Those guys have no sense of humor. All I said was that I was coming here to find a sexy nurse, and—bam—I’m a suspicious person.”

  She pulled back to look at him. “You did not.”

  “Yeah, let’s go with that.” He pressed his forehead to hers, grinning.

  Marisol wrapped her arms around his neck. If they’d passed their expiration date, her heart didn’t know it yet. The look on Evan’s face said his didn’t either.

  “I missed you,” she whispered amid the chaos.

  “God, I missed you too.”

  And when he pressed her lips to hers, there was nothing left to do but hold on. Maybe they’d crash and burn.

  Or maybe not.

  Acknowledgments

  Being an author is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, at least voluntarily. But there are people who make it easier. People like my lovely agent, Jess Watterson, who doesn’t miss a beat when I spam her with
book ideas about Elmo. People like the crew at Diversion Books: Randall, who keeps me from inadvertently committing defamation; Mallory and Nita, who make my life better in a million ways (most of them involving GIFs); Elizabeth, a copyediting boss; and Sarah, who doesn’t throttle me when I take too long to turn in proofs.

  There are a hundred more people who made this book happen, but I only have room to thank a few. So, extra special thanks to Sarah Glenn Marsh for lending me her expertise and for being such a kind human, Eric Cummings for his countless attempts to explain Dungeons and Dragons (and for the line about dick jokes), and B for coming up with the best game show title of all time. And, of course, thanks to my husband who has read this book more times than anyone (maybe even me). I love you.

  Finally, a story. In 2014, I was waiting in the audience holding area at a certain late night talk show. In front of me sat one of the show’s interns and a girl who had come to nearly every taping for the last year. Boom, the idea for this book was born. So thank you, Universe, for that serendipitous moment involving robot skeletons, Veronica Mars, and me being nosy AF.

  About the Author

  AMANDA HEGER is a writer, attorney, and bookworm. She lives in the Midwest with her unruly rescue dogs and a husband who encourages her delusions of grandeur. Amanda strongly believes Amy Poehler is her soul mate, and one of her life goals is to adopt a pig and name it Ron Swineson.

  Sign up for her newsletter here or visit her online at amandaheger.com.

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