Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life

by Maggie Bloom

  It crosses my mind to go out in a blaze of glory, hurl the cell phone—still ringing, of course—into Mitch’s colorful saltwater aquarium, blow him a kiss and, after a jubilant curtsey, trot my way out of this very disappointing chapter of Emmaline Waters’s almost life.

  If worse comes to worse, I could always belly up to The Crowbar again, pitch my morals—such as they are—down a rabbit hole, and become Jimmy’s permanent side dish, wake up twenty years from now with a spare tire around my waist and a sucking, gnawing canyon where my soul used to be.

  Or whatever.

  I am so mired in self-pity that I nearly miss the voice—which would be a feat unto itself, considering its high-pitched, nasally tone—when it says, “Mitch? Mitchell Heywood? Is that you?”

  Whoever Mitch has put on the line with me is female—or else a surgically neutered male. I shield the phone and plead, “Help!”

  He laughs in my face. “That little hit and run you pulled out there is gonna cost you.”

  The nasally woman talks on—a mess of garbled syllables, wrapped in a cocoon of flirtation. I shrug at Mitch and, into the phone, say, “This is Emmaline Waters. Mr. Heywood is”—I want to say “a gigantic horse’s ass,” but somehow restrain myself—“in a meeting. May I take a message?”

  An audible gasp. “Emmaline Waters? The Emmaline Waters, from Dishing with Em?”

  “Um, yeah,” I admit, caught off guard by the fact that a stranger knows my name, let alone the title of my fledgling column. “That’s me.”

  “Brilliant! Give that grumbly old boss of yours a smooch for me, won’t you?”

  Certainly not, even if my stomach weren’t lurching from the idea. “Come again?”

  The nameless woman asks, “Should we do this over the phone or in person?”

  I throw visual daggers at Mitch, who is grinning triumphantly from ear to ear. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Don’t you dare back out on me!” the woman blurts. “I’ve waited my whole life for a scoop like this.”

  In what universe am I integral to a stranger’s lifelong ambitions? “Scoop?” I ask, trying to disguise my ignorance.

  She cackles wildly. “You’re joking, right? You do realize you’re the number one ‘get’ at the moment, don’t you? I mean, you’re trending . . . well, everywhere worth trending.”

  “So you want to . . . what? Interview me?”

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  I search Mitch’s face for a hint of compassion, the slightest indication he’ll let me weasel out of the fender bender and—this is the imperative part—keep me employed, even if I eschew this woman’s intrusion into my personal life. Which I’m dead set on doing, until . . .

  Mitch gives me a peppy thumbs-up, punctuated by the sleaziest wink I’ve ever seen. “Fire away,” I say, sinking so low into the cracked-leather seat that my DNA might swap places with that of the cow-donor of this fine swath of upholstery.

  The phone lady takes me at my word, and off we prance toward the ultimate airing of my dirty laundry. I can only hope that Angie—and, more importantly, Mark Loffel, since he’s the one most likely to untangle my web of deceit—has settled in for a long winter’s nap that will last right through this hubbub over the relationship that never was. (I mean, I had sex with the guy once! Five years ago! Get over it, people!)

  Yes, I tell myself. This whole ugly mess will blow over before it hits the radar of anyone important. If not, there’s always Canada. How cold can it be up there, anyway?

  Chapter 16

  Thanks to Mitch Heywood, my life has gone from normal postcollege malaise to downright dreadful. And as soon as the exclusive interview I gave Brenda Bixby (news flash: she’s Mitch’s ex-girlfriend and the on-air talent for channel 4 at six o’clock) hits the airwaves, I might as well fake my death—and Angie’s too, since she’ll be going with me—and hop a freight train to a remote Mexican village, where my daughter and I will reinvent ourselves as Isabel and her doting aunt, Esperanza. . . .

  * * *

  “There’s a great natural foods store up ahead,” Trent says, flapping a hand toward the windshield. “We’ll hit that for lunch, okay?”

  I’m sure he doesn’t actually want my opinion. “That’s fine,” I reply, staring distractedly at the trees whizzing by and trying not to think about the fact that, ready or not, I’m going to have to have “the talk”—as in your parents aren’t your real parents, sweetie—with Angie.

  Make that “the talks.” Because I can’t risk upending Angie’s world until I know how Mark Loffel has taken the news of his sudden parenthood.

  Oh, and I’d better get all this earth shattering done ASAP, because, within a matter of weeks, my energy will be otherwise engaged in the acts of avoiding starving and/or freezing to death on the mean streets of Boston, Jung and our apartment a hazy, blissful memory.

  Speaking of which, I should give Dr. Jacobs my notice as soon as Trent and I return from this “bitchin’ adventure” (his words, not mine)—assuming we survive the 300-foot drop, that is.

  I shoot a glance at Trent, wondering how long it will take him to drop me once he realizes I’m even more of a screw-up than previously advertised.

  He steers us into the parking lot of a hole-in-the-wall shop called—I kid you not—In the Raw (which would make an equally good name for a certain kind of adult novelty store, if you get my meaning).

  I put on a small, wavering smile and follow him inside. The aisles are narrow and winding, the overhead lights exposed fluorescents that emit a dull hum. The low shelves, scuffed to bare metal at the edges, brim with all manner of obscure concoctions—a tin of cuttlefish in its own ink; a silk pouch of soy-eucalyptus ear candles; even what claims to be (and feels like, I note, giving the thing a stiff squeeze) a brick of sprouted alfalfa-sunflower-maple-pine-nut bread.

  Behind a quaint wooden counter at the back of the store hovers just the kind of person you’d expect to find running an off-the-wall place like this: a twentysomething dreadlocked redhead, clad in a vibrantly colored dashiki and a horrendously clashing peasant skirt.

  My eyes want to bleed.

  Trent, though, is exhibiting no such distress. “Hey,” he says, striding right up to the woman. He grabs her by the shoulders and plants a sloppy kiss on her forehead.

  I check the ceiling for a hidden camera. I mean, what else besides a practical joke could have my semi-uptight Donald Trump-in-training boyfriend cozying up to a random heathen?

  The woman, who doesn’t feel the need to mar a perfectly ghastly outfit with something as mundane as a nametag, nearly pulls Trent over the counter with an improvised bear hug. “Long time no see, cuz,” she coos in his ear. Then to me: “Oh, hi.” She releases Trent and heaves her arms my way. “You must be ‘the one.’ ”

  If I’m translating her slang correctly, Ms. Hippie 2014 is Trent’s cousin (an admittedly bizarre pill to swallow). My arms dangle at my sides like dead fish as she barrels around the counter and smothers me in an awkward embrace. “Um, yeah,” I respond uncertainly. I try to shrug, but she’s clamped around me like a human straitjacket. “That’s me, I guess.”

  Truth be told, I’d characterize my relationship with Trent as overwhelmingly casual, this trip more the result of my need to escape the publicity storm that has sprung up around Letter Gate—I mean, after the thousandth interview request in a two-hour period, I shoved my cell phone down the garbage disposal and minced it out of existence—than a classic romantic getaway.

  I extricate myself from the Scissor Arms of Death and, as if it’s a life raft in a churning sea, grab Trent’s hand. He gives my fingers a gentle pump. “So, what do you think?” he asks, glancing back toward the disorganized and strangely stocked aisles.

  “Interesting place,” I remark, directing my response at his cousin. “Do you own it?”

  “Can anyone really own anything?”

  My face twists in confusion. “Well, um . . . I don’t . . .”

  “You’ve gotta try Whit’s harvest
muffins,” Trent suddenly announces, tugging me toward a glass case in a spider-webby corner. “Right, Whit?”

  Her name is Whit? As in Whitney? Or Whitley? Makes sense, I guess.

  “Yeah,” she agrees with a conspiratorial grin. “The harvest muffins are a must-have.” She takes a shortcut to the bakery case, beating us there by a couple of steps. With a bare hand, she plucks a giant, naked muffin—which, to be blunt, resembles an overbaked hunk of excrement—from the top shelf and thrusts it at me.

  Shouldn’t she at least offer me a bag to carry the thing in? I’m about to request such a convenience when a trio of young guys—probably farm kids from the surrounding wasteland of dilapidated barns and rusty silos—bursts through the door and begins pawing like hungry bears at the shelf of organic candy.

  Whit appears nonplussed, the muffin still cupped in her itty-bitty hand (did I mention that the girl has the gravitas of a feather?). “Here,” she says, shaking the mass of wholesomeness (read: actual tree bark would be preferable) at my face. “I made this special, just for you.”

  She did? Reluctantly, I accept, trying not to focus on the swarm of bohemian germs (I mean, free spirits aren’t exactly know for their cleanliness, are they?) that have not only invaded the muffin but are now infesting my skin. “Thanks.”

  The farm boys finish rooting through the only edible fare in the place and head for the register, where Whit lazily cashes them out. From her lackadaisical attitude, I get the idea that customers are a rarity on par with Big Foot sightings at In the Raw. “How much do I owe you?” I ask, absorbing the recently vacated space in line.

  Trent slings an arm over my shoulder. “No charge for family,” he says, shooting his cousin a wink. “Speaking of which, have you got those sandwiches I ordered?” In my ear, he murmurs, “Tuna salad was the best I could do. Hope that’s all right.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble, glad he’s harangued Whit into making something familiar and, thus, comforting.

  The three of us chat for a few minutes, then Whit disappears behind a translucent curtain to retrieve our lunch, which, I’m happy to report, is cool to the touch, suggesting it has been refrigerated. I wait until we get back on the road to pry further about his cousin. “So, what’s her deal? Is she, like, adopted or something?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Trent staring at my lap. “Aren’t you going to eat the muffin?” he asks dejectedly.

  I’ve cocooned “the muffin” (if you can call it that) in a nest of paper napkins I’ve scavenged from the glove box. “It looks kind of gross,” I admit. I make a show of sniffing the air. “And it smells funny, too.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re a food critic. You can stomach anything, right?”

  That’s right; I am a food critic. And I’m quite critical of this muffin, indeed. But it’s going to be a long trip if I don’t at least taste the thing.

  A nibble. That’s all I intend to take until Trent hits a pothole, causing me to chomp off a section the size of North Dakota. Lo and behold, it’s as disgusting as I feared. So hideous, in fact, that as hard as I try to force my mouth into action, it just won’t chew.

  Great. Now what? I could fake a choking fit and cough the thing into a napkin, I suppose. Then again, even though Trent’s no Albert Einstein, he’s sure to connect the dots of such a blatant ruse.

  He moves his eyes from the road to my chipmunk cheeks. “So?”

  I manage a slight nod, my nasal passages struggling to intake enough oxygen to keep me conscious. Should I slap my cheeks in hopes of spurring some jaw movement?

  “It’s good, huh?” he says obliviously.

  Why on earth is he so enamored of this muffin?

  My teeth finally get bored enough to saw through something rough and grainy (a gummy chunk of barley?), decreasing the odds that I’ll actually be able to swallow.

  “Can I have a bite?”

  Please, God, yes! I want to scream. Someone—anyone—take this wretched science-experiment-gone-awry off my hands. I plop the wad of napkins in Trent’s lap and, before the mouthful of goop liquefies any further, crane my neck and pretend to be enraptured with something outside the window, when I’m really spitting the remains of the muffin into a handy paper cup. (Thank you, Trent, for keeping a stash of empty Starbucks containers, a.k.a. hoarded garbage, under the seat of your car.)

  He tosses a pinch of the muffin in his mouth. “I see what you mean,” he says, his facial muscles contorting. “It is a bit dry.”

  Technically, he’s not wrong, though moisture—or lack thereof—is the least of the muffin’s problems. “Sorry.” I frown. “It’s just not my thing. That sandwich sounds good, though. How much longer before we get there?” If I had to ballpark it, I’d say we’ve been on the road for two hours already.

  “Did you like Whit?” he asks, ignoring my inquiry.

  “Um, yeah. She seems nice. What’s her deal, anyway? I mean, I never would’ve guessed that the two of you are related.”

  “Black sheep.” He shakes his head. “She was born that way.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know: pigheaded, defiant, full of piss and vinegar.”

  I’m liking her more by the minute. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  He sighs. “In this family? I’m afraid so.”

  I think I get it now: along with the über riches comes a laundry list of rules and regulations Trent (and, presumably, other relatives who hope to suckle at the familial teat) are bound to follow. Which somehow makes me more sympathetic to his plight.

  I twist around, snag the sandwiches, and immediately dig in. “Sounds stressful,” I mumble through a wad of soggy bread and mayo. If there’s actual fish in this sandwich, it’s well hidden.

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “Like what? Being cut off?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but the worst thing I can imagine doing is what you do.”

  What the hell does that mean? “Excuse me?”

  He cracks a smile. “See, you took it wrong.”

  “Enlighten me, please,” I reply, copping the biggest attitude I dare given our lack of proximity to home. The rest of my aggression I take out on the sandwich, which is no match for my seriously ticked-off teeth.

  Another sigh. “It’s not an insult—at least, I don’t mean it to be. But working for someone else? Punching a clock every day?” He shudders. “That’s my idea of hell.”

  “We’re on the same page there,” I say with a laugh. “And, for the record, I work by the job—not on a clock.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather make the rules?” he says, as if he’s my fairy godmother and can—poof!—spin my life around on a dime.

  Before I can dream up a witty response, my eyes lock on the muffin, which he’s picked to bits in his lap, leaving a trail of muffin guts under his fingernails—not to mention a pretty crumbly mess strewn across the front of his pants.

  Ick.

  He continues, “I could use a partner like you. Someone to smooth out my rough edges. Represent me in the community.” He shakes his head. “God knows I’ve got a reputation for being out of touch sometimes. I’d like to change that.”

  If I’m understanding him correctly, he wants me to run a public relations campaign on his behalf. “Okay . . . ?” For the right price, I may take him up on the offer. After all, working behind the scenes for my boyfriend would provide a lot more anonymity than the food-critic job. And with the glaring attention to my personal life of late, my top priority is blending into the scenery.

  Out of nowhere, Trent pulls the car over to the side of the road and—what the hell?!—dangles a muffin-coated diamond ring (and a pretty gigantic one, at that!) in the air. “So, what do you say?”

  What I say is: “Huh?”

  He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face me, wide eyed and hopeful. “You were supposed to find it in the muffin,” he tells me. “Whit and I had it all planned out.”

  My eyebrows pinch togethe
r. “But . . . what . . . ?”

  His cheerful exterior falters. “Aren’t you excited?”

  I can’t escape the feeling that I’ve entered a time warp. Or that I’m waking up from a months-long coma and suffering an extreme bout of amnesia. I mean, did I miss something here? Since when are we serious enough—keep in mind, we haven’t even done the deed yet!—to consider (gulp) tying the knot? “Um . . .”

  He hangs his head. “Shit. I knew I should’ve done something bigger.” He palms the ring, and I get a pang of disappointment. “It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

  Words escape me.

  On one hand, I love the idea of marriage—especially to a guy who’s so far ahead of the curve in grownup milestones. (Not only does he have a luxury car, but he’s a homeowner—and a landowner too, his real estate business just beginning to take flight; who knows how high he’ll soar?) Such stability would be a godsend for Angie and me, considering my looming financial woes.

  On the flipside, though: do I really love him? Not just in the passing fascination sense, but in the waking-up-beside-him-for-the-rest-of-my-life way? I’m not a hundred percent sure.

  “Will you at least think about it?” he asks, pulling me out of my musings—and hauling the ring back out for another look-see.

  It is beautiful, in a covered-in-gnarly-crumbs sort of way. “Can I hold it?” I ask, hoping that, like Cinderella and her slipper, this piece of jewelry and I will have a one-of-a-kind, made-for-each-other, lightening-strike connection.

  His smile perks back up. He slips the ring over my pinkie, which I’ve extended for the trial instead of the real-deal wedding-ring finger. It’s loose, of course. And gummy. But it does have a certain subdued charm that promises: I will be there for you. Always and forever.

  Yet, it’s not enough. “It’s lovely,” I tell him, admiring the way the (big, honking!) diamond catches the rays of sun filtering through the late-autumn sky. I mull over my words, searching for a phrase that will let him down easy. “I’m just not ready to get married yet.”