The Next Thing on My List

by Jill Smolinski

  Susan stayed behind to finish up a report, exhibiting the sort of work ethic that is the reason she gets a door and full Internet access and I don’t.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Brie came into my cubicle. She wore a yellow top that clung to her generous bosom, along with a leopard-print mini. Her hair—a never-ending source of entertainment for me and often nothing short of a work of art—was in a flip reminiscent of Diana Ross in her Supremes days. All in all, on the demure side for Brie.

  “I found this in the printer,” she said, waving a piece of paper at me, “but I’m not sure if it’s for you or for Susan. It’s from her computer, but the note is addressed to you.”

  I’d been deep in thought—trying to come up with a good rhyme for “transit” for a headline I was working on—so I barely glanced up. “Thanks….”

  “It’s from some guy named Sebastian,” she continued just as I was dismissing “rancid” as being too negative. When I heard the name, little fingers of worry starting to worm their way up my spine.

  “Sebastian?”

  “Yeah. It’s strange because he’s asking one of you…I think you…on a date…and I figure Susan’s married, but as I said, it was from her computer, so…”

  I snatched the paper from her hands.

  Her face got excited. “He’s inviting you to a book signing. Sounds like the kind of thing you’d be into, huh? All intellectual and whatnot. Me, I prefer a date with a little action in it, where I can dress up real nice. You know, like going to a club—ooh, there’s that new one in Hollywood I went to last weekend, and let me tell you, it was off the chain! I wore my new pink leather skirt, and—”

  “Brie?” I interrupted. “You said you found this in the printer?”

  “Yeah. You and Robert break up?” When I didn’t answer right away, she narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re stepping out on him?”

  “We split, back in August. Give me a sec, will you?” I paused to read what she’d brought in, which was a printout of an e-mail. It was from Sebastian all right. He thanked me for writing him, said how excited he was to hear from a fellow copywriter and that he loved the photo I sent him. And then he invited me to a book reading and signing at seven o’clock on Thursday at Book Soup. There’ll be wine and cheese there, and we can go out for dinner afterward, the note read. I know that it’s last minute, but let me know if you can make it. Love to get together and find out more about you.

  “Susan must have written him,” I said, and realized it was the wrong thing to say when Brie put up both hands and started to edge away.

  “You know what? This is none of my business. Whatever kinky kind of things y’all are into, that’s for you to know and me to never find out.”

  Great. Now Brie was going to tell everyone in the office how Susan and I were into some sort of swinging lifestyle.

  “Come with me.” I grabbed Brie’s arm and dragged her to Susan’s office, where I marched in and shut the door behind us.

  Susan looked up from her desk. Without saying a word, I waved the printout in the air.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “It did print out.”

  “Yeah. Oh, dear,” I mocked.

  “I couldn’t get the printer to work right last night,” she went on to explain. “I was going to bring it in to you this morning and talk to you about it. Anyway, I thought I canceled the job—”

  “You wrote him pretending to be me!” I cut in.

  “Yes, and he asked us for a date!” And then she corrected, “Well, you. I told you that picture of you from the party was gorgeous. He e-mailed me back within minutes. We had a couple back-and-forth e-mails. I’m no writer, and we know it’s been forever since I’ve had to flirt…but obviously I’ve still got it. A date! A blind date, if you catch my drift.”

  “Brie here,” I said pointedly, “found it.”

  Susan pulled the corners of her mouth down in an oops face, but just for a second before moving on to berate me. “It’s ridiculous you’re being so private about this whole thing anyway. If I were doing something this nice, I’d sing it from the rooftops.”

  I blew out a breath and looked at Brie. For some reason, I didn’t want her to think badly of me. I admired her “take no bullshit” style. No one else could handle Lizbeth the way she did.

  Brie knew about the accident, of course, so I proceeded to fill her in about Marissa’s list and how I was completing it for her.

  When I was done, Brie gushed, “I saw something like that on The Guiding Light! This lady had a rare blood disease and only had six weeks to live, so she was trying to do everything real fast before she died. Oh, and if you ever want to watch it, I usually book Lizbeth into meetings in the conference room at two o’clock so I can use that portable TV she keeps on her side table.”

  “Brie, this is between us, though. Okay?”

  “Sure. So’s that thing about watching the Light.”

  Before I left, they made me e-mail Sebastian and accept his invitation. What the heck. It wasn’t as if I had any other offers.

  Then Susan picked up a phone call, and Brie walked with me back to my office. “So, what kind of stuff is on this list, anyway?” she asked.

  I rattled off a few of the items, then realized maybe it wasn’t so bad that Brie found out. Being Lizbeth’s assistant, she could prove helpful. “That reminds me,” I said after a moment. “One of the things I have to do is pitch an idea at work. I have an idea for a gas giveaway, but Lizbeth seems so hell-bent on this traffic reporter project, I don’t know if she’ll even listen to anything new. Any suggestions?”

  Brie paused to consider my question. “The woman’s a bulldog. If she can’t get what she wants one way, she’ll get it another. It’ll be tough, but don’t you worry about a thing,” she said as we parted ways in the hallway, “I got your back.”

  Chapter 4

  I’ve had eight boyfriends so far in my life, with the average length of relationship being 9.8 months. The mean is 14.4 months. Two out of the eight—a full 25 percent of all of my romantic entanglements—were named Scott.

  I came up with these statistics on a girls’ weekend in Palm Springs a while back, when rain kept us indoors with nothing else to do but play cards and calculate our romantic affairs. Linda, a friend of mine from high school, brought a laptop, so we were able to put the whole thing on a spreadsheet.

  My track record seemed reasonable until Linda started playing with the numbers a bit more. “Check this out,” she said. “Your average span of time between boyfriends is 13.4 months. That means…” She clattered away until she pulled up a new report. “You’ve been single as an adult 150 percent more than you’ve been with someone.”

  Well.

  Isn’t that something?

  I cringed to think how almost half a year had already passed since Robert dumped me and yet I’d made no progress at all toward finding someone new. Granted, I’d been busy. First, there was all that TV to watch. Then the list to do. But still, I read all the time about celebrities walking down the aisle when the ink is barely dry on reports of how their last affair ended. It just wasn’t fair.

  I want marriage! I want kids! I thought bitterly as I showered the morning of my blind date. Other people seemed to tumble into husbands and children as if they were God-given rights and not the Herculean achievements I seemed to find them to be. It’s not as if I were being greedy—I wanted only one husband. Some people my age had already had two or three. Probably one of them was supposed to be mine. They probably had my kids, too.

  There were times among my eight men (numbers three and seven) I thought I might have found the right guy. Provided we could work out a few kinks. If only he could manage to be more (a) committed, (b) employed, (c) willing to stop that habit of picking his toenail and flicking it on the carpet. If only I could manage to be more of whatever that mystery thing is that men want that apparently—at least for the long haul—I don’t have.

  Ah, well, this shower sure feels like heaven. Nothing like steamy water on a r
ainy January morning to take the chill out of the bones. Even though I’d pay for it later. My apartment has only the one hot-water tank. When it’s out, it’s out.

  Please let him like me. I’d been on plenty of setup dates before, but they were usually less deliberate than tonight’s affair. A friend would have a party or a get-together at a bar and invite me as well as the potential love interest. There might be a bit of prodding on the part of the hostess to generate enthusiasm, but overall we were free to pretend we didn’t know it was a setup if we didn’t click.

  Please let us click tonight.

  There’d be no problem with the clicking on my side. I was clicking all over the place just thinking about that photo of him.

  Which was why I was fretting. Sebastian seemed the sort of man who had women hanging over him. He probably had to beat them off with sticks. He certainly didn’t have on average 13.4 months between lovers as I did. More like 13.4 minutes, I’d guess. Lucky for me there wasn’t an interview process to dating—that I didn’t have to bring a résumé outlining my pitiful love life. Imagine Sebastian getting a peek at that!

  “So, June,” he’d no doubt say, peering at me from across the dinner table, “this looks good. But tell me, what were you doing with that time between Jason and Mark? It shows here that you broke it off with Jason in August 1999—finally accepted that he was all talk and no action—yet I show a three-year gap before you took up with another man.”

  “Was it three years? Gosh, I hadn’t realized it was so long….”

  “Yes, you see that big hole right here on your résumé?”

  “Now that you mention it, that is quite a long break.”

  “Maybe you were focusing on your career at the time?” he might supply helpfully. “Or traveling the globe? Learning a new skill?”

  I’d shake my head woefully.

  “Being selective, then? Going on date after date to make sure you found someone deserving of your love?”

  Ooh, that one sounded good—and worth an enthusiastic nod. Even if it was a lie.

  Truth was…I had no idea what the truth was. Only that I had a habit of burrowing like a groundhog any time a relationship failed. I didn’t have that ability to dust myself off and try, try again. The only thing that brought me out of the hole was a soul brave enough to reach in and grab me.

  It was crazy to expect that a man Susan found on the Internet might be the one to do that. For crying out loud, I was only going on this blind date to fulfill another person’s wish list. I knew nothing about him other than what he wrote in his profile.

  Yet that morning in the shower, as if guided by forces outside of me, I found myself digging through my pile of abandoned beauty products to find a loofah. If by chance things did click, I decided, there was no sense in scaring him off with rough elbows and knees.

  I WAS TEN minutes late getting to Book Soup and far more frazzled than I’d expected to be.

  Besides the time I’d spent primping and fretting over what was proper attire for a book signing, there was Lizbeth’s department meeting that ran over.

  The meeting had been ready to wrap at five o’clock. Usually we’d be bolting for the door, but then Brie said leadingly, “Hey, June, why don’t you tell us about that great idea you had for an event?”

  I held back a scowl. Brie’s notion of “having my back” apparently meant throwing me unprepared to the wolves, the first to my carcass being Martucci. “This ought to be good,” he stage-whispered to Greg, and then grandly set the papers he’d gathered back down to enjoy the show.

  The rest of them looked my way. June is going to trot out another idea even as her Friends of Rideshare program lies flopping and gasping for air like a dying fish?

  It would have been nice if Brie had warned me she was going to do this. I’d have preferred to have charts or stats or a write-up or something besides me. Still…the idea of completing two tasks in one day spurred me on.

  “My idea,” I said, trying to put some punch in my delivery, “is that we do a gas giveaway. Gas prices are hitting record levels everywhere. So I thought we could let people know that L.A. Rideshare is rewarding people who carpool by paying for their gas when they fill up. The media would eat it up.”

  “Interesting. The problem,” Lizbeth said slowly, “is the same one we always have. Funding. Who’d pay for this gas?”

  “A sponsor. It wouldn’t cost that much. We wouldn’t give gas to every carpooler. We’d let them know we were out there…then sneak up on them at the pumps. Say, ‘Surprise! We’re paying for your gas!’”

  “If we’re sneaking, then how would the media know?” Martucci asked.

  “We’d tip them off ahead of time,” I replied smugly, pleased that I had an answer and therefore wasn’t giving him the pleasure of tripping me up. “We’d just tell them to keep the locations a secret from the public.”

  “It certainly sounds…interesting,” Lizbeth said. “And I admire your initiative in bringing it up here today. Unfortunately, I don’t believe that’s the direction we should be going. No, we should be putting our energies behind partnering with a traffic reporter. By the way,” she purred, “have you contacted Troy Jones?”

  My mind flashed to the box sitting on my desk filled with Marissa’s yearbooks, along with a note from the traffic reporter in question: Hope this helps. I hadn’t worked up the stomach to dig through them yet, although I needed to. One of the items I was particularly worried about (besides #3, Change someone’s life, which did seem to be quite the tall order) was #7: Make Buddy Fitch pay. Who on earth was Buddy Fitch, and what had he done to her that was so awful? I suspected I’d find a clue in those yearbooks—maybe a jock who tormented her for being fat. A bully who knew Marissa Jones would be easy prey. The very thought made my insides lurch.

  Of course, Lizbeth didn’t need to know any of that.

  “Gee, I left one message,” I lied sweetly. “I’ll try to follow up.”

  Lizbeth nodded and then addressed the group. “People, we have plenty of work here and not enough budget to move through the projects already on our plates. Let’s stay focused, okay? Have a good evening.”

  As I left the meeting, Brie whistled and made a gesture with her hand of a plane flying downward. “Shot down in flames,” she said, shaking her head.

  I limped away in defeat.

  After freshening my makeup and trying to get my hair to recapture the self-control it had hinted at achieving earlier, I met Susan at a boutique down the street. She’d agreed to help me shop for an outfit that seemed sexy yet bookish after nixing the red shirt I was wearing—pointing out all too correctly that Sebastian had already seen it.

  An hour and two hundred dollars later, I was dressed in a pinstripe jacket over a rock ’n’ roll T-shirt and a pair of jeans cut low enough that I had to bunch my underwear down to keep it from showing. I left for my date a new woman.

  BOOK SOUP is a small independent bookstore on a trendy section of Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. When I arrived, a line was already forming to get into the store.

  I’d arranged to meet Sebastian at the adjacent coffee shop. As I walked in, I was nervous that he’d be disappointed when he saw me. Brie had warned that my biggest fear should be the other way around, adding grimly, “The guys I met online looked like their pictures all right. If their picture had been taken twenty years earlier and fifty pounds lighter.”

  I saw Sebastian right away. He was an exact replica of his photo, except now in full color and 3-D. Holy cripes, he was gorgeous, dressed in another suit that seemed to scream “money.” When he came up to say hello, I noticed he smelled good, too.

  “Are you June Parker?”

  “Yes, hi,” I said, extending my hand to shake his.

  He gripped my hand so firmly, it nearly fused my fingers together. “Great to meet you. Your photo doesn’t do you justice.” Before I could say anything else or blush prettily, he added, “Do you mind if we get going to the bookstore? I don’t want to be late.”


  We walked outside, and he bypassed the crowd to head straight for the entrance. The bouncer—or whatever one would call him—let us into the room. Folding chairs were set up in an open section of the store. A podium and microphone faced the chairs. People filled some of the seats, while others milled around, thumbing through books and drinking wine.

  “Wow. Do you know the author?” I asked.

  “Actually,” he replied sheepishly, “I am the author.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  He picked up a book and held it out to me. One-Woman Man, a novel by Sebastian Forbes. “This is mine. I’m doing the reading tonight.” He flipped to the back to show me the author’s photo—the same one he’d posted on the dating website.

  “You wrote this?”

  “Guilty.”

  “I can’t believe you wrote this.”

  What I really meant was, I can’t believe you wrote this and invited me here sight unseen to your reading.

  “I can’t say it’s exactly Shakespeare. More of a romantic comedy. But I’m proud of it.”

  “But why…,” I began.

  “Why did I invite you?” he finished for me. When I shrugged a yes, he grinned. “Can you blame a guy for wanting to impress a girl? My other idea was to fly you to Paris for dinner, but I decided against it. Too showy.”

  I’d have come back with equally flirtatious banter, but I was too busy thinking, He likes me! which was seriously impeding my ability to formulate clever retorts. Instead I gazed coolly around the room.

  (He likes me!)

  (He’s a published author and he likes me!)

  (Me!)

  “Drink?” he asked.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “By the way,” he said as he handed me a glass of wine, “I’m all for keeping the fact that this is our first date on the QT.”

  I smiled agreeably and took a sip.

  (Oh no, he’s ashamed of me.)

  Attempting to check my insecurities, I harkened back to the advice I used to read in Teen magazine. I asked him about himself. Once I did, I relaxed. Sebastian Forbes put on his Armani slacks one leg at a time like anyone else.