Superfan

by Bowen, Sarina

  “No way, really?” I crane my neck.

  “Didn’t I just say not to look?” she hisses.

  I can only see the back of his head. I guess I can tell people that I saw Brad Pitt’s neck at dinner. “Did you order the guacamole?”

  “A double portion. What do you take me for? And I see that Mr. Muscles got a nice seat at the bar.”

  “Good for him,” I grumble, eyeing the margaritas at the next table. I suppose I could break my streak and just order one like a normal person. But Becky would eventually end up drinking it, because even though I know my phobia is irrational, I don’t feel like fighting it right now.

  So I order a bottled beer unopened. We eat too many tacos and get a little slap-happy over Becky’s crush on our waiter. It’s all the more amusing because it’s mutual. Over the course of an hour, he checks on our table thirty times.

  “Is there anything else I can bring you ladies?” he finally asks, his gazed locked on my assistant.

  “Just the check,” I say.

  “My pleasure.” He winks and turns away.

  “Those dark eyes,” Becky hisses. “So hot.”

  “He’s going to slip you his phone number,” I predict.

  “He’d better.” She sighs. “I just hope he doesn’t assume I’m someone important.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes people are nice to me because I’m sitting next to you.”

  I blink. “But there are, like, hearts in his eyes when he looks at you. I don’t think you can fake that kind of attraction.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs. “But if he has hearts in his eyes and a demo tape in his glove compartment, it will still come up.”

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t.” How depressing it is that my success complicates Becky’s life. Fame is paying for this dinner. But it has hidden costs.

  “Hey, don’t worry about me. Your bonkers life doesn’t follow me home at night. It’s worse for you. You can’t ever stop being Delilah Spark.”

  “Sure I can,” I argue as a reflex. But immediately I think of Silas. He liked me when I was just another failing musician. He liked me when I was broke and scared and had nothing to give but good conversation.

  “You’ve got that dreamy look again,” Becky says. “The Silas face.”

  “I do not,” I lie, picking up my beer bottle. But it’s already empty.

  “You so do. Did he send you a goodnight photo? What is it this time?”

  “Since you asked…” I dive into my purse and pull out my phone. Silas’s nightly photos have become the thing I most look forward to. The three-hour time difference means I’m often busy when he’s tucking himself in. So I always get a photo and a nice little note instead of a phone call.

  I open my email and there he is. Goodnight from Brooklyn reads the subject line. Becky leans in.

  “Hey,” I tease. “What if it’s a dick pic?”

  “It won’t be. He’s more romantic than that.”

  She’s right. These nightly notes are sweet and PG-rated. Usually there’s a shot of him reclining in bed—shirtless but not naked. Or of him putting a record onto the turntable I sent him, or drinking milkshakes in the kitchen with his roommates.

  Tonight’s photo is different, though. When it loads, he’s not in the shot at all. Instead, I see an attractive room with wood floors and fancy old windows set into a brick wall. There’s a view of a bridge outside and sunlight glinting off the glass.

  Hey D.

  My teammate Dave is selling his apartment, and it’s putting a lot of crazy ideas in my head. For the first time in my life I’ve got the itch to buy an apartment and figure out my life. I’m not buying it, though. There are a lot of reasons to hold off.

  But it sure would be nice. Especially if you were here with me.

  And before you remind me that I’m not allowed to make serious plans, I get it. I’m not asking you to make big sacrifices for me, and I don’t know what the future holds. But I wanted you to know how appealing it is to me to think about waking up together every morning for the rest of my life. I want us to stand beside each other in this kitchen, making toast while we’re still too sleepy to talk.

  You and I can’t make plans. But I still have goals. I’m okay with filing them under “someday.” I’m a patient man.

  Sleep tight.

  S.

  I finish reading the note with a lump in my throat. But I’m not too broken up to take another good look at that photo. I like what I see. Maybe I’m a reckless girl, but I want to stand in front of those windows and plan my weekend with Silas.

  “And I’m dead,” Becky announces. “No comment from me, because I have died.”

  Someone clears his throat. “Does that mean I can’t ask you out?” asks our ever-present waiter. “Because I totally put my phone number at the bottom of this check.”

  Becky blinks up at him. “Oh, I think I can stay alive long enough for that.”

  “Good deal.” He gives her another hot smile. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll make a date.”

  She glances down at the check to read what he’s written. “I’ll do that, Carlos. I’m Becky by the way.”

  “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Becky.” He gives her one last grin that’s full of heat and promise. Then he walks away.

  Becky lets out a happy squeak the moment he’s out of earshot. “I feel lucky tonight.”

  “Because you’re getting lucky soon.”

  “Was that way too easy?” she asks. “I should have made him work for it.”

  “Embrace the easy,” I say. “Trust me, here. Making them work for it sometimes backfires.” I have the scars to prove it.

  “Right!” Becky claps her hands. “So does that mean we’re moving to New York? I’ve always wanted to see shows on Broadway. And the pizza is really pretty great!”

  “No! That’s not what I was saying. It’s not that easy.”

  “Isn’t it? Let’s review…” She gives me an appraising glance. “You’re living in your cramped little studio right now, which is supposed to be temporary. You work for yourself and could easily wear those ratty slippers of yours in any city. Besides—think of all the miles you could put between you and Brett Ferris.”

  “He spends half his time in New York at the label.”

  “Fine.” She waves away this thought with her bright red manicure. “He’s not a factor. But somebody else is. A cute man—a nice man—wants to settle down with you. Why aren’t you asking me to find you a plane ticket?”

  “Because it’s way too soon. We can’t just move in together.”

  “Uh-huh. Aren’t you the one who spent yesterday afternoon writing a song about this? ‘Ask the universe,’ Dee. ‘Anything could happen.’”

  “You are such a pain in my ass,” I grumble. “Those are just lyrics. We all know that I’m more cynical than my music.”

  Becky frowns at me. “This is true. But it’s also fixable. There’s really no reason why you can’t make a grand gesture for Silas. You two can’t do things the ordinary way. You’re not ordinary people. You don’t lead ordinary lives.”

  I put a pile of cash inside the bill wallet. I know what Becky is trying to say. And there are some pretty extraordinary things about my life. Like getting a table at Cactus when other people are waiting months for a reservation.

  But the fact is this: on the inside I’m super ordinary. And this ordinary girl does not have the courage to up and move thousands of miles across the country to ask a man to love her. Even a man as great as Silas.

  What if it didn’t work out? I barely have roots in L.A., but I have none at all in Brooklyn.

  “Look. Time to roll.”

  My reverie is ended by Becky’s announcement that Mr. Muscles is now outside with the car. She shows me his text as proof. “Great.” I gather myself together and follow her outside. She can’t resist giving our waiter a cute little wave goodbye.

  Outside, Mr. Muscles practically vaults out of the running car in order to esc
ort me across those treacherous fifteen feet of busy Melrose sidewalk. I roll my eyes as he takes my elbow in hand.

  “Please, miss. Spare some change?” I hear the rattle of coins in a cup.

  Turning, I slow our progress. This causes my bodyguard to roll his eyes. At least we annoy each other evenly.

  The panhandler is a youngish man with long hair and a tie-dye shirt.

  And call me sexist, but I don’t usually hand cash to men who look so healthy. This one, though? He happens to have very small baby sleeping on his forearm, her tiny head cupped in his palm.

  There’s a cardboard sign propped in front of him. Just became a single parent. Wife OD’d. Need a bus ticket to South Dakota where family can help me.

  “Oh man,” Becky mutters, but I can’t tell if she’s moved by the story or just very intuitive about what will happen next.

  Mr. Muscles nudges me toward the car, and I let him tuck me inside. But already I’m searching my bag for my checkbook.

  “What if he spends it on drugs?” Becky asks, hopping into the other side. “At the very least you should write the check to Greyhound.”

  “I suppose that’s a good point. Google it?”

  “Ladies, we need to…” my bodyguard tries.

  “In a moment,” I demand in my best diva voice. Becky and I are both tapping at our phones. I’m pricing bus tickets to South Dakota.

  “I’ll be damned,” Becky says. “You can pay by personal check if you buy your ticket in person at the station.”

  “Sweet.” I’m already scribbling the fare onto the check. It’s several hundred dollars.

  I count out three twenty dollars bills and hand them to her with the check. “For food and diapers. Bus trips take days.”

  “But drugs…” she mumbles.

  “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

  “You’re too cynical to tell me I’m too young.” She gets out of the car anyway.

  I watch through the tinted glass as she hands the man the check and the cash, and explains what to do. His eyes widen. And then he puts a hand in front of his eyes, and his shoulders shake.

  So I look away, making myself very busy putting my checkbook away when she gets back in the car.

  “Okay. Well. He was very moved,” she says.

  “Good.”

  We sail away from the curb on the perfect suspension of the Mercedes I’m paying for. Nobody says anything for a few minutes.

  “Why do you do that?” Becky asks finally. “You’re super cynical. And then you give large sums of money to strangers. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Sure it does. I have an unhealthy relationship with money. When I didn’t have any, I was always embarrassed about it. And now that I have a bunch, that embarrasses me, too.”

  “That’s kind of pathological.”

  I won’t argue that point.

  We pull up at Becky’s a few minutes later. “Goodnight, honey,” she says. “Sleep well and dream of hockey players.”

  “You too, sugar. Sleep well and dream of waiters with dark, soulful eyes.”

  “He was a looker,” comes a mumble from the front seat.

  My gaze locks with Becky’s, and both of us nearly burst out laughing. Who knew Mr. Muscles had a thing for waiters? Who knew he had opinions at all?

  She gives me a little wave and leaves. The car pulls away again, and I squint at the back of my driver’s thick neck, wondering if I imagined that comment. “Mr. M, you don’t usually offer your opinion. I’m startled.”

  “Nobody wants my opinion. I gotta tell you something, though. Bad news.”

  “Okay?” And I have a bad feeling that I know what he’s going to say.

  He glances at me briefly in the rearview mirror. “We got another napkin tonight.”

  “Ugh. From where? Who says?”

  “That’s the weird thing. I’m sitting there at the bar eating the world’s most overpriced tacos. I get this text from Mr. Wilde.”

  That’s the guy who owns the security company. “And?”

  “It’s a photo of a cocktail napkin he just pulled out of an envelope. And it’s exactly like the one under my soda at the bar.”

  “From…Cactus?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chills run down the back of my neck. “But we were just there. Whoever sent it to my P.O. box would have to have sent it before tonight.”

  “Right. Yesterday at the latest. When did you make this dinner plan?”

  “Um…” I close my eyes and try to think. “Last week, I guess. Becky and I read about it in Time Out, maybe? We decided to try it. I told her to make a reservation.”

  “Do you remember where you had this conversation?”

  “Well, we were in the guitar shop. Or leaving it. But we mentioned it a few times since then. And…” My mind clicks through the possibilities. “Restaurants aren’t private. Maybe someone saw the reservation.”

  “Was it in your name?”

  “Maybe? It’s new and trendy. Becky might have dropped my name to get that table.”

  “Then we can’t do that anymore,” he says immediately.

  “So I guess I’m never eating out?”

  “Use Becky’s name.”

  “But…!” If I finish this sentence, I’m going to sound like the diva I always claim not to be. The truth, though? Sometimes it’s useful to be Delilah Spark. I don’t have to plan ahead. No restaurant will ever turn me away. “Right. Okay,” I say glumly. Those napkins freak me out. “What did this one say?”

  “‘Have a margarita with me.’”

  “I never order mixed drinks,” I point out. “See? This guy doesn’t know me.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right about that,” Mr. M says. “I really do.”

  Silas

  “I’m not usually so easily excited. But this could be a big deal,” Delilah tells me.

  “Yeah? That’s great, baby. Tell me more.” I’m walking through the lobby of the Bruisers headquarters, my phone pressed to my ear, my gym bag on my shoulder. When I push open the door, it’s like stepping into the tropics. Brooklyn in August is pretty brutal. Good thing I’m about to get on a plane to California.

  “You’re probably busy, though. I could tell you tonight.”

  She’s right, because in nine or ten hours, we’ll be together. Finally. “Tell me now. I’m walking home. Besides—tonight I’ll have other things on my mind. Rawrrrr,” I growl.

  The effect is awfully silly, and she laughs. “Okay, fine. Remember when I told you that my contract with the jerk was strange? There are loopholes that Charla is trying to exploit.”

  “Of course I remember. That’s why I named your new band.”

  “Right, smart-ass. But the Sparkle Puppies are now on a permanent hiatus. Because the other loophole is for movie soundtracks. I can write for film without breaking my contract. So that’s what my genius of a manager found me. A savagely cool film gig.”

  “What kind of film?”

  “It’s based on a true story about the first woman to fly in combat. There’s a female writer, a female director, and a female production team. It’s going to be so amazing. Charla is trying to attach me to this project. It would be six new songs. There’s no guarantee I’ll get it, though.”

  “Of course you will. They’d be lucky to snag you. Come on.” Who’s better than Delilah?

  “You are very loyal. But I have a certain sound, and if it doesn’t match their vision, then they’ll call someone else. This is going to be really high profile and they can have their pick of female recording artists.”

  “But you want this, right?” I’m already walking up Water Street, my building in view. Upstairs, I have to put a few more things in my suitcase and then call a car to the airport.

  “I do want it. Not only does it get around Brett, but I’m excited for it. And I haven’t felt jazzed up about something in so long.”

  I can hear it in her voice, too. “That is fantastic.” Come write those songs in Brooklyn. I manage
not to say that out loud, of course. But it’s on my mind as I walk up three steps to my building.

  Miguel—the concierge—holds the door. I give him a salute and march toward the elevators.

  “Now tell the truth,” Delilah says as I push the button. “Is your coach still pissed at you?”

  “Eh,” I say, unwilling to make it Delilah’s problem. “He’ll live.” Even though I’d carried through with my promise to skate for all the rookie sessions, and even though he’d already approved it, Coach Worthington still gave me a bunch of guilt over my trip to California.

  But it was only a couple of days, and the man would soon forget all about this. Nobody was more dedicated than me. I always show up and work hard.

  “I made a dinner reservation for tonight,” she says as I step into the elevator.

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “Roadie Joe’s.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “Okay. Are we going to eat at the bar for old time’s sake? Or can we sit outside?”

  “You can pick.”

  “Okay. Can’t wait. I’d better go.”

  “Bye! Don’t miss your flight.”

  “Never.”

  We hang up, and I’m smiling to myself as the elevator doors open on my floor.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I’m basically ready. All I need is a carryon, because a trip to the beach doesn’t require many clothes. All the important things fit into a small space—phone charger, bathing suit. A nice shirt to wear while I’m taking my girl out to dinner. A new box of condoms.

  One last thing needs folding. It’s a T-shirt I had made for Delilah. Okay—Heidi did the legwork to figure out where to have it printed. But it was my idea. It’s black, with a pink design on the front. Delilah and the Sparkle Puppies.

  Jason looks over my shoulder and laughs. “That came out well. I hope your girl likes it. Because my girl is a genius.”

  “Hey! I did the design myself. I drew the puppy freehand.”

  “Yeah, if this hockey thing doesn’t work out, you can be her merch guy. Have a good trip, okay? I’m going for a run. I’ll see you at practice when you get back.”

  “Thanks, man.” He lifts a hand, and we high-five.