The Corner of Bitter and Sweet

by Robin Palmer

  Spending the day with Billy? Alone? On the one hand, I had been wanting to go into the city to check out some art. Mom wasn’t a good person to go with because her way of looking at art was to walk in a quick circle around the room and then pick and choose which she could see hanging in our house. (“Don’t you think it would be so cute to have this photograph of the woman in the bathtub hanging over a bathtub?” she had once asked when we went to a show at a gallery in Venice. “Very meta.”) But on the other hand, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what the bloggers would write about Janie Jackson’s daughter hanging out with Billy Barrett if they found out.

  He scrubbed harder. “But it’s cool if you don’t want to,” he added, not looking at me. “I get it.”

  Okay, it was getting more and more difficult to think Billy Barrett was just another dickish star when he went and got all human and nervous like this. “No, I’d like that,” I said. “I mean, I’d have to ask my mom first—”

  “I already ran it by her,” he said. “She’s good with it if you are.”

  Wow. Mom hadn’t said anything during dinner. She actually let it be between him and me and didn’t insert herself into it. This was huge. I wasn’t quite sure how to react to that. “Oh. Okay then. Sounds like a plan.”

  He looked over at me, another big smile on his face. “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Awesome!” he exclaimed. “Dude, we’re gonna have a blast.”

  So this was what it was like to be optimistic all the time. As for me, I was already worried about what would happen when we ran out of things to talk about ten minutes into the drive.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THINGS MOST PEOPLE PROBABLY DON’T KNOW ABOUT BILLY BARRETT THAT I NOW DO

  Despite the fact that he’s high on the list of the richest movie stars, he likes to save money. We took the train to the city because, according to him, parking is a huge rip-off in Manhattan. And we didn’t even sit in business class, even though it was only ten bucks more.

  He hums to himself without knowing he’s doing it, which—next to whistling—is one of my biggest peeves. Also something he does.

  He says “Really? You think so?” more than anyone I know, which means the whole Zen “I just try and accept where I’m at and not compare myself to anyone else or look for outside validation, you know what I’m saying?” thing that he pulls out in interviews is more wishful thinking than reality.

  Maybe because the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan is filled with an absurd number of hot guys (which, seeing that it was ground zero for gays and galleries, made sense), but with his San Diego Chargers baseball cap and Ray-Bans, Billy blended in and wasn’t mobbed. And probably also because it was Chelsea, when he was recognized—in a few galleries, when he took his sunglasses off—there wasn’t any screaming or wailing or cell phones whipped out to snap photos. There were a lot of double takes with a moment of recognition before the New York I-don’t-care-who-you-are-I’m-cool-too-especially-because-I-work-in-an-art-gallery blank-faced expression returned.

  “Is it me, or is being snotty a skill you need to have to work at these places?” Billy whispered to me as we looked at some stuff by William Eggleston. While I’d seen some of his stuff before, Billy knew all about him and educated me not just about him, but where he stood within the context of modern photography. It was like when you went to a museum and used those headset guides, except Billy was funnier and used the phrase “’It’s, like, you know . . .” a lot. (He also owned some of his work, which, seeing that it could be found in many museums, obviously cost a lot.)

  But it wasn’t all blending in. When we were done in Chelsea, we decided to walk around the Village, and that’s when I got to witness just how insane people were about Billy. Sure, there were tons of people asking for autographs (not only did he sign them all, but he posed for pictures—including one with the owner of a Korean deli, which he said he’d add to their Wall of Fame right under Snooki from Jersey Shore). That I expected. But the girls bursting into tears at the sight of him in Starbucks? That was creepy. (“Oh man—I hate when they cry,” he said nervously as a girl who looked to be about my age began to wail.) And when we were browsing at the Strand, a bookstore that Matt had mentioned the first night we hung out, a woman who looked to be in her early thirties ran into the bathroom, came out a second later, and thrust her bra toward him.

  “Does that happen . . . a lot?” I asked as he yanked me into the Philosophy section. (“I’ve learned that this is one section where I’ll be left alone,” he explained.)

  “Not tons, thank God. But enough. Once there was a lady in, like, her sixties who did it.” He shuddered. “That’s the sense memory I use whenever I’m doing a scene that calls for me to be all creeped out.”

  He looked at the books I had collected as we browsed. How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran. Tina Fey’s Bossypants. Looking at Photographs by John Szarkowski (Billy said it was like the New Testament for people who were into photography). Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth.

  “You’re reading Philip Roth?” he asked. “Wow. I haven’t even read him yet.”

  “I didn’t mean to pick that one up,” I said, trying to grab it back from him.

  He opened the book jacket and started reading the flap. “This one’s the one that’s supposed to be pretty outrageous, right?”

  I grabbed for it again. “I just . . . I’m not going to read it. . . .” I sighed. “Matt was talking about it the other night. It’s his favorite book, so I thought I would . . .” I shook my head as I took it out of his hands and threw it on a table. “Whatever. It was a stupid idea.”

  “What’s a stupid idea?” Billy asked. “The book, or Matt in general?”

  I paused. I had been thinking it could be helpful to get a guy’s take on this stuff. And other than Matt, and the cashier at Stewart’s with whom I now had a close personal relationship because of my newfound addiction to their iced coffee, Billy was the only guy around here I knew. I guess I could’ve e-mailed Ben, but he and Alice were in Europe (a few days in London with her parents, and then a week on the Amalfi Coast in Italy to recover from the experience of being with her parents, Alice had written me in an e-mail), and I didn’t want to bother him. It used to be that I went to Ben for everything, from what to do about Mom to which was a Phillips screwdriver—the flat-head one or the pointy one?

  However, since the tu-to-vous change, while we still e-mailed and texted a bunch, he was no longer my go-to person for every little thing. Google was. Our e-mails felt more official—like letters from camp filled with descriptions about what I had done, where I had gone, what I had seen. But how I felt about what I did and where I went and what I saw—that I now left out. As for Walter, we texted or FaceTimed every day, and if it had been a question about Spider-Man or Batman or any other action figure-turned-blockbuster-movie, he was the guy, but stuff about relationships with people of the opposite sex whom you weren’t related to? Not happening. And Maya—I had spoken to her once since I left L.A. To say she was my best friend felt like a lie now. Even to say we were friends felt like a stretch.

  So it was either do some more Googling, which only confused me due to the completely opposing advice you’d get in the search results (Call him!!! Whatever you do—DON’T call him!!! Call 1-800-PSYCHIC to find out whether you should call him or wait for him to call you!); pray about it and hope I got some sort of sign (if God was as awesome as everyone in Alateen said, I didn’t understand why He/She/It couldn’t just leave a typed note under my pillow with very clear and specific directions as to what to do); or—my favorite, and the one I had the most experience with—sit on the couch and try to figure it out myself. (“I hate to tell you this,” Walter had said early on in our friendship, “but ‘figure it out’ is not one of the Twelve Steps or slogans.”)

  I shrugged. “All of it.”

  He nodded. I waited for him to say
something, but he didn’t. Radiohead’s “Creep” started to blare, and he took out his phone and tapped Decline, sending Skye to voice mail.

  “Is this one of those reverse-psychology things?” I finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, where you ask me a question, and I answer but not with, like, a real answer, and you don’t badger me because you think your not saying anything will ultimately make me talk about it,” I replied. “Because sometimes Mom does that.”

  He laughed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  My mouth opened to defend her before realizing there was nothing to defend. The truth was it totally pissed me off when she did it. But protecting my mother—making excuses for her, even for the stuff I hated—was second nature. And when I looked at Billy, I realized it wasn’t a slight, because the smile on his face was full of acceptance, the kind you have when you totally see that someone is perfectly imperfect, aka human.

  “Are you a Buddhist?” I asked. I knew from all the self-help books that were strewn around the house that the Buddhists were very big on the acceptance thing.

  “Well, not, officially,” he replied. “I mean, I’ve read some books. And the last time the Dalai Lama was in town I got to hang with him at a fund-raiser. But my ADHD makes it really tough for me to meditate. How come?”

  I shrugged. “No reason.”

  “Listen, if you want to talk about Matt, that’s cool. But I’m not going to push you into it. You’ve already got one person doing that to you. Don’t need another,” he said with a wink.

  “Good. Because I don’t. Want to talk about it, I mean.”

  “Cool,” he said, pulling his cap down and putting his Ray-Bans back on. “Let’s get out of here then.”

  That was really it? No pushing me on the issue? Just letting that be the end of the story? It was so . . . drama-less. And he was an actor. None of this made sense to me.

  “Okay, fine—I’ll talk about it,” I said a little later as we left the International Center of Photography and started walking back to Penn Station. Although I tried to stop him—saying the books he had bought me at the Strand were more than enough—he had insisted on buying me a Lomography camera in the store there.

  “About what?” he asked, confused.

  Maybe that was a sign that I shouldn’t bring it up. Sure, he was nice, and definitely a guy, but still, I liked the sitting-on-the-couch-and-figuring-it-out option better. “About . . . Matt.”

  “Ah. Right. So what’s up?”

  “What’s up is—”

  “Creep” began to blare again. The easygoing smile on his face disappeared, replaced by annoyance. “Annabelle, I’m really sorry to do this—” he started to say.

  “Not a problem,” I said. This was good. Not only was I saved from telling him about Matt, but I also got to eavesdrop on his conversation with Skye.

  He took a deep breath and pushed Answer. “What is it, Skye?” he asked gruffly. Even though he had turned his head away from me, I could still hear her shrill voice coming through the phone. “No, my not answering your calls is not my way of passively-aggressively breaking up with you,” he hissed. “Because we’re already broken up.” She started in on him again. While I couldn’t make out what she was saying, I could hear the hostile machine gun–like rat-a-tat-tat of the words. “What photos of you at Soho House?” Rat-a-tat-tat. “I didn’t see them.” More. “Because, Skye, unlike you, who is addicted to that garbage, I don’t spend my time surfing stupid gossip blogs so I can read about myself.”

  The rat-a-tat was replaced by a sonic boom. “Listen, feel free to make out with whoever you want. I don’t care.” Back to the rat-a-tat-tat. “I’m not saying that to compensate for my guilt because I’m making out with Janie. Because I’m not making out with her.” He looked at me. “Sorry,” he whispered. “What? I said ‘sorry.’” More. “No, not to you—why I would say sorry to you?” More. “I’m not with Janie—I’m with . . . you know what? It’s none of your freaking business who I’m with!” Kaboom. “Skye? Thanks for the update on how you’re moved on. That’s great. I’m happy for you.” More. “And I think that’s fantastic that this is the last call you’ll be making to me. So maybe, this time, unlike the seventeen others over the last week, it actually will be.” More. “Okay, I’m hanging up, Skye. Hanging up.” More babbling. “Seriously, Skye, this is me hanging up. Okay. Whatever. Good-bye.”

  After he clicked End, he turned the Power button off and shoved the phone in his pocket and shook his head. “That’s what I get for drinking tequila that night I met her,” he sighed. “Hey, when you’re twenty-one and start drinking? Do yourself a favor and steer clear of that stuff. It’ll save you a whole lot of trouble.”

  “So are you guys really broken up?” I asked. “Or just, you know . . .”

  “Yes, we’re broken up!” he cried. “Did you not hear me? Why would you think differently?”

  I shrugged. “Because in the Hollywood Yearbook edition he did a few weeks ago, SimonSez voted you guys Most Likely to Break Up and Get Back Together by Lunch.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well, that was before.” He looked at the inside of his left arm and began to scratch at little red blotches that were popping up. “Things are different now,” he said firmly.

  Before what? Before meeting Mom? And why were they now different? Because that smile that came over his face when he talked about Mom actually meant he really liked her? And even though she was crazy, she wasn’t nearly as nuts as Skye? And exactly how long would I obsess over that after I got home? And what kind of list could I make to help with the anxiety about what would happen if I was right?

  He scratched harder. “Great. She gave me hives. I get them when I’m stressed.”

  And who would believe that Billy Barrett ever got stressed? That was something that, you know, human beings had to deal with. Not megastars.

  We walked for a bit without saying anything before he whipped out his phone. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered as he turned it on and waited for it to boot up. Soon, the screen was filled with a photo of Skye and a guy who, although he wasn’t as cute as Channing Tatum, definitely had as awesome a body. And they were indeed canoodling. He turned it off again and shoved it back in his pocket. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said firmly. “Back to what we were talking about . . .” Maybe he’d forget. “. . . Matt.”

  Busted. I shrugged. “That’s the thing—there really isn’t anything to tell. I don’t think he likes me. You know—in a canoodling way.”

  He snorted. “‘Canoodling’ meaning can’t keep your hands off someone in a public place?” He shook his head. “She knows that Soho House is like my living room! He took a deep breath. “But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about you. And I’m here to tell you that Matt likes you.”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged. “Because I saw the way he was looking at you that night at the restaurant.”

  “How was he looking at me?”

  “Like he liked you!”

  Why did I think this was going to be a long conversation? “Okay, I don’t know what that means,” I said. “Plus, he’s not acting like he does. That whole thing at the house, and Mom inviting him . . .”

  “You mean he hasn’t tried to kiss you?”

  I felt my cheeks turn red. Way to cut to the chase. “I didn’t say that.” I looked over at Billy, whose eyebrows were raised. “Okay, fine. You’re right.”

  He shook his head. “He’s not going to kiss you for a while.”

  “How come?”

  He shrugged. “You’re either going to have to make the first move,” he said, “or you’re going to have to make it really, really clear to him that you like him.”

  “What? Why?!”

  “Because it’s obvious that he’
s the nerdy, sensitive type—which, before you get all mad at me for saying that, I’ll have you know is the number one growing type at the box office, according to my agent,” he replied. “And you’re intimidating.”

  “I am so not intimidating!” I cried.

  “You are.”

  “How?!”

  “Because you’re strong and smart and funny and gorgeous.”

  It was never easy for me to accept compliments (“Bug, yeah, but is not an okay response when someone compliments you,” Mom was always chastising me. “Thank you is.”). But at that moment, coming from Billy, it made me feel physically ill.

  He stopped walking. “Is that weird that I just said you’re gorgeous?” he asked, worried. “Because I didn’t mean to, you know . . . I mean, you are, but I’m not, you know . . .”

  I waved him off. “I know. I get it.” I knew that Billy Barrett wasn’t interested in me. He was interested in my mother. And although he had never been my type to begin with, because he wasn’t a sensitive nerd, as I got to know him and discovered he was kind of sweet, and very human, it made him even less hot, if that was mathematically possible. Talking to him is like talking to an older brother, I thought. I cringed. That wasn’t a good image, because of my mom. A neighbor. He was like . . . a neighbor.

  “Look, I know you’ve had a lot to deal with over the years,” he continued.

  I felt my back go up. Exactly how much had Mom told him about what things had been like? I didn’t need Billy Barrett feeling sorry for me.

  “And I get how that would make it hard to let your guard down and trust people. But sometimes that whole protection thing . . . it can come off, like, I don’t know . . . that you’re not interested. . . . you know what I’m saying?”