Remember When 2 (7 page)

   I’d called him immediately after my lunch with Lisa, telling him that I had a great idea for a story—a fluff piece, really—nothing too hard-hitting, perfect filler for our little weekly periodical. I zoomed back into the city and headed straight for his apartment. 

   Surprisingly, his curiosity had been piqued, because I was barely two steps inside the door before he said, “Okay. Out with it.”

   I went on to describe the story I had in mind, an interview with up-and-coming actor Trip Wiley, who just happens to be filming a movie right here in New York, and won’t you just make a simple little phonecall to set it up?

   Devin actually thought the interview was a decent enough idea, and we both knew that he’d be able to get in contact with Trip’s people.

   The problem was that he wasn’t going to let
me
be the one to do the interview.

   “I can’t believe you’re going to take my suggestion, but give the interview to another reporter.”

   “Correction: I’m giving it to
a
reporter.”

   My jaw dropped and I looked at him as though he’d just kicked me in the ribs. I was so angry that I almost threw a temper tantrum right there in the middle of his living room. Real nice thing to say. Way to go for the jugular, honey.

   Well, I could draw blood, too.

   I pulled myself together and started in with barely restrained malice in a seemingly unruffled voice, “I think there’s something you should know about this particular interviewee,” I said, smug and fully aware I’d be dropping a bomb here. “It just so happens that I personally
know
Trip Wiley.
Intimately
as a matter of fact.”

   When he started to smirk a “
yeah right
” look my way, I cut him off with, “It’s the truth. We went to high school together. I’ll even break out my yearbook to prove it to you.”

   I could have sworn I saw Devin’s composure slip just the slightest notch, giving me the fortitude to press my advantage. “It could give a real interesting angle to the story, but hey. If
you’re happy enough with the same thousand words that will be printed in every other rag in this city, by all means, proceed.”

   I started to walk out of his apartment, but not before offering over my shoulder, “By the way, I’m sure
Parade
will be sending someone for an interview.”

   I closed the door behind me, letting that last little tidbit sink in. Devin would never admit it, but he was constantly comparing
Now!
with
Parade
. In the world of fluff “journalism”, it was what
Now!
only aspired to be. If Devin thought we’d actually have some edge over his arch nemesis, there was no way he wouldn’t take the shot.

   I stopped off at
The Slaughtered Lamb
to cool my jets with a quick drink before heading home. I was still fuming from my encounter with Devin, inwardly cursing him for turning me down.

   I know it seems kind of strange that the subject of Trip never came up between my fiancé and me before. But Devin was always the jealous type. Jealous of other editors, jealous of other magazines, jealous of other guys who he thought were smarter or richer or possibly better looking than himself. I figured he’d be pretty hurt about the fact that I had not only dated Trip, but actually lost my virginity to him as well, so there was no need to throw that in his face. Devin was a good guy and deserved better than that. I was an insecure mess most of the time, but that didn’t translate into some humongous, misguided ego where I felt the need to tear down my fiancé in order to make myself feel better.

   There wasn’t too much about Devin to tear down anyway. He was great-looking, sure, but that was only one of the many boxes I could check when it came to him. He had it all; he was the complete package. Successful, ambitious, witty. Smart, powerful, grounded. Who wouldn’t want a man like that? Those were the kinds of things a woman looked for in a husband, the kind of things the girl version of me would never have sought out. The teenaged me was all about having fun. But if I’m going to be honest, I should mention that a part of me mourned the loss of that girl.

   My memory flashed back to the summer of ’91: The Summer of Trip. Even compared to the independence and fun of being in my twenties, that summer still ranked as the single happiest time of my entire life. How could it not? I’d spent two solid months wrapped up in the arms of the love of my life. There was nothing like being a teenager in love. You never get to have that gooey, gaga craziness ever again. That’s the thing that old married couples always try to warn you about. How adult love is way more reserved, rational… unexciting. I mean, I knew I loved Devin. I did. It was just a bit sad that I’d met him in his thirties, when our relationship had to be treated so
maturely
. I kind of missed goofing around and being an idiot. I missed sand-wrestling and busting chops and Skittle fights.

   I missed Trip.

   Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that he’d been spending the entire summer working in my very own neighborhood. I considered walking over to the set just to say hi, but didn’t want to come off like some crazy fan, or worse yet, a stalker. I thought I’d look like just another lovestruck idiot, trying to talk my way past the wooden barricades in order to get a glimpse of the almost-famous Mr. Wiley. He probably didn’t even remember me. He probably wouldn’t care even if he did.

   I didn’t know why after so many years, I was still second-guessing myself when it came to Trip. I felt sixteen again, that horrible/wonderful time of being a teenager, so insecure and unsure of myself.

   I polished off my drink and headed home.

* * *

   I spent the following days fuming, barely speaking to Devin. By Tuesday, unable to endure the silent treatment any longer, he called me into his office. He shut the door and asked me to sit down in my time-out chair. My ass had spent so many hours in that very seat, he may as well have added a brass plaque with my name on it.

   Instead of taking his normal position behind his desk, he surprised me by sitting in the club chair next to mine. He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, before letting out with an expelled breath. “I’ve been talking to Jerry,” he said at last.

   I knew this was going to be good. Jerry was Devin’s next-in-command. No big decision ever got made before talking to Jerry. I tried to stay calm as I asked, “And?”

   He pointed a finger in my direction and said, “If I let you do this interview-”

   “Devin!”

   “Calm down. I said
if
.” He tried not to smile as he continued, “
If
I let you do this interview, do you think it’s something you can handle?”

   I couldn’t even speak. I sat there like a ventriloquist dummy, shaking my head up and down enthusiastically.

   That made Devin’s serious expression crack. “Yes, well, I think so, too. I still have to run it by PR, but there’s a good chance I can get you in the junket.”

   It wasn’t the exclusive interview I was hoping for, but a junket would be enough to get a story. God, a story! I was finally being given the chance to write my very own article.

   “Devin, thank you!” I leapt up from my chair, and prying eyes be damned, I threw my arms around him for a hug. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

   Devin peeled my hands from around his neck, laughing and settling me back down to Earth.

   He pointed his finger at me again and said, “I’m giving you
one
shot. Don’t disappoint me on this.” I was elated enough that his unnecessary advice barely scathed. “And Layla? Please don’t forget about our little magazine when
The New Yorker
inevitably comes to call.”

   His tone was light, but his words weren’t. I thought there was more to that statement than he was letting on.

   But all I said was, “I won’t let you down.” And I meant it.

   I practically soared out of his office and spent the rest of that day in a daze.

   On Wednesday, I got the official go ahead, Devin letting me know by throwing me a whistle from his doorway. When I turned around, he simply gave me a smiling thumbs-up, and I could barely contain my excitement.

   I floated through Thursday and Friday, doing as much research as I could to prepare for my big interview the following week.

   Devin kept saying it was “cute”, but I didn’t let that bother me. I thanked him all throughout Friday night, and then once more on Saturday.

Chapter 7

AFTER SEX

   I awoke with a start, the buzzing of my intercom like a chainsaw through my brain. I groggily checked the clock on my nightstand and wondered what type of psychopath would ring my doorbell at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.

   I stumbled to the door and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

   A staticky, pissed-off voice answered back, “Wake up, sleepyhead! Open the damn door already!”

   Of course it was Lisa.

   I buzzed her in and watched as she stomped loudly up the stairwell, loaded with two brown grocery sacks in her arms and a humongous Louis Vuitton travel bag slung over her shoulder, which was banging into the walls on her way up. I’m sure my neighbors downstairs just loved that. But when it came to Lisa, I was already well aware that there was no curbing her volume. Thankfully, however, she waited until she made it inside my apartment before adding her voice to the racket. “Holy crap! Thank God you opened the door finally. There was this weird-looking old guy sitting on the bench out there that kept saying stuff to me in Italian.”

   In spite of my interrupted shuteye, I laughed. “Lis, that’s just Angelo. He’s harmless,” I explained, relieving her of the Louis Vuitton.

   Lisa unloaded the grocery bags onto my kitchen table before looking at me like I was nuts. “Oh, really? ‘Cause what the hell is Dutchie bonjovi coza?”

   I followed her into the kitchen, correcting her pronunciation, “
Dolce giovani cosa
. It means ‘sweet young thing’. He says it to all the girls that walk by. He’s not a perv, I promise.” I dove into the grocery bags as I asked, “But more importantly, why the hell are you here so damned early?”

   “Uh, more importantly, what the hell are you
wearing
?” she shot back.

   I looked down at my Mr. Bubble T-shirt and rainbow-striped stretch pants. Guessed I wasn’t looking too haute couture with my sleeping garb. “It’s not like I was expecting visitors,” I defended.

   “Obviously.”

   That made us both laugh as she started unpacking along with me. “Sorry for coming so early, but I couldn’t sleep. I knew you had nothing else on your schedule except for our lunch today, so I figured we could do breakfast instead.”

   “Gee. Thanks. I just love a weekend wakeup call, you wacko.”

   “Sounds wike you have a wisp.”

   I rolled my eyes as I pulled out a carton of eggs, some bread, OJ... when I got to the bottle of champagne, I held it up and asked, “Oooh. But you brought stuff for mimosas? I may have to forgive you.”

   Lisa was unpacking her bag, and dug around to pull out a second bottle. Jeez. I was barely even awake and yet there I was, staring down the distinct possibility that I’d be drunk before noon on a Sunday. Sister Jean would be so disappointed.

   She held it up and pointed to the label, informing me, “Yeah, for
you
, maybe. This one’s sparkling cider. I can’t drink the champagne.”

   I started to say, “Oh, real nice, Lis. What- you want me to be the only lush this morning? You love champagne. Since when can’t you-”

   Her lips curled into an irrepressible grin as I was speaking and holy shit oh my God there was no way Lisa was telling me what I thought she was trying to tell me.

   I looked at her face—she was trying so hard not to bust out of her skin—and I realized it was the truth.

   “NO! Lisa! You’re
pregnant
?!”

   “Yep. Preggers. Knocked up. Bun in the oven.”

   “Lisa!”
Holy shit.
“Oh my God! I- I don’t even know what to say!”

   I came around the table and threw my arms around her, my pregnant best friend. This was unfreakingbelievable. “A baby! Oh my God. I’m so happy for you!” It was unfathomable.

   I was hugging her so tight, trying to get my brain to register this monumental news. My best friend was going to be a
mother
.

   We broke our embrace, and I swiped an unexpected tear from my eye. “Oh my God, Lis. Congratulations. Holy crap. How long have you known?”

   She tried to contain her sniffles, too, announcing, “I just found out this morning. Took a test and the damned stick turned pink on me! I don’t even know why I took it, I’m not even late yet. I just had the thing lying around from a scare a few months ago. I’d gone out and bought like twenty of them.”