She didn’t even understand my decision to stop eating meat. How was she ever going to respect my career choice?
She wasn’t. She didn’t.
I stare at the image, wondering what my brothers are up to lately. I don’t talk to them much. They’re so busy with their own lives, their jobs, their families. It’s not that we’re different, though we are. It’s that we’re not connected.
I look at the two-dimensional version of my mom, faded over the years, her brunette hair arranged in a neat bun, her arm around my oldest brother. “I’m trying,” I whisper, not to her, but to my dad, the one who had his arm around me in the picture.
But I realize I’m not just talking to him either. I’m talking to that seventeen-year-old girl next to him, the one who believed with her whole heart she could do it.
That she might be the next Tina Fey.
I want to succeed for my dad, but I want to succeed for that girl too. The one who believed it was all possible.
Underwater the next morning, I weigh the pros and cons of a road trip with Tom.
On the one hand, he’s inspiring.
On the other hand, he’s tempting.
On the pro side, he’s fun.
On the con side, he’s dangerously attractive to me.
In the yes column, I have a blast with him.
In the no column, he could blast my heart in two.
Unrequited lust hurts like a charley horse.
I emerge from the chlorinated water still undecided, grab a towel, and dry off. Heading to the locker room, I shower, change, and fish for my phone.
One missed call.
A bubble of excitement rises in me when I slide open the screen. I squeal when I see the name, cross my fingers, and hightail it out of the gym, dropping my purple shades over my eyes.
I return the call.
“They love it. They love both the scripts you sent me, Peaches,” Bruce barks when he answers the phone.
“I’m Peaches now?” I ask, but I’m smiling.
“Toots, be glad you have a nickname.”
“Why?”
“A nickname means I like you. And I like you a hell of a lot more when you have a better chance at renewal.”
“I might have a stay of execution?” I squeak out.
“You get me four more episodes like this, and we’ll have more than a snowball’s chance. Also, that ‘love is bungee jumping’ line is spot on. There’s nothing scarier than love, Sweet Cheeks. One more thing. Audiences like sexual tension. Draw this out. Don’t let them kiss for a long, long time.”
Oops. Too bad I broke that rule in real life.
“But what if they had a pretend kiss?” I suggest.
“I like the idea of that. I like it a lot. Do it more than soon. Do it next. Find a way to work a pretend kiss into the storyline. Something that messes with her head,” he says, then cackles. “That’ll be a hoot. That’s rom-com gold, Peaches.”
Sweet Cheeks, Toots, Peaches.
Do three nicknames mean he likes me three times better? “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You do more than see, Finley. You do. Oh, and how about you get me another script by Friday?” he asks, and today is Monday, so that’s a tight turnaround. “The faster we blow their minds, the more likely we can get you a renewal.”
I gulp—that’s another pro in the say-yes-to-the-road-trip column. Tom is like a writing aphrodisiac. Spending time with him has improved my storyline, my pace, my output . . . Whatever scent of inspiration I’m inhaling from him is rubbing off on the show, and the network execs are loving the new aroma.
“I’ll do that,” I tell Bruce, even though I don’t know if my heart can handle being around Tom for three more days.
Bungee jumping sounds easier. The real kind, not the kind that’s a metaphor for falling for someone so hard it hurts.
16
Finley
“What would you do?”
I stare into big brown eyes as Mister Dog lounges on a deck chair, sunning himself. He cocks an ear, listening to me. “Yeah, it’s crazy. Will Dad say it’s crazy?”
The mutt thumps his tail.
“What will I say is crazy?” My father’s voice booms across the yard as he slides open the door to the deck that afternoon.
I sit ramrod straight, caught in the act of using his pooch as my psychiatrist. I’m seriously the worst at abusing shrink privileges from both my best friend and man’s best friend.
“I was asking Mister Dog if I should start feeding him a vegetarian diet.”
My dad sneers. “If dogs were meant to be herbivores, they wouldn’t have those teeth.”
I rub the dog’s head. “Just kidding. I’d never do something so cruel to Mister Dog. He does like avocados though. Last time I was here, he jumped up and ate half of one off the counter, including the shell.”
“And I paid for that the next day.”
I laugh. “I bet Mister Dog paid for it too. And I promise I won’t turn him into a lettuce muncher.”
My dad sets down a yellow salad bowl with lettuce, tomatoes, chickpeas, green beans, and beautiful carrots. My mouth waters. “Yum.”
“I don’t know how you do it, kid. But I admire it.”
Smiling, I grab the fork and dive into the salad while he stabs his fork into a tomato. “You’re doing it too,” I point out.
“But I did gnaw through an entire rotisserie chicken before you came over for lunch,” he whispers.
I narrow my eyes. “You, you, you . . . carnivore.”
He laughs. “And proud of it.” He crunches through another bite then sets down his fork. “So what will I really think is crazy?”
Busted.
“Skipping Marlins Park on your ballpark tour?” I offer, as I spear a yummy-looking green bean.
“Not a chance, young lady,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that’s been missing for a while. Something strong. Something fatherly. I don’t detect the hitch in it today, the pang of longing for my mother.
He’s simply a dad today. He’s not a man who lost a woman. My heart thumps faster. This might be a sign he’s on the other side.
“The guy, the one I mentioned to you?” I’m not a secret keeper. I don’t want to hide what I’m up to.
“The one you’ve been hanging out with for the last few days?”
The midday sun slips behind a wisp of a cloud momentarily as I answer him. “Yes. He’s going on a road trip. He invited me to go with him.”
My dad furrows his brow. “Where to?”
“San Diego is the final destination. He wants to visit some roller coasters along the way, and he asked me to join him.”
“Like a date?”
I shake my head. “Like friends. We get along well. We’ve become . . .” I pause, searching for just the right words, and they’re easy to find. “Fast friends.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I’m trying to decide if I should go.”
“Do you want to go?”
I think over the question. I do, desperately. Terribly. Even though it will probably hurt in the end. I like this guy so much, which is crazy in its own way since he’s such a work in progress. But then again, so am I. I don’t mind that Tom’s a little rough around the edges. I understand his roughness, just as he seems to understand all my imperfections too—my insecurities, my chattiness, my fascinations with words and people and experiences. “I can write as we go. I think it could be fun. I think it could be inspiring. He’s funny, and I laugh a lot when I’m with him.”
My dad smiles then ruffles my hair. “I remember taking you to the movies when you were a kid. When something on the screen tickled your funny bone, your laugh burst across the whole theater, and then it’d be followed by a snort.”
“He likes my snorts too.”
“I just might like him, then.” My dad assumes a more serious expression. “Is it safe though?”
“You’re such a dad.”
“I am a dad!”
<
br /> “I’m twenty-nine. He has a Tesla. It’s totally safe.”
“His car makes it safe?”
“He’s not barreling down the highway on a Harley.”
“I don’t think the make and model of his car signals safety.”
“He’s very interested in safety though. He invented a safety feature for thrill rides. And he wore my helmet when he rode my bike the other night.”
“It sounds like your heart’s already set on this. Just be careful, okay? Guard that heart.” He points to my sternum. “If he so much as hurts you, I will—”
I grab his wrist and hold it tight. “I’ll be fine, Dad. I promise.”
He leans across the table and drops a kiss to my forehead. “Keep me posted, kid.”
“I will.”
When we clean up, he asks about the show. “I need to write more today. It’s going great. The network is loving it,” I say as I rinse off the plates and serve up a half truth.
I wince, because evidently I am indeed a secret keeper. I should tell him the whole truth, that the show is hanging on by a frayed thread. I should ask what to do. But for the first time in ages, the man isn’t on the verge of tears, so I figure it’s safe to keep this secret to myself.
Besides, I want him to be happy. The other thing that makes him happy is when I shower love on his dog. “What do you say I take Mister Dog for an extra walk? I need to pop over to Lucky Falls anyway for a new book.”
He hands me the dog’s leash with a smile.
My dad lives on the outskirts of town, which means he’s only a half mile from our sister town. With the dog speedwalking by my side, we head into the town square and pop into Arden’s store to pick up the Tiffany Haddish book. She flicks her blonde hair off her shoulder, hands it to me, rubs Mister Dog’s head, then asks if I need anything else.
In my best sarcastic throwaway voice, I say, “I need a book on how not to get hurt by feelings, emotions, and/or falling for someone. Got any in stock?”
She smiles sympathetically. “Oh sure, it’s called a cartoon.”
That actually sounds like a good idea. “Maybe I should grab a Get Fuzzy book,” I say, naming my favorite comic strip growing up.
“Let me get you my favorite collection of Get Fuzzy strips.”
As she heads to the shelves, a handsome man with sky-blue eyes strolls in and says her name. “Hey, Arden. I’m still waiting for you to build on my ‘kiss.’”
She swivels around, her eyes wide. “You are?”
“In Words with Friends, woman.”
She laughs, but judging from her reaction and his question, I’m going to need to conduct some serious recon with her next time we talk.
For now, she returns to the counter with the Get Fuzzy collection, and I pay for that and the Haddish then tell her we’ll catch up next time.
“We will.”
I lower my voice, because I can’t resist a little inspiration. “And maybe you’ll tell me what’s going on with you and the hottie.”
She blushes. “You love your stories.”
“I do. So you’ll tell me?”
“If there’s something to tell.”
“Fair enough.” I need to make trip preps, so Mister Dog and I take off.
Later that Monday afternoon, I call Christine. “I might not be able to see you when you’re in town.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
I gulp, steeling myself. “I’m going on a road trip.”
“You are?”
My chest prickles with something other than nerves. Something I can’t quite name. But it feels like guilt. Or maybe it’s that feeling of knowing you’re going against a friend’s wishes. You’re willingly flinging yourself into danger.
I tell her about the trip, but as I speak, I hear how it must sound to Christine. Like I’m chasing him. But I’m chasing inspiration, I tell myself. “I’m going to write. The network liked the first two episodes.”
“That’s great, but what about his ex?”
I lick my lips, wishing this didn’t sound like justification as I say, “He’s not into her anymore, but he also realizes he made a mistake and wants to apologize to her.”
Christine hums. “Did he cheat on her?”
I cut that idea off at the knees. “No. But he was . . . careless with her heart,” I say carefully, because Tom’s story isn’t mine to share. It belongs to him and Cassie, and I’m only a bystander.
“And he’s going on a road trip to apologize?”
“She was hurt by how he handled something, and he didn’t realize it at the time. She never told him exactly why she pushed him away, and he never asked anyone else to help him understand the situation. I think he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.”
“Interesting,” she says, taking her time with the word, stretching it out.
“Why is that interesting?”
“It’s interesting when someone truly tries to make amends. To apologize for a past hurt. As a therapist I wholeheartedly commend it. It can be incredibly healing and freeing, and can help a person move on.”
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”
She sighs. “But I do worry about what it means for you.”
“Why?” I ask, as my stomach craters.
“I don’t want you to be his rebound girl.”
“Maybe his feelings for her from a few days ago were never real in the first place,” I offer, clinging to that hope. That foolish hope.
“Are you making excuses because you’re falling for him?”
“I’m not falling for him,” I insist.
But that’s another lie.
I am falling.
More than I should.
A sane girl would say no. A wise girl would stay home.
I’m neither. I’m desperate, and I’m needy.
But I’m also wildly curious. I want to know what comes next. I want to turn the pages deep into the night.
“I know he doesn’t feel the same, and I know it’s dangerous, but I won’t let myself get burned again,” I tell Christine.
“Be careful.”
I tell her I will, but I honestly don’t know how to follow her advice. I don’t know how to resist talking with him the way I like to, flirting with him the way we both seem to enjoy, and spending time with him.
I don’t know how not to fall. I’ll just hope it won’t hurt too bad.
17
Tom
The best text ever lands on my phone early that evening.
Finley: What time do we leave?
Tom: 9 a.m. sharp. Also, ARE YOU SERIOUS? You’re going with me?
Finley: As serious as a table saw.
Tom: Nuff said.
Finley: Also, what should I pack? Do I need scuba gear, a faux fur cape, or cowboy boots? Because if the answer is yes, I’m out.
Tom: Just a bikini, and you already told me you have plenty of those.
Finley: I’m not sitting in the passenger seat in a bikini.
Tom: Does that mean you’d drive while wearing one?
Finley: Hmmm . . . Fair question, but that’s going to be a hard limit too.
Tom: Got it. One final bikini question—would you wear one on the Rapids ride in Wild Days Park?
Finley: Are we going to tour amusement parks?
Tom: If I stop at one each day, I can write off the trip.
Finley: You’re such a guy.
Tom: I am a guy.
Finley: What if I didn’t like amusement parks?
Tom: But you do, ergo . . .
Finley: Ergo, what?
Tom: Oh wait. This is a teachable moment, right?
Finley: You’re getting warmer. Now, let’s see what you’ve learned. :)
Tom: Finley, would you like to visit a few amusement parks with me? I think it would be inspiring for your work, and we all know that you chase inspiration like a bunny chasing the carrot.
Finley: Lukewarm . . .
Tom: *clears throat* *prepares to show off new skills* We could
visit some parks, and you could write. Work on that show of yours that we’re going to save.
Finley: The thermometer is rising.
Tom: Allow me to keep making my case, then . . . Also, it would be fun, and I’m excellent at road trips, and you’re an excellent companion at, well, everything. I have a great time with you. So I thought, hey, why not make this a fun road trip, ride some rides, see some sights, have a good time. It’s all on me. Plus, snacks.
Finley: Mercury increasing. Because . . . snacks.
Tom: Let’s go for the closing pitch, then. Ready?
Finley: Or not!
Tom: Your hair is pretty.
Finley: Hot!
Tom: P.S. Fine was always intended as a compliment about your hair.
Finley: But pretty is a better compliment.
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