Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  Even if I don’t win this competition, I will still have a home.

  FIFTY-SIX

  From:Jacqueline Collins Steele, MD, FACS

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: Your latest lab results, etc.

  From the Desk of Jacqueline Collins Steele, MD, FACS

  Hi, Dani,

  Before we get into your bloodwork, I have to say again, I am so glad your diary is off the Web. Because I’m now a medical doctor and established in my practice, it does not make me look very good for the world to know about that SAT incident. You know I suffer from debilitating test anxiety, and Adderall was the only thing that saved me in college and medical school. Plus, this might come as a shock to you, but some of my patients actually READ that entry—how could they not, after I involuntarily sent them an email with a direct link to the blog?—and I had to tell them that you are an actress and it was all in the name of comedy. HONESTLY, Danielle.

  If I’d known snooping into your stupid diary all those years ago was going to lead to this mayhem . . . I’m almost afraid to email you now, in case that hacker person comes back around and publishes all your emails next! Have you even thought about that? What security do you have in place? Maybe you should talk to Samuel about what he can do through his law firm. One of my patients is a cybersecurity expert—I could connect you two. He’s done very well for himself, which is why he’s one of my patients. Even computer geeks love Botox.

  Second, thank you so much for the help moving Jake’s stuff into the Man Cave—I’m so glad it’s finally done so maybe we can finally talk about something else—and for washing my car while I was seeing patients (you even put my favorite strawberry air freshener in—thank you!), and for baking so many loaves of your amazing banana bread. The staff nearly clawed one another to death over it. You did not have to do all that, even though I know you’re sucking up to us because we’re your beloved sisters and you can’t live without us, so I want you to know I appreciate your efforts.

  Finally, I got your lab work back. Thanks for agreeing to be my guinea pig—I was very interested to see how your numbers would change over these few months with the significant lifestyle changes you’ve made. And with these terrific results, I can now brag about my baby sister being such an inspiration! Your LDL cholesterol is way down, the HDL (or “good” cholesterol) is good, and your iron has stabilized. And your weight too—you’re far below the BMI you were at previously.

  You have done a remarkable job, Dani. I am very proud of you.

  I have patients waiting, but I talked to Georgie about Mommy’s convention thing. We’ve arranged for one of her other UFO buddies, a gentleman her age named Hubert, to do the driving with the offer we’d pay for his gas and lodging. Mommy says they’re just friends, but it would be great if she would find someone else to pester instead of it always being us.

  Jake was asking after Marco’s hand. How is it looking? Did he ever see his family doctor? You can tell me to the moon and back that you’re “just friends,” but Jake said Marco looks at you like someone who wants to be “friends with benefits.” DON’T BLOW IT, Dani. You’re not getting any younger.

  Did Georgie tell you we’re coming to the event to cheer you on? Do you have any more of those Team Dani T-shirts? If you can secure two for us, call my secretary. Otherwise I will have her whip something together so we can show our support.

  Your loving sister,

  Jacqueline Steele, MD, FACS

  Board Certified, American Board of Cosmetic Surgeons

  P.S. I got your voicemail about Dr. Greenberg—I am SO PROUD OF YOU for finally making an appointment. Really, Dani. And don’t argue with me—I’m going to pay for your visits until you get a job. YES. Don’t argue. This is really important, little sis. OKAY? Good. Glad that’s settled.

  I know that Gerald Robert Steele’s sudden departure from our lives hit you the hardest—but I think talking to Dr. Greenberg on a regular basis is going to be a very positive step forward. She’s so kind—I’ve known her since college. This is going to be great.

  Talk therapy works wonders, Dani Beth. Lord knows I’ve bought my therapist a cottage in Cannon Beach with all the talking I’ve done over the years.

  Again, thank you for listening to your big sister . . . for once. I do love you.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “Danielle Steele! Janice here. I just got off the phone with Davina, and she said you’re in? This is awesome!" [hoots into the phone] "Before we pop the champagne, though, there are some things we need to go over in terms of writing up the contract—I think Davina talked to you about optioning the rights? You’ll need to talk to your family for permissions, but I think we should specify that they change your names. This might make your sisters more willing to sign off on the whole thing.

  “I also will stipulate that you have final say over the production draft so that they’re not using stuff you absolutely don’t want the world to see—and Davina is open to employing some artistic license, which I think is smart. That will add another layer of distance so that it’s not completely biographical.

  “I’ve sent down your reel for Davina and Jayda—I told her you’re absolutely interested in auditioning and that we will work out the logistics if they think you’d be a good fit for their vision. Which is silly, duh—it’s your life they’re putting onstage!

  “As soon as we have a contract hammered out, they’re going to need copies of the blog entries that you took down so they can get started writing—I know the blog’s off the Web, so we can email the entries to Dav. I know that blog thing was awful, but it’s gonna open up doors for you, kid. This would be so much easier if you’d just answer your phone, but I know, you’re probably on a treadmill right now—or maybe you’re nekked with a hot trainer? Anything I should know?

  “Oh—my god, I almost forgot the next greatest reason for my call—I got you an audition for a tampon commercial, Danielle! Can you believe it? Start interviewing pool boys, baby! It’s a national ad, and the casting director, Natasha—you remember her? Yeah, she read your blog—she was the one who auditioned you for the all-natural shampoo when that baby crapped all over you? Same company, only this time for tampies, so no pooping babies! She wants to see you first thing tomorrow, so get off the treadmill and/or your trainer and call me. Byeeeee!”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  August 6, 2016

  Dear Dwayne Johnson,

  It’s two o’clock in the morning. I cannot sleep. For a million different reasons. Should I list them? Lists are supposed to be calming. I read that on Facebook the other day. Maybe this list will be so long I’ll fall asleep in a puddle of drool atop my journal with this baby cat sitting on my head. I think she got so used to sleeping in Howie’s beard that she’s not happy unless she’s tangled in my hair.

  REASONS I CANNOT SLEEP

  1. I have to be at the competition location at Delta Park in T minus five hours. This means YOU WILL ALSO BE AT THE LOCATION WITHIN THE NEXT X NUMBER OF HOURS. GAHHHH, YOU ARE IN PORTLAND!!! We’re breathing the same hops-infused, pollen-saturated air! What am I going to say to you if I win, and I end up on the stage standing next to you when I’m covered in grime and stinking to high heaven? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO TALK ABOUT? Oh god, please don’t say we’re going to talk about me getting a better brand of deodorant.

  2. Actually, #1 basically sums up why I can’t sleep. Bionic Barbie and a ton of other real athletes are going to be there. Am I nuts? I can do this . . . right? I’m down 26 lb., I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, AND I have very cute activewear that I’ve been saving just for this event. (You’ll be glad to know I’ve gotten so much better at putting on sports bras.) Still, I’m absolutely terrified. What if I fall flat on my face? What if I break a bone? Hey—wait—that could work to my advantage. I break a bone, you come and rescue me, you hold my hand while the EMS guys wrap said broken bone to stabilize for transport, you feel so enamored by my charms that you w
ipe away my tears and ride along in the ambulance with me, we become best friends before the cast is applied to my injured appendage, you offer me a role in your upcoming film with WAY more lines than the role Bionic Barbie is probably going to win after she finishes in the top four. Although you know what would be even COOLER? If you brought a ukulele and we could sing a diss duet like you do at the WWE events. I could write us a ditty—a song about Bionic Barbie and how silicone implants don’t make you bionic and perfect skin is so yesterday and how she probably kicks puppies and wears real-fur coats . . . THIS PLAN COULD WORK, DJ. Think it over.

  3. Miraculously Beautiful Marco: I feel like I can’t take a deep breath unless he’s in the same room. He’s been a little distant since I talked about maybe moving back to LA at some point . . . Do I just come out with it? Thomas the Singing Barista says I should tackle him on the bench press and tell him I can’t live another day without him. He also suggested I do so while singing “Seize the Day” from Newsies. Luckily for Marco, I’m not a singer. And he bench-presses more than my body weight, so this sounds dangerous. But come on, he has to be into me—he’s done so much in these last four months. Plus, I watch him with his other clients, and the way he treats me . . . it’s different. But good different, the best kind of different. Maybe he’s afraid. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t made a move. Maybe he’s worried that if we fall in love, I’ll give up on my dreams so I can stay here with him (he knows the stories about me giving up stuff for my family), but then one day, twenty years down the road, I’ll wake up and resent him for it and he KNOWS that, so he’s trying to be quiet. Or maybe it’s just because I’m reading way too much into this, and I am, in fact, a daft idiot.

  4. Viv called. THEY’RE HAVING A BABY BOY!!!! And she’s bringing her pregnant belly and the MotherCluckers to the event this weekend. (When I took in the chocolate-with-buttercream-frosting apology cake and apologized to their faces, the Cluckers agreed to closet their spears.) I’m so excited to see everybody. Viv even promised to bring “healthy” cupcakes for after the race—I told her as long as they’re not made with kale . . .

  5. Remember when Agent Superman mentioned cached pages? Yeah. Those exist. A few have popped up—people somehow are still emailing me about the blog entries! But now that I have control of the URL, I’ve started putting together my own website with bits and pieces of stuff I’ve learned in the last four months, everything from the best brands of activewear for fluffier body types (me!), sports bras that won’t maim you, how to work out when you’re fighting with your uterus (seriously, we women have to be careful so that we don’t leave a crime scene behind on the stationary bike), recipes from my gym buddies (including Limping Lady’s INCREDIBLE high-protein cookies), the supplement and protein knowledge that Minotaur has schooled me in, and of course, all the stuff I’ve learned from Trish with Muscles and Miraculously Beautiful Marco about weight training and cardiovascular workouts—and YES, trivia and anecdotes about YOU. You’re like the original motivational poster.

  Even if I don’t get to meet you tomorrow, thank you for being the man my father never was, and the man my boyfriends never are.

  See you tomorrow, DJ.

  Love,

  Danielle Ain’t-No-Candy-Ass-Comin’-to-KICK-Ass-Instead Steele

  FIFTY-NINE

  “I think I’m going to barf.”

  “Barf later. Concentrate now.” Marco is in full Trainer Mode. We’ve signed in, I have my number safety-pinned onto my new tank top, matched with these adorable black compression-fit capris with little bulls all over them (The Rock’s trademark is a bull), and now we’re walking around the course’s edge. I’m trying to listen to every scrap of advice Marco is offering about jumping high and climbing low and not expending energy making things more difficult than they already are, but it’s hard to hear above the dull roar of terror in my ears . . .

  A ton of other competitors had the same idea we did—show up early, scope out the course, size up the competition. High ponytails, messy buns, newly shorn heads, activewear from every major brand, water bottles filled with energy drinks and smoothies of all shades, lots of bouncing and stretching and pep-talking and course-assessing.

  “No, I seriously think I’m gonna hurl—”

  Marco grabs my chin and forces me to look right into his face. “If I did not vomit when I had to give a speech in front of Prince Charles and his not-yet-wife Camilla on our school’s pro-environmental and organic community gardening initiatives, then you will not vomit in front of all these people who are just as freaked out as you are. Now, take a deep breath and pull yourself together.”

  As usual, Marco’s right. I need to suck it up. The Rock would be disgusted if he saw me over here whimpering like a toddler. Oh god, he’s not in a trailer somewhere watching us, is he? Is he in his trailer making awesome Instagram videos without me?

  My resolve steadies as Marco runs me through a few easy drills and some basic stretches to make sure I don’t pull anything, forces me to drink one of several bottles of amino acid–infused water so I don’t dehydrate given the rising temperatures (of course, this means I must wait in line for one of the four outdoor Porta-Potties, twice. Wrestling up elastane pants in a poop-filled box hardly bigger than a broom closet without tipping the whole stinky thing over . . .).

  And then I see her. Bionic Barbie, pinning her newly acquired number to the tank top that reveals toned, tanned arms I would kill for. The man with her is model handsome, as are the twin towheaded boys running about their impossibly tall parents. How she and I were EVER in the same audition waiting room at the same time, I will never know. She must’ve been there auditioning for a completely different project—probably something involving the next generation of genetically modified human beings. If she’d auditioned with baby Hazel, I think even that seven-month-old would’ve taken one look at Bionic Barbie and said, Nope, can’t poo on this perfect lady or I won’t get into heaven.

  “Danielle . . . don’t.” Marco turns me around so I’m facing away from the arrivals area. “I see the wheels turning. You cannot let these other people get into your head. Remember, The Rock is your hero. No one else’s. Yours.”

  “Yeah. Right. Mine. Okay.”

  “Who’s the hardest worker in the room?”

  I smile. “Me.”

  Marco throws his head back and then cups his hand around his ear. “I’m sorry, are you a mouse? Because that sounds like the voice of a wee little mouse. Me, says the wee little mouse. I’ll ask you again: Who is the hardest worker in the room?”

  “Me!”

  “Eh?”

  “Meeeeee!” I yell, attracting curious looks from folks nearby. Doesn’t matter. The ensuing laughter and high fives are exactly what I need to stop staring at Bionic Barbie’s perfection and focus on my own badassery.

  “No time for doubts. Doubts are for cat tattoos and dubious marriages. You are a warrior,” Marco says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me against him and kisses the side of my head, I almost burn up from all the hope sparklers in my chest. Almost.

  But not quite, because through the crowd I hear my name—the entire Hollywood Fitness crew is here, and they’re outfitted in their Team Dani shirts, and Viv and her beautiful little tummy and her husband, Ben, and the MotherCluckers—Charlene and Shelly and Simone and the ever-elegant Lydia—and they’ve brought one of those magical pink pastry boxes full of cupcakes, “but for after the race, even if you don’t win.” Thomas the Singing Barista lifts me off the ground in a spinny hug and belts out a few lines from “My Shot” from Hamilton. Jackie and Dr. Jake and Georgie are here, wearing Team Dani T-shirts, and Georgie’s little ones all have their own Team Dani T-shirts, even baby William Morris, and I scoop up Mary May and smooch her gorgeous cheeks, already flushed from the sun, and then little Dante shows me the picture he drew of me standing with who I assume is The Rock, and in that moment, he doesn’t look like a future serial killer at all.

  I honestly cannot believe it.
The achy-lump-teary-eyeballs thing reasserts itself as I scan their smiling faces. Dumb emotions. Even after all those embarrassing secrets were pasted across the Internet walls for the world to see, my people still came out for me.

  Pretty soon we’re all bouncing around in a big, rowdy circle, chanting Daaaa-ni, Daaaa-ni, and I’m chanting too, even though it’s my name, because these are my people, and with all this support and energy, I am going to dominate on that course.

  When our chant dies down and hellos and good lucks and small talk are exchanged, the mic on the huge stage crackles to life, and volunteers in black T-shirts and tanks that read ROCK THE TOTS start urging people to their respective spots: spectators toward the bleachers set up on the east side of the course, competitors and one support person per participant toward the holding area where we’ll be divided into our appropriate divisions.

  My cheering section hugs me and Marco, and then hurries off to find seats while a young woman in a pencil skirt and heels, apparently the head organizer, launches into her spiel, detailing how the Greater Portland community has always been so supportive of their fund-raising events in the past but how this year’s campaign has exploded beyond even their wildest expectations, as there are people from twenty-one states and six other countries participating. She sounds like she’s recently had a nose job and then followed it up by taking a hit from a helium tank. But then she mentions The Rock’s name, and everyone within a two-mile radius loses their shit. Yes, Portlanders are passionate about their causes, but The Rock’s magnetic pull continues to expand, given the demographic spread of contestants on the field today. It’s awesome.

  And when he bounds onto the stage, all six feet five, 252 pounds of beautiful brown, muscled god, my knees weaken. I freeze, earning the growl of the competitors behind us who are moving toward the area behind the massive stage, but I can’t move.

  He’s here. He’s right there.