Send.
Boom.
And that’s how you do it.
There’s a tall, skinny guy with glasses pacing around the narrow hallway of the upper-level sleeping car, talking on the phone. He’s wearing a cashmere scarf knotted around his neck like a French chick. “Well, it’s not a fear of flying now though, is it, Bernard? It’s a preference for not dropping out of the sky and crashing to the ground in a massive metal death trap.”
British.
Pretty cool accent, very posh.
British glasses guy steps aside and rolls his eyes at me as I pass—as if I’d understand his plight of having to explain to people why he’s taking the train instead of flying.
“Cheers, mate,” I say to him, nodding. Because that’s what you say to British guys who wear scarves like French chicks.
“Indeed,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to Bernard or me. “Right. Sod right off, then.”
Well, sod you too, sodhead.
British glasses guy can kiss my great American ass. So sorry we won the Revolutionary War and stole your hottest women. Pip pip cheerio, then.
The dining car is about half-full. I spot Birdie sitting at a table across the aisle from a lady with short black hair and bright red lipstick. She looks like Mrs. White from the Clue movie. Birdie’s reading her Kindle and absentmindedly twirling loose strands of hair around her fingers. I love that she goes places by herself and just sits and reads. She used to do that on campus, and I’d sometimes watch her from afar—not in a creepy way. I was studying her. As an actor. We were actually assigned to watch people when they weren’t aware and self-conscious. In acting class. As an exercise. I’m dedicated to my craft.
I take a seat at the table, across from her and wait for her to notice me. She gets so lost in her books when she’s reading. Such a little nerd.
It isn’t until I pour myself a glass of red wine from the bottle in front of her that she turns off her Kindle, covers it and puts it aside. “Hi.” Her eyes are wide, and she’s grinning at me like she has something she’s dying to tell me.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing! They don’t have the whiskey or the beer that you like, but they do have Dewar’s Scotch. I figured red wine was a safe bet. I’m guessing you’ll order the steak.” She raises her glass. “Drink up.”
“Yes, ma’am and you are correct.”
She’s still grinning at me.
“What?”
“Nothing. Did you call Alana?”
“I told her about the Wi-Fi situation. What’s going on with you? Are you reading a dirty book or something?”
“I was actually reading Brittanica’s entry on Valentine’s Day,” she says. Because of course she was. She slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Did you know that it replaced an ancient Roman fertility festival called Lupercalia? They would sacrifice these poor goats and dogs, and then the men would strip hides from the sacrificial animals and run through the streets of the town, slapping women with them, because they believed that would make the women fertile.”
“Sounds about right. I’m sure some of those guys were Cannavales.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “And the pope replaced it with St. Valentine’s Day near the end of the 5th century.”
“Pope Gelasius, right?”
She throws me a stunned look. “Yes. Pope Gelasius I. How did you know that?”
“I Googled this shit when I was bored in my trailer last week.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “So you could impress Alana with Valentine’s Day trivia?”
“No. So I could keep up with you, nerd.” I raise my glass to her again and then polish off what’s in it.
She blinks a few times, a little stunned, and then she shakes it off. “Anyway. I was reading through Romeo and Juliet earlier.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah… What was…?” She pauses and huffs, annoyed that she’s been interrupted by an announcement from the conductor on the speaker.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome aboard the Southwest Chief, otherwise known as The Love Train, this week. My name is Gavin, and I am your conductor for this journey. Total travel time from Los Angeles Union Station to our final destination of Chicago Union Station will be approximately forty-two hours and fifty minutes—give or take twelve hours. We’ll be making thirty-one scheduled stops between here and there, and you’ll be hearing from me along the way. Weather conditions overnight are favorable, so sit back, relax, enjoy the views and our many amenities—which do not, unfortunately, include Wi-Fi. Whether you’re traveling solo, with friends, lovers, or family, we promise to get you to your destination in one piece but not necessarily on time. On behalf of Amtrak and all of the attendants on board, we hope you have a very safe, comfortable and friendly ride…unless, of course, it’s finally time to take that next step. If you know what I mean…”
Well, that wasn’t a long or awkward announcement at all. Thanks, Gavin.
Something tells me Nancy and Gavin have been gossiping, but maybe I’m reading into things a little too much.
Something tells me Birdie is too, because she’s blushing and can’t meet my gaze.
She pours me the rest of the wine from the bottle, encourages me to drink more, and then looks around the dining car.
It’s about three-quarters full now. I hope we don’t have to share our table with anyone. Especially not that sodding Brit.
Now that the announcement is finally over, she continues. “Um. You used to do a couple of the Romeo monologues in college, didn’t you?”
“Aye, I did doth. ‘t thrilled the ladies and dampened their undergarments.”
“Do you still remember them?”
“The monologues? Psshh. You don’t forget a thing like that.”
She grins at me again. “Can I hear it?”
“Which one? I did two of them.”
“The most famous one.”
“The balcony monologue?” I wrinkle my nose. “Nah. Too long.”
She glares at me. “Edward.” She’s so mad, it’s hilarious.
“What? I did those monologues when I was seventeen, eighteen. I’m way too manly now.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
“I’m on vacation—I’m not some dancing Shakespearean monkey.”
“Just do it. Do a shorter one, just do it!”
“I’m enjoying a beverage—get outta here.”
“Oh my God. Fine! Never mind.” She frowns, crossing her arms in front of her chest and looking out the window. “You blew it, Cannavale.”
“Story of my life. Learning to live with it.” I take one more gulp of wine and then a sip of water.
“Hey…” I wait for her to turn her pouty face my way again before continuing.
“What lady is that, which doth
enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?”
I stand up so I can project and pace around. Because moving trains are really fucking loud, and Romeo is an energetic young fucker who can’t stay still. I take a few steps away and play it like I’m watching Birdie from afar. The way I did back in college. But not creepy.
Get ready to swoon, little Bird.
“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.”
She has never looked at me like that before—with such blatant admiration. And she’s blushing. And radiant. And I’ve got an audience of about twenty people now. And it feels good. Fuck it�
�I’m going all in.
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!”
After a silent moment, the dining room breaks out in applause, and I realize I’m down on one knee by Birdie’s side. Her eyes are watery. Her lower lip is quivering.
Boom.
And that’s how you do that.
I stand and bow to my audience—house left, house right, center. I do a little flourish for the girl who’s holding up her camera. Then I sit back down in front of Birdie, who hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Her face is flushed, her eyes are wide and she is so beautiful right now.
I’m feeling all the things right now.
I’m feeling so much love for her right now.
But it’s just the writing.
Fuck you, Billy Shakespeare. Don’t fuck with my friendship.
“Hi—excuse me—hi.” It takes me a second to realize the lady with the black hair and red lipstick is standing by our table, and I only realize it because Birdie is looking up at her.
“Hey.”
“You’re Eddie Cannavale, right?” She holds out a business card. “I’m Debra Silver.”
Shit. I know that name. She’s one of the big casting directors. “Yeah, hi.” I hold out my hand to shake hers. “Nice to meet you. This is my friend Birdie.”
“Hey.” She nods at Birdie and doesn’t even smile at me once. “That was quite a little performance just now. I didn’t know you did Shakespeare.”
“Oh well, you know. Only on special occasions. Like dinner.” Nailed it.
She doesn’t even pretend to find me charming. “Uh-huh.” The phone in her hand vibrates. “Okay, I have to take this, but who’s your agent?”
“Rita Baskin.”
“Cool.”
That’s it.
That’s all she says before answering her phone, picking up her handbag, and walking out of the dining room.
“What the fuck just happened?”
I look over at Birdie, who is smiling from ear to ear. “She’s a casting director, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Big-time. She’s practically a legend. Did you know who she was? Is that why you got me to do that?”
She shrugs. “I just wanted a little theater with my dinner.”
Well, shit. I never thought of Birdie as a sneaky girl, but I like it. I never would have done that if I knew there was a casting director in here and she knows it.
“Dinner’s on me,” I tell her.
“It’s included with the train fare.”
“Drinks are on me.”
“Deal,” she says. “Just don’t let me get too tipsy.”
“No deal. There was no mention of a limit to alcohol consumption in your guidelines. You said, ‘responsibly and at a reasonable rate.’ We’re both being very responsible, and if anything, we’re drinking a little too slowly.”
“I would like to amend my guidelines to include a few things.”
“Too late, milady. That train has left the station.” When a waiter comes by, I order another bottle of wine with dinner. “So…what’s the verdict? I’m too manly for Romeo now, aren’t I?”
She blushes. The lady doth blush just enough, methinks. “Just manly enough,” she whispers, looking away.
Maybe it’s motion sickness.
Maybe it’s the wine.
Maybe it’s the friendly Romeo performance—the Fromeo monologues.
But she looks a little flustered. And I’m feeling a little confused and dizzy too. And I don’t hate it.
10
Birdie
The One with the Snorgasm
LAYLA: Have y’all boarded the Love Train yet? Hope you’ve been doing your Kegel exercises. Better get that pelvic floor ready for some hot sexy frorgasms. Those are orgasms given to you by a friend.
ME: Please stop.
LAYLA: I will not. I’m doing MY Kegels right now.
ME: I’m sure your pelvic floor is very well conditioned. But you have to stop talking about Eddie and me like that. It’s not a thing.
LAYLA: But vacation sex is a thing. And trains are sexy. That’s why Alfred Hitchcock used a train entering a tunnel as a symbol for banging.
ME: That’s really all you remember from the movie night I hosted, isn’t it?
LAYLA: Stop trying to change the subject. You feel different now that you’re on that train, don’t you?
ME: Oh no! Only one bar of coverage! No Wi-Fi! Gotta go! Love ya bye!
LAYLA:
I lock my phone and plug the charger into the one wall outlet in our room, next to Eddie’s charging phone. Our phones are now touching, but I’ve been trying really hard to keep my body away from Eddie’s. Because ever since those Romeo monologues, all I want to do is hug him. And if I hug him tonight, all I’ll want is for his love train to enter my tunnel. Because I’ve consumed two and a half glasses of red wine and I’m feeling all kinds of warm and woozy.
But it’s just the wine.
Or maybe I should take a Dramamine.
I’m sure it’s just the Shakespeare.
And the fact that Eddie is a really, really good actor.
He’s never asked me to run lines with him for his upcoming scenes if there’s a love scene, so I’ve never experienced that side of his acting in person before. Not up close, anyway. Certainly not directed at me.
No wonder he was always dating his costars. I get it now. I get why the actresses who play his love interest always fall for him. Even when the writing isn’t exactly brilliant, I’m sure it’s a pretty heady experience, being looked at by Eddie Cannavale like that. Like you’re his Juliet.
We took our sweet time finishing up in the dining car and then spent an hour or so playing cards in the lounge car before coming back to the room. It’s so sweet that he’d carried a pack of playing cards with him in his pocket. He knew I wouldn’t want to go back to the room to be alone with him right away.
A number of girls and moms approached him for autographs and handed me their phones, asking me to take pictures of them with him. This happens nearly every time we’re out together in LA. He always takes his time chatting with his fans. It’s sweet. He’s just a nice guy—which is why I can’t read into anything whenever he says or does anything particularly sweet to me. It’s just who he is.
But we’re back in the room together now. Nancy has already done the turndown service for the beds. I’ve finally convinced Eddie to let me sleep on the top bunk, since the bottom one is wider and he needs more room for all six of his abs. I told him to bring his own bedding and I’m so proud of him for actually listening to me. Now that I’m back from washing up and changing down the hall, I’m going to put my sheets on the top bunk.
; I step onto the ladder, wearing only thick socks on my feet, carrying the bedding. I place the bedding on the mattress and remove the top sheet and blanket, so I can cover the existing sheets and pillowcases with my own. Eddie is sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He’s reading Infinite Jest, and once again, his concentration face is endearing to me.
“Looks like you’ve made a lot of progress,” I tell him. He’s about halfway through already.
“I’m going to finish it this month,” he mutters.
“It took me three months to read it, you know.”
“I’m going to finish it this month.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes. I think I like Dave Eggers’ writing more, though.”
I giggle. “I do too, actually.”
“Then why didn’t you just give me a Dave Eggers book?”
I can’t stop giggling now because I’m finally realizing how ridiculous it was to give him a thousand-and-seventy-nine-page novel as a gag gift. When I’m struggling to tuck the fitted sheet in, the unexpected jolt and horn of a passing freight train startle me, and I lose my balance. My foot slips. Unable to grab on to anything, I feel myself falling backward in slow motion.
Almost as soon as I’ve realized I’m falling and swearing like a marine, I find myself cradled in Eddie’s arms. I emit a squeaky kitten-like sound, my own arms wrapped around his neck, holding tight as if my life depends on it.
“I got you,” he whispers.
He has superhero reflexes, and I do feel a bit like Lois Lane right now.
But Lois Lane wasn’t friends with Superman, and Superman wasn’t on his way to see his Instagram girlfriend when he caught her midair.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clear my throat and say, “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Why are you closing your eyes?” I can hear him smiling. He is amused by me.
“I feel dizzy.” I don’t tell him it’s because of the snowy beach sex fragrance or the way it feels to have his arms around me like this or being this close to his face.
A Very Friendly Valentine's Day Page 6