by Jill Kargman
“No,” he said.
I walked over and opened the door, which automatically turned on the light.
He walked over and closed it again and hugged me in the darkness.
“Haze, you make ordinary things seem miraculous to me,” he said. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”
I kissed him and we wound up making love on the carpet of the closet floor, among piles of vintage T-shirts, rows of motorcycle boots, and drawers full of sunglasses. If the garments that hung about our writhing bodies could talk, they would probably read porn scripts, they’d seen so much. Each was surely tossed in the corner of some trashed hotel room by some French-manicured slut, torn over Finn’s chest during his wilder drugged-out days. But now he seemed normal, more subdued. Into me. Maybe it was a mark of his advancing age. Maybe he’d outgrown it all. Maybe I would be the one to tame his roaming nomad-descended heart.
Chapter 30
Fantasy is toxic: the private cruelty and the world war both have their start in the heated brain.
—Elizabeth Bowen
It was over breakfast that I knew his offer wasn’t simply an impetuous heat-of-the-moment consideration.
“So Sly is getting you the itinerary this afternoon, but we’re supposed to leave from New York anyway. I have meetings there and then we fly from Teterboro.”
“Okay so . . . you still want me to come?”
“Are you kidding?” he asked, surprised. “Of course! Did you think I was joking?”
“No, no, I just . . . wanted to make sure you were sure.”
“I’m sure. Are you?”
“Yeah!” I leaned over and kissed him and felt such a delightful rush. “My flight home is supposed to be at 4:00 P.M.—”
“Fuck that ticket, you’re coming with us!” he said. “We can leave anytime.”
I’d forgotten about his private jet. Ahhhhhhhh, heaven. I’d flown with Noah on his NetJets charter, and it was pure heaven versus the stressful airport lines and chaos of LAX and JFK tourist Hades.
We packed our things and while Finn was in the shower, I dialed Noah’s cell in Mexico where he’d jetted off post-rager.
“Hey there, my little rock star!” he answered seeing my caller ID.
“Hi, Noah. How’s Cabo?”
“Killer. Having a blast. Everyone’s still raving about the rager you put on. Good girl, Haze.”
“Yeah um, so—”
“What’s up?”
“Well . . . I’m feeling a little burnt-out and was wondering if maybe I could take some time . . .”
“Yeah, sure, like a week vacation? You deserve it, babe.”
“I was thinking more of like a month or two. A sabbatical. I’m going through some stuff . . .”
“Wow. You okay?”
“Yes, I just need a little time.”
“Let’s say a month. Paid. You’ve kicked ass for me, and let’s check back in then. Work for ya?”
“YES! That works VERY well. Thank you so much, Noah.”
“Hey, Hazel—”
“Yeah?”
“You have fun.”
I paused for a minute, remembering him looking over as Finn held my hand in a stolen moment. “Thanks.”
He hung up.
I called Kira and filled her in on the plan.
“I’m going to your apartment with Iris after pickup and packing your suitcase. And forget Pop’s crusty duffel you have, you’re taking my T. Anthony,” Kira said.
“Ki, that has your monogram on it.”
“Okay, take my Vuitton. You are not going to Europe with The Void with L.L. Fucking Bean.”
It was happening. Really happening!
Finn and I got dressed, ran some last-minute errands with Sly, and then picked up his manager, Steve Sharp, who was a smiling Nordic-type guy with a wife and three kids that he left while on the road.
“Hey, you must be Hazel,” he said with a handshake.
“Yes, hi! Nice to meet you—”
“We’re giving Sean Penn a lift to New York—pop by his place,” he instructed Sly, who made a right turn.
I tried to play it cool but EEEEEEEEE! Sean Penn on my plane! I remembered I’d read an interview with him and he had said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” And here I was, doing something totally off book, plans out the window, going with the moment.
We pulled into a beautiful driveway and Finn hopped out with Sly and I saw him give the actor a big hug as Sly headed back to the car with his bag. Steve popped out and was on his cell, and I decided to get out and say hello.
I opened the car door and heard Steve’s conversation.
“Yeah, we’re here by Sean Penn and we got Finn’s Flavor of the Month with us and Sly . . .”
Stabs.
I felt punched in the stomach. Hazel, you idiot. Of course there was always some tour bunny accompanying them! Fuck. I spent the rest of the trip silent, and a couple times as the jet fired up, Finn asked me if I was okay.
“Just tired,” I said with a half smile.
I napped a little while the guys talked in the front and though the plane was incredibly luxurious, the flight bummed me out more than the rocky roller coaster of our original meeting.
We got to New York and unloaded for the night. There were two cars with drivers waiting, one for just Finn and me, which was a relief, since I found I couldn’t even make eye contact with Steve.
When we got in the car, Finn turned to me.
“You were unusually quiet, miss.”
Without missing a beat, I told him what Steve had said.
“Oh, Hazel, you’re so not that. You’re my favorite flavor,” he joked. I smiled but still felt unsettled.
“Babe, look. I have a past. Everyone does. But especially in my line of work. I was off the wagon for decades, but I’m on now and I want to ride it with you beside me. Yes, there have been groupies and random hangers-on but I’ve never invited anyone to travel with me like this. I’ve had many women but I’ve never met anyone like you and I know that I never will, sweet girl.”
“Really? ’Cause I felt kind of like a faceless skank,” I said.
“You are so not! You’re brilliant and you know it’s not like that—”
“I know. On my side at least. I just want to make sure you really want me to come tomorrow—”
“A hundred percent,” he said. “I need my little good witch to come along.”
I exhaled, happy. It wasn’t really like me to voice my insecurities, but I figured I might as well know before our departure.
“Please stay with me the night? We have the whole top floor of The Standard,” he said.
“It sounds amazing,” I said. “The view there is great, but I want to kind of hole up with my sister before we go,” I said.
“Okay, angel,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “We’ll drop you there.”
We pulled up to my sister’s building and I felt a wave of relief wash over me, as I missed her so much as I always did. She was my vault. Full of whispered sister secrets and confidences kept.
“May I come up and meet her?” Finn asked.
My entire face must have brightened because he added, “I guess that’s a yes.” I wanted to retrieve my phone to text Kira in case she opened the door with a Pebbles ponytail and terry cloth robe, but sure enough she was her usual knockout self in a Tory Burch shirtdress and high heels, her blond hair flowing past her shoulders. She was also a much better actress than I was, not revealing the least amount of shock upon seeing her rock star idol standing on her threshold.
“Finn! Hi! Welcome, come on in!”
She was so suave.
“Hi, Kira, nice to meet you—”
“You taking good care of my little sister?” she asked coyly, her brow arched.
“Great care, Kira,” I attested, rolling my eyes.
“I hope so. I promise I will,” he said with an earnest tone.
“You two are off on quite a voyage,” she said, reachi
ng for a bottle of Dom Pérignon. “I think this calls for some champagne.”
She popped the cork and filled three flutes as Iris came bounding out in her pajamas and bunny slippers.
“I want some!” she begged.
“Sorry, honey, this is grown-up juice,” Kira said as I knelt down and hugged my niece.
“Finn, this is Iris.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.
“And I’ve heard ALL about YOU!”
Ahem, thanks, Kira, I said with my eyes as I shot my sister a mock-withering look.
“To The Void,” Kira said, looking at Finn, her head tilted to one side. “And hopefully filling it.”
I inhaled, semimortified by the presumptuous notion that I was filling any void in the life of Finn Schiller, rock idol.
But before I could hope for a hole in the ground to swallow me up Dr. Evil style, Finn took my hand.
“To filling it.”
He lifted his glass and smiled at me midsip, and I felt so excited I thought I’d pass out.
“You sure you two don’t want to join us for dinner downtown?” he asked.
I know Kira would’ve flown the coop in a shot and left the girls with Jack the fucking Ripper as a “caregiver” (as they called it these days), but I interjected before she could start dialing The Babysitters Guild.
“We’re sure—” I said, met with a pronounced frown. “I just want to relax a little before we head off tomorrow.”
“Okay, angel,” Finn said, putting his arm around my waist. He put his glass down and kissed me just as Drew was walking in from work.
“Uh, hey—” he said, confused.
“Hi, oh, hi! Uh, Drew, this is Finn. Finn, this is my brother-in-law, Drew.”
“Hey man,” he said, shaking Drew’s hand as he dropped his briefcase.
“Hi.” Drew looked me, then Kira, then Iris, who was grinning ear to ear.
“I should head out,” Finn said, opening his arms to hug my sister. “Kira, thank you so much for the drink. I promise to bring her back to you safe and sound,” he attested.
“Thank you, Finn,” she said, smiling at me over his leather-covered shoulder.
I kissed him good-bye and he got in the elevator.
No sooner did the door close than my phone had a text.
I held it up for Kira as she read aloud.
“I MISS YOU ALREADY.”
“OH MY GOD!!!!” she squealed, jumping up and down like a twelve-year-old.
“What is going on?” Drew asked. “Did that just happen?”
“She swore me to secrecy,” Kira said. “I’m sorry, honey. But CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?!”
“What about Wylie?” Iris asked, eyes wide.
We all stood silently for a beat.
“Good question, Iris,” Drew said. “What about Wylie?”
“We . . . split up. I wasn’t sure and that says something.”
“And you’re sure about Finn Schiller?” he asked.
“I’m not sure about anything right now.” I shrugged. “I have no clue what I want and I’m going to do what Will Applegate wrote on Lexi Brownell’s mix tape in high school accompanied with drawings of dancing bears: Surrender to the Flow. It’s all I can do.”
“Okay. I just hope that ‘flow’ doesn’t hit white-water rapids,” Drew said, taking off his coat.
“Drew, I know you love Wylie—” I said.
“I know you love Wylie,” he said, getting himself a glass of scotch.
Gulp.
I looked at Kira, who reached for the top drawer of Drew’s desk, which was overflowing with delivery menus.
“What are we ordering?” she asked.
“Up to you,” I said, plopping down on the sofa. I hoped Wylie was okay. I hoped he didn’t hate me. I hoped his new restaurant gig would be a big success for him. I was sure it would be, with his talent. And good chefs always get lucky. Always. He would be gobbled up in no time.
The night was spent in front of the TV in the guest room with Kira by my side like the old days when we were roommates. She was on husband safari dating Wall Streeters and working at Sotheby’s until she met Drew at a benefit at the Racquet Club, and I was out seeing bands ’til 4:00 A.M. We had intersected rarely in the apartment due to separate social schedules, but on occasion I’d be too hungover to face another night out, and she was getting beauty rest while Drew was away on business, and we’d order in and get in bed and watch John Hughes movies all night. I missed those times, and it was the perfect send-off.
The teenagers in those movies seemed so young to us both—so full of promise, the whole world in front of them. But here I was . . . the same. Nervous, a little insecure, but with the world spread out in front of me. They had no clue what Monday would bring. I had no clue what Monday morning would bring, either. But I was somehow changed in a short time and I knew it.
“My favorite scene—” I said, watching Judd Nelson kiss Molly Ringwald good-bye. She took out her diamond stud and gave it to him. “And now that’s me, in a way, with Finn. Even better than Judd. I mean, could you die?”
“I can’t even get over it,” Kira said, rolling over to face me. She leaned on her hand and looked at me. “You are going to have the best time.” I took a deep breath and smiled. “You’re living a dream.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s kind of scary. I keep being afraid I’ll wake up.”
Chapter 31
Fantasy love is much better than reality love.
Never doing it is very exciting.
The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet.
—Andy Warhol
I’m on a plane with Finn Schiller. And this time it’s not via upgrade or happenstance or intersecting itineraries. It’s by design; one reservation, two seats first class, side by side. We are flanked by managers, tour impresarios, peeps. The whole posse, clad in various rock-star-posse outfits that looked summoned from central castings wardrobe department, were lifting bags into the overhead, motorcycle jackets open over vintage T-shirts, revealing tattoos and Jolly Roger belt buckles. Silver wallet chains hung over black jeans as two of the guys in the band settled into their seats as one signaled to the other as a hottie blond cheerleader type walked by in a USC sweatshirt, scanning Finn and then the girl next to him. Me. Unbelievable.
“You okay?” he asked as I took it all in.
“Yes,” I said, exhaling the surreal aspect of this moment. “I just can’t believe this. I am kind of in shock. Being back on an aircraft with you. Not by coincidence. It’s weird.”
“It’s great,” he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. He raised it to his lips and kissed my fingers as a fuzzy rush surged through my entire body. He was so big and cozy and delicious, and while my stomach had unleashed a full-on Lepidoptera convention in my belly, I’d never felt more alive. No guts, no glory, I thought. Here I was, taking a massive leap. I was basically a roadie. Kate Hudson groupie style, minus the smack.
As the passengers streamed into the plane, girl after girl drooled as guy after guy looked away, as if too cool to acknowledge the artist who resided on many of their iPods. I took a deep breath as the door closed and yawnsville announcements began with the cheesy steps to save your life should shit go down. I thought of the JetBlue dude who went shithouse and popped the life raft slides and popped a beer while shooting down. Somehow stories I blow off about various air travel snafus all come flooding to the forefront of my brain when I’m actually in Airbus mode.
“Hazel, this is going to be unforgettable.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“Everything is going to be okay. You’re going to love it.”
The stewardess—oh fuck, sorry—flight attendant, came around with a tray of champagne or orange juice. I took one of each and poured them back and forth, creating a makeshift plastic-cupped mimosa, double fist, no less. “You’re afuckingdorable.” Finn smiled beholding my ghetto concoction.
“You a
re,” I countered, handing him one. We clinked cheapo barware and took sips with locked eyes. It was the best drink I’d ever sampled.
“How is it?” he asked.
I smiled, swallowing another citrusy bubbly gulp.
“Tastes like adventure.”
He put down his drink, and I could hear the familiar sound of his leather jacket scrunching as he leaned into me, a personal machine of worn-in motorcycle garb and zippers and pure man. He softly reached for my face and held my cheek in his hand. I looked at his blue eyes and swore I could feel a tachycardia. Someone pull out the defibrillators. We kissed over the armrest and while midkiss I thought of countless tabloid headlines stalking celebrity tonsil hockey. (“Get a Room, You Two!”) I was touched that he didn’t even give a shit even as sports jersey–clad buffoons did double takes as they turned sideways to shove down the aisle ’cause they were too obe to do so facing forward. Passenger after passenger including MANY cute girls way younger and cuter than me all stopped to look at Finn . . . then me.
For liftoff we held hands and smiled at each other when the plane had a perfectly smooth glide into the clouds and the pilot assured the cabin we would appear to have smooth skies all the way to Spain.
“Oh good,” he said jokingly. “I was afraid you were a bad-luck charm.”
“Thanks a lot,” I huffed. “I’ve never had a flight like that before. You brought the tempest with all your fame. You’d have made it a headline and I would have been a sad footnote, like oh, she died on that Void crash.”
“Come on, angel, you know you’re pure good luck to me,” Finn whispered, kissing my cheek.
“Right now I feel like the luckiest girl on the fucking planet. I’m in a Mena Suvari–style bath with four-leaf clovers instead of rose petals.”
“You know, Hazel,” Finn said, tracing each of my long fingers with his pointer. “The middle four letters of clover are love.”
“Yes they are!” I marveled. I rarely picked up on the shit that was right in front of my fucking face. I looked at his angular perfect face and suddenly felt like I had a Hannibal Lecter mask to prevent me from blurting it out. I LOVE YOU, FINN! I FUCKING LOVE YOU AND I THINK YOU’RE A FUCKING GENIUS AND I WANT TO FUCK YOU FOREVER AND HAVE YOUR BABIES AND DIE IN YOUR ARMS!