Call Me! (21 page)

I gun the gas pedal and roar out of the parking lot, into the street. Each red light is agony, but eventually I’m on the expressway, where I remind myself to relax. I take a deep breath, safe for now.

I use the hands-free phone feature in my car to call Sophie.

“Who called you at the office?” she says.

“Two people. First Ben, then a TV reporter.”

“Oh shit.”

“That’s what I said when Ben told me Meg Worthington called him.”

“What? Who’s that?”

“The latest and last of the
Date My Husband
contestants.”

“Did you say the last?”

“Yup. I’ve come to my senses. Ben will have to find his own dates from now on.”

She laughs. Then says, “What did the reporter want?”

“She wanted to know if I’m Mindy Renee Whittaker.”

“That fucking Roy!” Sophie says. “I could
kill
him!”

“What are you going to do, call Uncle Sal from the deli?”

“Say the word and I will.”

I laugh. “Roy’s a douche. If it wasn’t him, it’d be someone else. It had to happen sooner or later. It was just a matter of time.”

“Uh, Dani?”

“Yeah?”

“How come you sound so calm?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last few times we spoke you were either crying or about to cry. Right now, when you should be sobbing, you’re cool as a cucumber.”

I think about it. “You’re right. I’m energized. My life is over and I’m sort of…happy about it.”

“Maybe the lemon is finally ready to come out of the bottle.”

“Orange.”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say.

“Where are you now?”

“In my car.”

“Are you headed home? You
can’t
go home, it’ll be a circus.”

“According to the last sign, I’m on my way to Nashville.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t lead the media to you.”

“Nonsense. You’ll come straight here and park in my garage. This is a perfect place to hide.”

“They’ll find me, eventually.”

“Yes. But in the meantime we can strategize.”

“I’m still four hours away. You’ve got plenty of time to change your mind.”

“Why would I change my mind? I
want
you here.”

“If the media finds out, you could lose your career.”

“What’s there to find out, Dani?”

“You know.”

“That we’re friends?”

“They might think it’s more than that.”

“I’d be honored if they do.”

“You might want to re-think that.”

“Why?”

“You’re a country singer/songwriter. Your fans are conservative. They have no idea you consider yourself gay, and of course, I live with you two nights a week. Not to mention I’m married! Stop me if any of these revelations sound like career boosters!”

“Dani, listen to yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound
fantastic
! I think you’re secretly very excited.”

“You’re crazy.”

“See you in four, sugar pants.”

“What?
Excuse
me
? What did you just call me?”

Sophie laughs and hangs up.

I laugh too, then wonder why. When I think about it, I realize Sophie’s right about my mood. I can’t deny I’m feeling a certain adrenalin rush. I feel alive, and oddly enough, a strange sense of freedom. It suddenly dawns on me that instead of ruining my life, this announcement might simply change it.

OVER THE NEXT four hours Ben calls me fifteen times, trying to track me down. His voice messages have grown increasingly frantic. Here’s the most recent one:

Dani, please pick up! It’s a circus here! Reporters are camped all over the yard and down the street. I’m a prisoner in my own home! And I don’t feel well. Like I’m coming down with the flu, or something. Where are you?
I’d answer his calls, but what he really wants to know is where I am. And that’s something I don’t care to explain right now.

Sophie calls.

“Dani, oh my God, you’re all over the news!”

“Ben says they’re camped out at the house.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No. But he’s left a dozen messages.”

“They’re showing live footage of your office
and
your house. They’re interviewing your neighbors! They’re showing your
baby
pictures—you were really cute, by the way—and your grade school and junior high pictures.”

“Not the one where my two front teeth are missing!”

“That’s the one!”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Oh, hush. It’s adorable.”

“I don’t believe this!”

Ugh.

“Let’s talk about your neighbors,” I say.

“What about them?”

“I’ve been staying with you two nights a week for months. Someone’s bound to turn me in.”

“They’re not thinking Nashville, so it won’t cross anyone’s mind.”

“It might from here on out.”

“True. Call just before entering the neighborhood and I’ll open my garage. You can pull right in and I’ll shut the door behind you.”

“I should disguise myself. You don’t by any chance happen to have a wig, do you?”

“I’m a country singer, remember?”

“Where do you keep them? I’ve never seen any wigs at your place.”

“I just have two, and one’s blonde, so that’s no good. I keep them in a dresser drawer. You’ve never gone through my drawers when I was out?”

“Of course not! Have you gone through mine?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I have! Every square inch!”

“You’re terrible!”

“But thorough.”

“What’s happening now?”

“Hang on, I’ll turn up the volume.”

I hear her TV in the background, but can’t understand what’s being said, so I keep driving till Sophie says, “They’re interviewing people at the gym where you work out.”

“I don’t know any of the afternoon people.”

“Maybe not, but they’ve all got something to say about you!”

“What’s the verdict?”

“You’re quiet. You don’t cause any trouble. You seem nice enough, but some find it odd you won’t shower there. Now a psychologist is explaining you probably have some deep-seated issues that preclude you from getting naked in front of others.”

“Maybe they’ll interview Carter Teague or Roy and hear a different story.”

Sophie laughs, then says, “Where are you now?”

“East of E-town. Thanks for letting me stay, Sofe. You’re a good friend. I hope I don’t create problems for you.”

“We’ll get you through this, Dani.”

BY THE TIME I arrive, Sophie’s got the coffee brewed, the TV on, and a blanket on the sofa. First thing I do is try on her wig.

“It’s auburn,” I say.

“It’s perfect,” she says.

I get to the nearest mirror and start laughing.

“I look ridiculous!”

“You look incredible!”

We sip coffee and talk and soon it feels like old times. I tell her the things Roy said in my office. When I get to the part where he claimed Ben had a thing for me at age fifteen, she raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. I go all in and tell her about sleeping with Ben Tuesday night.

“You really sniffed my perfume while doing it?”

“I really did.”

“Dani, it’s time for me to break the news to you.”

“What news?”

“You’re officially gay!”

“You think?”

“I’d love the chance to find out!”

“If we do, I’ll put Ben’s cologne on my hand first.”

She calls me a shithead and we laugh hysterically.

Why?

Because there’s a lot of estrogen in the room and we’re together. And Sophie feels needed, and I feel safe.

It’s a good combination.

Sophie says, “All jokes aside, I’d know in a heartbeat if you brought a different scent into the bedroom.”

“I’d know, too. So why not Ben?”

“Why do you think? He’s a man.”

Speaking of Ben, I feel bad about not checking in with him, especially if he’s picked up a flu bug. But I’m afraid to call the house in case the phone’s been tapped. I’m also concerned they might have cell phone monitoring devices that could pick up our conversation. I’d hate for the whole world to hear us talking about Meg Worthington, or about how great the sex was for Ben on Tuesday night!

“Since you’re already paranoid,” Sophie says, “you might want to remove the battery from your cell phone. That way they can’t pinpoint your location.”

“Good point,” I say.

I text Ben to let him know I’m safe and in hiding, and tell him I hope he feels better soon. I tell him not to worry about me, and end with the numbers 143, which means, I Love You.

As soon as the text is sent, I remove my battery.

“I’ve just gone dark, Thelma!” I tell Sophie.

“You’re on the lam, Louise!” she responds.

We make popcorn and channel surf into the night as one station after another rolls out the old photos of Colin Tyler Hicks, and the basement where he kept me, and the footage of my bruised and battered face when I walked into the precinct house. Each station trots out behavioral experts and psychiatrists and asks their own version of the question,
Where is Dani Ripper, a.k.a. Mindy Renee Whittaker, and what’s going on in her head right now?

“And why does anyone
care
?” I say to the TV.