Say Never

by Thomas, Janis

  I feel a seizure coming on. “You what?”

  “I did a little covert reconnaissance. I used to be an investigative reporter, you know.”

  A million years ago, he was. Got kicked out of the White House for heckling George W’s chief of staff during a press conference, or so the story goes. I push the thought aside and focus on his voice.

  “You should have talked to me, Meg. You should have let me know you were unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy, Gordon. You have to believe me.” I count to ten in my head while trying to suck in oxygen. Spots appear before my eyes and I grab the side-view mirror with my free hand to steady myself. My mind is reeling as I try to process what Gordon is saying. He knows about KTOC. How did this happen? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is doing damage control.

  “I came out here to take care of my nieces and nephew,” I say in a rush. “That’s the truth. But KTOC wanted to talk to me, and I figured if they made an offer, I could use it as leverage to get a better contract with you.”

  Gordon is quiet on the other end of the line. The seconds tick by.

  “I just don’t know what to say, Meg. I gave you your shot, here, remember? I fought for you. And now you’ve gone behind my back with all of these shenanigans. What am I supposed to think? Barry is a total asshole, but at least he’s honest about being an asshole.”

  “Look, Gordon, he started this whole thing because he wants the show to himself. He can’t control me. He wants a co-host who’ll do what he says. That’s what this is about.”

  “Meg, Barry didn’t tell me anything. It was Damien.”

  All of the breath whooshes out of my body as though I’ve been punched in the gut by Muhammad Ali. Damien. My only true friend in New York, or so I thought. My East Coast brother. We spend holidays together, drink pitchers of margaritas every week and gossip about everything from work affairs to who should get voted off the island. He’s held my head when I’ve puked into the toilet and slept in my bed with me when it was too late to call a cab. He even has keys to my apartment.

  Son-of-an f-ing-bitch.

  “And it wasn’t just me he told. Damien went all the way to Rod the Wad.” The station owner. I am officially screwed.

  “Okay, Gordon, listen. Don’t replace me.”

  “You’ll be back in time for Monday’s show? I gotta tell you, Meg. That’s the only way to reverse this situation. That and some serious groveling to the powers-that-be. Otherwise, it’s out of my hands.”

  “I understand.”

  I hang up and lean against the hood of the Camaro. Even though it’s 12:32, I take a minute to calm myself down. Damien has betrayed me. The last six years of devoting all of my time and energy and blood and sweat into my job are in the crapper because of him. How could I have been so freaking blind?

  On shaky legs, I walk down the sidewalk to the entrance of the café, smoothing the fabric of my Theory ensemble as I go. I know I should shut down this whole KTOC thing. I should apologize to Eileen Buchanan for wasting her time, then go back to Danny’s and spend the afternoon figuring out how to save my job. But I’m here now. I might as well have lunch. And a couple of glasses of wine.

  The outside tables are empty, but the interior of the café is jammed. The dining room has seating for about sixty, both tables and booths, all of which are occupied. Patrons eat and drink and chat beneath streamers made of fake autumn leaves sprayed with shimmer dust. A lone pilgrim hat lays at the end of the service bar beside a bowl of gourds, and the servers have to carefully reach beyond the decorations in order to get their drinks from the bartender.

  I wait at the host stand and scan the dining area for a woman seated alone. A lithe young hostess wearing black Lycra from her chest to her upper thighs bounces over to me with a vacuous smile on her face.

  “Hi there! One for lunch?”

  “I’m meeting someone,” I tell her. “Eileen Buchanan?”

  She peers down at her reservation book and furrows her brow. “Buchanan. No, um, no.”

  Again, I peer around the cafe. In the far corner, a man gains his feet and looks in my direction. He waves at me and my whole body spasms with surprise.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  Of all the people on the entire face of the planet, I never expected to see him here today. At this moment, I wish more than anything I were standing on the top of the Empire State Building. So I could jump.

  “Hi, Meg.” The man has made his way over to the host stand. He puts his hand out and smiles at me.

  “Hi, Brian,” I say to my ex-husband. I take his hand and he draws me in for an impromptu hug. I don’t participate in the hug but I don’t shrink away from him either. I just stand limply as he presses his cheek to mine.

  He pulls away and gazes at me, still smiling warmly.

  “You look wonderful.”

  I can’t imagine that’s true, since I feel like vomiting. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask dully.

  He waggles his eyebrows a couple of times. “I’m the station manager at KTOC,” he says.

  “I thought Eileen Buchanan was the station manager.”

  “She’s the director of programming. She works for me.”

  He withdraws a business card from his pocket and places it in my hand. I don’t look at it. I’m too busy staring incredulously at him.

  I haven’t seen Brian Hannigan for fifteen years, but he is still dazzling. In fact, with his greying sideburns and the fine laugh lines around his green eyes, he is even more attractive than he was in his twenties. His sudden appearance in this café blindsides me, and for a brief few seconds, I am hurled back to my younger self. I was still me, although perhaps somewhat more optimistic about life’s possibilities, as I purposely strode through the halls of KNLJ in San Francisco, notepad in hand, swooning over the hot assistant producer every time I passed his desk. When the rush of memories recedes, I find myself hating Brian for the reminder of twenty-two year-old Meg Monroe.

  He gestures to the back booth and I notice the gold band on his left ring finger. My throat tightens.

  “Why don’t we sit down and order some wine,” he suggests.

  Wine? How about a triple vodka instead?

  My body is numb and my mind is a cauldron of conflicting thoughts as I pocket his card and follow him to the table. I lower myself onto the banquette and slide my purse to the seat beside me. He picks up the wine list and I take the opportunity to compose myself.

  Nobody takes Meg Monroe by surprise, not even her cheating louse of an ex-husband. I repeat this mantra in my head over and over again until he sets the wine list down.

  “I didn’t know you were down here,” I say, trying to sound bored. “I thought you hated So Cal.”

  “No, you hated So Cal.” He grins. “I was always quite fond of the weather. Remember that trip we took down the coast to see your family?”

  I screw up my face, feigning ignorance. But of course I remember. We spent a total of three hours with Buddy and Danny and the rest of the time in bed at the Newport Marriot.

  “Vaguely,” I say.

  “You remember.” He grins knowingly. “Mr. Perfection? Does that name ring any bells?”

  I feel myself blush at the mention of the sex toy we purchased for the trip.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about and I’m not really in the mood to go down memory lane with you, Brian.”

  “What’s the harm? It’s been what, thirteen years?”

  “Fifteen,” I say.

  “Fifteen,” he agrees. A tall waitress who looks like a stick figure in her black Lycra uniform wanders over and leans in to Brian gratuitously, batting her fake eyelashes at him even though he’s old enough to be her father. He points at an item on the wine list, she smiles at him, and sashays over to the bar.

  “I’ve been here six years. I was at 97.1 and oversaw Frosty, Heidi and Frank, Tom Leykis, Sam Rubin. Then I moved to KLOS, the Mark and Brian Show. I was with NPR for a few months, but
that didn’t work out. Too structured. KTOC came after me about a year ago. Love it there. It’s a real family.”

  I think of Damien and violently snap my napkin into my lap. “Congratulations,” I say through clenched teeth. “Seriously, Brian, what gives? I thought I was meeting with Eileen Buchanan, and here you are looking all smug and pleased with yourself for getting over on me.”

  “Do I seem smug?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised by my comment. “I don’t feel smug. I feel glad to see you. It’s been a long time, Meg.”

  I put up my hand in protest. “You’re not going to get all mushy and sentimental on me, are you? The demise of our relationship doesn’t warrant it.”

  “Our demise was terrible. It took a long time for me to get over it.”

  “Give me a break, Brian. Our demise was your fault!”

  “I know you believe that—”

  “Because it’s the truth. You cheated on me!”

  “I’m not saying what I did wasn’t wrong. But honestly, I cheated on you because I wasn’t getting what I needed from our relationship.”

  “Oh, God, really? That is such a cliché.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. As soon as the honeymoon was over, you pushed me aside. For your precious damned career.”

  “Like your career meant nothing to you? Please!”

  “Yes, Meg, it meant a lot. But you meant more.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Other patrons in the café turn and look at us and I realize I’m shouting. I slap my hand over my mouth and glare at him.

  “I didn’t want to get into this, Meg,” Brain says quietly.

  “Then why the hell are you here?”

  “To offer you a job.”

  “Right. Like I would ever take a job with you, let alone in this ridiculous and totally inane part of the country. I was only using your station for leverage.”

  “I know that,” he says. “You have a good thing in New York. But you could have an even better thing out here.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not moving.”

  “Just listen to the offer.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “We’re trying to compete with Heidi and Frank and NPR in the mornings.”

  “Are you stupid or just deaf?”

  “It would be your show. Yours alone. You would have prime morning real estate. Five to ten AM. Drive time. You’d have total freedom to do what you do best, which is slay listeners and lampoon guests. You’ll get great guests out here, too, because everybody in LA wants publicity, even if it means bending over for it. We’d love it if you would do a snarky Hollywood report, maybe every Friday—Entertainment Tonight kind of stuff, or movie reviews, or both.”

  I shake my head, but I’m listening closely. What Brian is talking about is exactly the kind of show I’ve wanted to do forever.

  “Plus, you’d get to go out in the field and do your show from various locations, as often as you want. Twice a month, once a week. You can take a whole week in Vegas, do the show from there, Atlantic City, Austin. Wherever something’s happening. We’ll set it up.”

  “Just stop, Brian. What is this about? Why are you offering me this?”

  “Because you’re good, Meg. Right now, you and Barry are number six. You should be number one. Or at least number two. I download your podcast and listen to it every night. Drive my wife crazy laughing at your shit. Barry’s a nitwit, but you’ve got the goods. It would play even better out here. Meg Monroe, the jaded New Yorker. Your listeners at WTLC are all jaded New Yorkers. These southern California schmucks would go nuts for you.”

  He leans back in his chair and regards me for a moment. I clutch my napkin tightly and meet his eyes.

  “Your wife, huh? How long have you been married?” Not that I care. Really, I don’t.

  “Eight years. You’d like her. She has a twisted sense of humor.”

  “Kids?”

  He nods. “Two.”

  “Wow. I didn’t think you wanted kids.”

  “I lied because I knew you didn’t want kids. That’s how much I wanted to be with you. You were amazing. You still are, from what I can see.”

  Oh, God. I need Dr. Rabinowitz. Now.

  “I’m just me,” I say. “The amazing part is debatable.”

  “I missed you. For a long time. And I’m sorry for hurting you the way I did.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and sigh. Yes, he hurt me, and he humiliated me. But what he said moments ago rings true, much as I hate to admit it. After we got married, I did push him away. As head-over-heels in lust or in like or whatever I was with him, deep down, I must have known we would fail—I would fail. Pushing him away was my subconscious attempt at fulfilling my own prophecy and my mother’s legacy.

  “We were both young, Brian. I shouldn’t have married you in the first place. I should have known better. Domestic life wasn’t in the cards for me. I’m just like my mother. I shouldn’t have dragged you down trying to prove I wasn’t.”

  “I don’t regret it,” he says solemnly.

  “Sure you do. And so do I. But, oh well.” I shrug.

  “I don’t think you’re like your mother, Meg.”

  “What do you know about it, jerk?”

  He chuckles softly. “Just what I got from you. But I think you’re wrong. I think you’ve always been wrong about it. Maybe you’re not like your mother. Maybe you’re just afraid of being like you’re mother.”

  I mull this over for about two-point-five seconds before dismissing it out of hand. I never thought I was like Melanie until Buddy told me I was. And he knew her better than anyone. And P.S.—she was long dead before Brian came into my life, therefore he’s full of bullshit.

  “So, station manager, huh? I thought you wanted to go all the way to 60 Minutes.”

  He chuckles. “I did. But, you know, life sometimes changes our goals.”

  Does it? I wonder. Maybe it does if we allow it to, but I never did. I always charged ahead with my eyes on the prize, never letting anyone or anything stand in my way. Which, I see now, is why Brian left me. And why I have no boyfriend or any strong personal relationships and why my closest friend in the world is a lying, backstabbing son-of-a-bitch.

  “Will you think about my offer?” he asks and I shake my head no. He shrugs good-naturedly. “Okay, then. Let’s order lunch.”

  As I reach for the menu, my cell phone rings. I rummage through my purse for it, then answer just before it goes to voicemail.

  “Meg Monroe.”

  I listen to the urgent voice on the other end of the line, and my heart starts pounding in my chest. I grab my purse and leap out of the booth and nearly trip over the leg of Brian’s chair. He reaches out to steady me, wrapping his hand around my wrist, and this single, casual point of contact makes me think of Matt Ryan. I banish Matt’s image before it can take hold of me and concentrate on the voice in my ear.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say, then disconnect the call and look down into Brian’s worried, handsome face. “I’m sorry. I have to go,” I tell him. Then without another word, I race through the café and out to the street.

  * * *

  “Danny, it’s Meg. Where the hell are you and why aren’t you answering your phone? Call me when you get this.” I’m talking into my phone while speeding down PCH, heedless of the fact that I could get busted for not having a hands-free device. I disconnect and redial, but again, the call goes straight to voicemail.

  “Shit shit shit!”

  I lay the phone down in my lap, praying that Danny will call me back. My thoughts race and I feel sick to my stomach. With the windows down, my hair flaps in the breeze, ruining the blowout I gave myself this morning. I couldn’t care less.

  I make it to West Coast Memorial in twelve minutes and pull into the line for valet. I toss the keys to an attendant and, seeing my panic, he hurriedly tears off a ticket and hands it to me as I run past. I practically collide with the glass partition o
f the ER.

  “McKenna Monroe,” I bark at the bespectacled grey-haired woman behind the glass. She wrinkles her powdered nose and gives me a curt head-shake to silence me. Then she returns to her phone conversation.

  “Yes, just let me look that up for you, doctor…”

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but there’s a five-year-old back there bleeding from a gaping wound in her chin who needs to be stitched up, and if you don’t get me back there right now so I can sign whatever paperwork needs to be signed, I’m going to take you to civil court for impeding the treatment of a minor and causing emotional and physical distress to her person. And that’s if she doesn’t suffer complications from delay of wound care like gangrene or MRSA or a flesh-eating bacteria!” I’m talking out of my ass, but the receptionist immediately sets the phone down and types into her computer.

  “McKenna Monroe,” she says, eyeing me worriedly. “Curtain Three. I’ll buzz you in.”

  I hear the electronic lock of the ER door disengage and I barrel through.

  “Curtain three!” I yell at a young nurse walking toward me. She points to her left.

  I hear McKenna’s wails from ten feet away and I stop cold. I do not want to go behind that curtain, would rather jump into a pit of poisonous snakes. But I know I must. I must. McKenna gives an earsplitting cry and I cringe, every corpuscle in my being screaming at me to turn around and run in the opposite direction. Danny will be here soon. Danny can take care of this.

  Danny has no idea what’s going on, Meg. He’s on the freaking Queen Mary or swimming with sharks at the Aquarium. Get the hell in there NOW!

  I force myself to move forward, although my legs feel like lead. I reach curtain three, pull the rough fabric aside and peer in.

  When I was a kid, I loved horror movies. Nowadays, I watch things like Dexter and The Following and The Walking Dead, so I really should be inured to gore. But seeing my niece on that hospital gurney with a wide swath of wet blood soaking into her orange and yellow shirt, fresh blood gushing out of a three inch hole in her chin that looks very much like a second mouth made of raw meat, flailing and screeching while two nurses try to hold her down is by far the most horrific thing I’ve ever witnessed. Even after living in New York for fifteen years.