by Liza Palmer
“Fuuuuuck,” I say, setting my dishes down on the grass and kneeling to get a closer look.
Daniel holds on to his rolled-up pant leg, bending over to get a better look at it himself. “It doesn’t hurt that much anymore. I can run and stuff, but sitting down—like way down—well, I’m just not that graceful,” Daniel says. I extend my finger, almost touching the scar. I look like E.T. Elllliioootttttttttt.
“Go ahead. You can kinda feel some cartilage rolling around in there,” he says, taking my hand and bringing it the rest of the way to his knee. I run my finger over the wounded, raised skin. I get lost for a second. This is a real person. This isn’t a dalliance or a fling or even a foil to my cometless skies. Daniel doesn’t deserve this. I stand quickly, gathering my dirty dishes.
“You okay?” Daniel says, bending down to collect his pile of dishes. His pant leg is still rolled up as we walk inside the restaurant.
“Fine. It just . . . God, it just looks like it hurt. I guess I’m a little squeamish after all,” I say, walking through the dining room, trying to get away from him—to save him.
“You deboned a chicken earlier and told me to rip through the muscle and pull out the joints,” Daniel argues, following me into the kitchen. I look back over my shoulder and smile.
“I don’t know what happened. I just . . .” I trail off, turning on the water and beginning to wash the dishes. Daniel sets his dishes in the sink alongside mine. He leans close.
“We’re not done here, are we?” he says, tilting his head in.
“It’s late,” I say, wanting to scream, to warn him, warn him about me. Warn him that I’m not who he thinks I am. The heart he thinks might be his already belongs to someone else, even if that person isn’t “good at it.”
“Can I tempt you with a field trip of my own?” Daniel asks.
I finish the dishes and turn off the water. “Tempt”: definitely an interesting word choice. I turn my body and lean in to the sink. We square each other off. Daniel again raises an eyebrow and cracks the tiniest of smirks. Before I can snatch the words back . . .
“You’re on,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-one
I follow Daniel on city streets (he’s learning) all the way to Westwood. If it weren’t for UCLA, Westwood would be nothing but a hodgepodge of overpriced chain restaurants and no parking anywhere. My mind is racing. I don’t know what I want from all this. All I know is that right now I want to spend more time with Daniel. I’ve spent the last several years living my life in the two days I have off from the restaurant. Anything and everything that had to be done to keep my life on track, I fit in the refuge of Sunday and Monday. Dentist appointments. Trips to the DMV. Grocery shopping. My days off had also become a reminder that I had no social life to fit in at all. Maybe that made my “arrangement” with Will that much more attractive. But I can’t think about this as I pull up in front of Daniel’s apartment building.
He’s right. It is sterile and beige. Still, I can’t wait to see where he lives. What’s on his walls? What’s in his CD player? Does he have a CD player? Does he have an iPod? What do his linens look like? Does he have linens? Does he have a key bowl or somewhere he drops his mail? I wonder what his apartment smells like. Has he attempted cooking, or is he still the master of heating up various and sundry Hot Pockets?
Daniel tells me to park wherever I can, and he’ll meet me at the entrance. Astonishingly, I find a space rather quickly. I check my lipstick in the rearview mirror, swipe under my eyes for any mascara remnants, and grab another bottle of white wine I’ve snagged from the restaurant. I beep my car locked and walk toward the entrance of Daniel’s apartment building. I quiet myself and try to walk casually. Just be myself. Who that is, is really up for grabs.
Daniel walks through the glass door of the apartment building, closes the door behind me, and we walk to the elevator together.
“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the bottle of wine as the elevator doors open up and we get on. “Now, the place is nothing nice, remember. It was the only thing I could rent on such short notice. Anyway, we’re just stopping by to pick up a couple of sweatshirts and a blanket.” The elevator chimes and lets us out on the third floor.
We walk down the most depressing hallway I’ve ever seen. Apparently, the butchering of hogs wasn’t confined to Daniel’s apartment. Bursts of awkward teenage squealing emanate from the closed doors that line the hall. He unlocks the door to his apartment and holds it open as I walk in.
“This is nice,” I offer too quickly. It’s horrible. There’s no art except for one poster, advertising the UCLA basketball season, taped to the wall. Nothing else. Anywhere. Beige. Beige. And more beige. No decorative anything. Not even a key bowl. The only color comes from the giant plasma TV that’s set up on the floor in the living room. It has some kind of video game box connected to it. “That didn’t come with the place,” I say, a little too forced.
Daniel sets the bottle of wine on a small table by the front door. He heads down a long hallway. I can only infer that his bedroom is down there.
“No, that’s my splurge,” he yells from down the hall. I take a few steps into the apartment. Binders filled with X’s and O’s drawn on tiny basketball courts litter the apartment, along with gym bags literally spilling over with basketballs and other equipment. I assume all this stuff goes along with the sport. Piles and piles of videotapes are stacked next to the television. Each is marked with a date, a team, or a player’s name. This is definitely basketball central.
“So, what do you think? It’s horrible, right?” Daniel asks, coming back down the hallway.
“You’re near the school. You’ll find something more . . . I mean, better . . .” I say. I think about that night at the dinner table and how my family destroyed Avery. I can’t help but wonder what they would do to Daniel.
Daniel holds out a light blue sweatshirt for me. He’s put on a dark blue sweater over his white T-shirt, and he’s holding a red plaid blanket. “Here. It’s going to get cold,” he says, walking into the kitchenette and opening the refrigerator. I unfold the huge sweatshirt to reveal the UCLA Bruins logo emblazoned across the front. He continues, “Do you want to take a couple of beers or something?” He hangs on the open refrigerator door. In the span of eight seconds, I’ve become the kind of person who tailgates at home games.
“Oh, I brought a bottle of wine, but . . . Sure, we can do beer,” I say. Daniel sets a couple of cans of Budweiser on the counter next to me.
“This is the perfect beverage choice!” I say, picking up one of the beer cans and cracking it open. Daniel leans against the faux kitchenette-counter thing and fidgets with another beer can. Goddamn. He’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. We stand there in awkward silence. I can’t read him.
“You hate it,” he says, pulling the tab off the top of his beer can.
“Hate what?” I ask, jumping at the opportunity of conversation. I’ll admit to loathing anything at this point. Kittens? Fuck ’em. Puppies? Hate ’em.
“The apartment,” he says.
“What? No,” I force out. Who wouldn’t hate this apartment? Why don’t you hate this apartment? Daniel clears his throat. I try to quell the deafening voice of the pompous asshole, which is bordering on schizophrenic. Who cares what my family might say?
“You ready?” Daniel says, holding out his hand. He leaves the cans of beer on the counter. I leave the bottle of wine. We walk to the door. A thud bangs against one of his walls, followed by laughing and yelling. Daniel ignores the rugby game that seems to be going on next door and opens the door for me.
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask, slipping the sweatshirt over my head.
“Nope,” he says.
“I found this my first week here,” Daniel says, setting the emergency brake. We’ve been driving for about thirty minutes toward the beach and up into the hills. It’s freezing, and the Bruins sweatshirt is hardly doing its job. I hop out of th
e SUV and quietly close the door, noticing that it’s way past midnight.
Daniel stands at the curb, waiting for me. I catch up with him, and we walk along the residential street. I don’t recognize any of this. I guess we’re in Pacific Palisades, or maybe Santa Monica—I can’t be sure. My entire body is shivering.
Daniel hesitates for a quick second. “Here . . . come here,” he says, opening his arms to me.
I don’t even think. I curl in close. “Thanks,” I say, and our pace slows. I can see his breath in the night air. The moonlight is playing on the contours of his face. We walk to the end of the street and to a small fence. We squeeze through the loosely padlocked gate and come out on the other side. The trees are thick, and I still can’t tell where it is that Daniel has taken me. I fold back into him as we continue walking. Daniel finally slows his pace. Now I can see what he sees. The Pacific Ocean. The full moon is hanging so low, it’s like a scoop of vanilla ice cream sitting on top of a root-beer float.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“I think so,” Daniel says, looking down. Our faces are inches apart. I want to dive in to him again. I swipe his lips with my fingers. Daniel is still. I pull him down closer and kiss him without giving a second thought to the logic, the math of schedules, or the percentages of a previously owned heart. Daniel takes the red plaid blanket from under his other arm. He begins to lay the blanket down on a clear space overlooking the entire ocean.
“No, let’s . . .” I take the blanket, pull it over my shoulder, and open it out for him to join me. I’m sure I look like a matador challenging a charging bull. Daniel creaks and pops into a seated position. I sit, covering both of our shoulders with the blanket. “Better?” I ask.
“Better,” Daniel agrees. We position our bodies, getting comfortable. I tuck in right under his arm. He puts his right leg out straight and curls his left leg close. The moon hangs in front of us. We don’t talk much. When we do, our conversation twists in and out of silence and kisses, one leading to another and then back again. As the night wears on, I nod in and out of sleeplessness. Losing the battle close to sunup, I fall fast asleep in his arms. No racing mind. No Tivo. Just him. And me. And this mountaintop.
Goddamn, he feels good.
Chapter Twenty-two
I can hear my BlackBerry. The alarm. The emergency backup backup alarm. My head shoots up. I try to get my bearings. Where am I? I think. Where the fuck am I?
“Is that the smoke alarm? The smoke detector?” Daniel sleepily asks through a yawn. I sit up and realize I’m sleeping on a mountaintop in a pile of dirt. I look down at Daniel and smile. His hair is everywhere, sticking up in ways I didn’t think possible. Oh God, what does my hair look like? Did I put on mascara last night? Yes, yes, I did. Fuuuckk . . . I must look like Karen Black right about now.
“No, it’s my alarm. I set it just in case,” I say, wiping at my eyes, hoping to clean away some mascara.
“I’m a ‘just in case’?” Ouch. Daniel opens his eyes, and the sunlight hits him right in the dark blue of his eyes. I love this. He hates it.
“Is it seven-thirty in the morning?” I am panicking.
Daniel slowly sits up, bits of leaves and dirt all over his sweater. “You slept all night,” he says.
Oh my God . . . I haven’t even thought . . . Oh, shit. The meeting. The big meeting with Paul and Donna is in two hours, and I’m on the other side of town, covered in dirt and leaves.
“I have to get going. I have this meeting this morning.” I stop. He doesn’t know anything about this. He’s just staring at me. I don’t know where to go from here. I haven’t prepared; I don’t have any clothes. I won’t be able to take a shower. I’m on a fucking mountaintop. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . Just breathe.
“What’s going on in there?” Daniel asks, putting one arm behind his head. Why is that sexy? Jesus. Focus. Focus.
“Remember how I told you I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to stay at the restaurant?” I begin, settling myself cross-legged next to him. Daniel bends into a seated position and leans back on one arm. Ready to listen. Time stops.
“Excuse me?” An older couple and their dog stand over us. I’m startled out of my thought process and instinctively swipe at my mascara and try to straighten my hair. Daniel attempts to tamp down his hair.
“This is private property!” the old man admonishes.
Daniel and I stand, grabbing the blanket. “I’m sorry, sir . . . we really didn’t know,” Daniel says, brushing leaves and dirt from his pants. I attempt to do the same. The older couple stands in all of their early-morning glory, waiting for us to leave.
“You a Bruins fan?” the old man asks, pointing at my sweatshirt. In L.A. these could be fightin’ words if we don’t answer correctly. Two feuding camps as legendary as the Hatfields and the McCoys. The Giants and the Dodgers. The Red Sox and the Yankees. Republicans and Democrats. Good versus evil. The USC Trojans and the UCLA Bruins. Daniel sizes up the couple. I do the same. Wealthy neighborhood. A lot of bling. Definitely some entitlement issues. We look at each other and decide.
“No, it’s laundry day,” Daniel scoffs.
“Go, Trojans!” I add.
The man beams. “Going to be a great year!” He and his wife pass us as their dog sniffs and pulls them along the trail. Daniel and I make our way back down the trail, through the gate, and back into his waiting SUV. I tug my purse out of the backseat and find some face wipes I keep in there for emergencies. I pull down the visor and flip open the mirror. Horror of horrors. Daniel reaches into the backseat and retrieves a bottle of water from his backpack. He hands it to me, and I take a long drink, hoping to rinse some of the remnants of stank out of my mouth. I find a tin of mints in the bottom of my purse, quickly pop one in my mouth, and hold it open for Daniel. He takes one, then a long swig of water, and begins driving down the street back to his apartment, where my car is.
“Why didn’t you tell me I looked like Emmitt Smith, the sad clown,” I say, cleaning my face.
“You mean Emmett Kelly. Emmitt Smith was the running back for the Cowboys,” Daniel corrects.
“Oh, right,” I say. How do I know that? Television, no doubt. Television, or the osmosis of sports trivia, from being around Daniel, has made me start confusing sports legends with everything else.
“Tell me about this meeting,” Daniel says as he drives quickly, knowing time is of the essence.
I continue my cleanup process as I speak. “These people came into the restaurant last week. They want to meet with me today about possibly filming a pilot for the Food Network. It’s the beginning stages of maybe being able to have my own show—or something.” The car jostles as I try to reapply my mascara. I’m tap-dancing around Daniel. I know that I’m in over my head emotionally. I also know that I can’t think about this now. Thankfully.
“Really? That sounds great. I mean, it sounds like—and this is just from yesterday—you really are great at teaching and making sure people understand the history. You made it really interesting. I think it’s great,” he repeats.
I flip the mirror back up and throw my mascara in my purse. “I hate that I’m wearing the same clothes. Do I look like I slept on a mountaintop last night?” I ask, still wiping at my eyes.
“They’re going to love you,” Daniel says, zooming down Wilshire Boulevard. I look over at him. He gives me a quick smile and then looks back at the road. I lean back in my seat and try to calm myself down.
Daniel pulls up alongside my car. There’s a parking ticket peeking out from behind the windshield wiper. Of course there is. I unbuckle my seat belt.
“What are you doing tonight?” Daniel asks, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Nothing . . .” I say, hoping that I’ve trailed off in just the right tone to encourage another invitation.
“Do you want to go on an official date? Dinner and a movie? It’d have to be a little late. How does eight sound?” he asks.
It’s as if I’m gazing into a box
of chocolates. I know if I eat one more, I’ll make myself sick. But they all look so good. How can I not partake of just—one—more. “That sounds loverly,” I say, tilting my head. Just looking. Taking him in. He leans over and kisses me. I move my hand from his face to his shoulder, pulling him close. I’m supposed to be thinking about being late to my meeting. One more chocolate. One more chocolate. I get lost but quickly realize that time is passing. And I’m late.
“I’ve gotta go,” I announce finally. Daniel looks disappointed. His hand rests on my leg. “Tonight,” I say, taking a crumpled envelope out of my purse and writing down my phone number and quick directions to my apartment. I lean in and give him another kiss. He’s smiling. No, he’s smirking.
“What?” I say, my lips touching his.
“Nothing. Nothing. Eight? Tonight?” he asks.
“Eight. Tonight,” I say, moving farther and farther out of his car. Not wanting to. Wanting to stay here. Go up in that slaughterhouse of an apartment and laze the day away in his arms. I slam the car door and lean in the open window. I’m going to try to shove as many chocolates as I can in my mouth before I make myself sick. “Come here,” I say, hopping up and squeezing my body through the window.
Daniel leans over. “Eight?” he says, kissing me again.
I hop back down and stand beside the SUV. “See you then,” I say, pulling the ticket out from under my windshield wiper. I beep my car unlocked and climb in. Daniel idles, waiting. I turn the key and maneuver out of the tight parking space. I honk as I pull down his street.
I try to relax and take a deep breath. My stomach is quiet and calm. No Pepto-Bismol chewables. No yogi tea. No yerba maté. Just one night with Daniel. Well, if that’s just . . . That’s just ridiculous. It can’t be that—this can’t be. I stop at a doughnut shop to pick up a large black tea. All they have is Lipton. I’m wearing the same clothes from last night, no morning run, no Joan’s on Third, no L.A. Times, and a goddamn Lipton tea. I merge onto Sunset Boulevard, sipping my tea and figuring out how I’m going to get to a meeting across town in under an hour and a half. This is L.A., after all. It’s going to take a miracle. What comes next? I don’t know how to do this. My schedule will overtake my life for the next five days. I don’t want it to. Do I want it to? I don’t want to hurt Daniel. Or maybe I just don’t want to hurt.