Taking Heart (11 page)

The moment Eric arrived in Los Angeles, and back in his luxury apartment
on West Olympic Boulevard, he felt the old Eric coming back to life. Amongst
his fine collection of dark wood furniture and expensive artwork, he began to
remember who and what he really was. He was the adopted son of one of Norway’s
richest magnates, he was a spoiled brat who spent said stepfather's money, and
he was an unapologetic party animal.
End of story.

He couldn’t even remember why the hell he’d been so intent on finding
something that might have never existed. Next time he had a life-saving
surgery, he was going to ask the doctors to take out every existentialist bone
in his body and maybe save
himself
a lot of money and
heartache.

“Dude, you’re in a mood,” Carson said as they resumed their usual
Wednesday night tradition of drinking and watching scantily clad women
undulating on the dance floor.

Eric took a big gulp of his Jack and Coke, the memories associated with
the drink tasting bitter as it went down his throat. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Aren’t you the guy who just spent the last month traveling around the
country and doing nothing?” Carson asked, wrapping his arm around the shoulder
of a blonde girl who had cajoled her way into their entourage that night.

“Yeah, so? I can still be tired.” Eric slouched into the seat, his eyes
roaming over the dark club. When he turned back, everyone at the table had
disappeared, save for Carson.

“Okay, man,”
Carson
said, leaning in
conspiratorially. “What is eating Gilbert Grape?”

Eric downed the rest of his drink. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Carson grinned. “Well, whether you want to or not is beside the point. As
your self-appointed best friend, I demand you tell me every sordid detail.” All
of a sudden, he put down his drink mid-sip, his eyes wide. “Is it that girl you
met in Colorado?”

When Eric said nothing, Carson cried, “Oho! So a girl finally got you at
last!”

“What do you mean
at last
?” Eric asked in annoyance.

“I was starting to think you were going to be the Super Bachelor, faster
than a speeding bullet at avoiding commitment, colder than a steel locomotive,
able to leap piles of beautiful women in a single bound.”

Eric couldn’t help it, he had to chuckle. But the title he would have
proudly worn before, now made him feel one inch small. Was he always so cold
and uncaring?

“I knew it was going to happen sooner or later,” said his friend, who had
a reputation for falling for his female co-stars. “Though I have to admit, I’m
a little disappointed. I aspired to be you.” He burst into a warbly rendition
of
Wind Beneath My Wings
.

“Shut up, Kingsley,” Eric said, smacking Carson on the back of his head.
“Nothing came of it.”

Carson eased up, laughing. “So what’s her name?”

The name slipped from Eric’s tongue effortlessly. “Ren.”

“As in, Ren and Stimpy?”

As in Ren and Ben,
he thought dismally. “No, her name is Renee.”

“So now that we’ve established the name of the girl who broke your heart,
let’s discuss the manner in which she broke it.” Carson leaned forward, his
hands clasped together on the table. “How did she punch through your cold
exterior and pull out that frozen heart of yours, hmm, Sorenson?”

“She didn’t break my heart,” Eric said with a huff. “And I’m not cold.”

“Damn, you’ve got it bad.”

“I’m just tired, man,” he said with a sigh.

Carson’s demeanor changed when he realized the severity of the situation.
“Physically or mentally?”

“Everything. I’m so tired of going to bars, watching women grind on each
other to get our attention. I’m tired of the parasitic paps following us
around, saying stupid shit to get us angry so tomorrow they can sell a picture
of us pounding a guy into the pavement. I’m tired of all these surgically
dishonest people walking around, hiding their low self-esteems behind Botox and
saline. But mostly, I’m tired of not knowing what to do with my life. I can’t
go on just following you around.”

“What are you talking about? What about your job?”

“Seriously? You think I have a long career in bartending?” Eric laughed
bitterly. “The pay’s not that great and I really suck at it.”

“Yes, but you’re popular with the ladies, so you make a lot in tips.”

Not surprisingly, his friend's words were not doing much to ease his
worries—were, in fact, making him feel worse. “It’s not about the money.
It’s about finding something I’m passionate about. Like you, with acting.”

“Shit, man. I didn’t know you felt that way. What do you want to do?
Maybe I can make a few phone calls.” Carson, like the good friend, was already
pulling out his cell phone and scrolling through his contacts list.

“I really don’t know,” Eric said and looked around aimlessly. “I have no
fucking clue.”

Carson clapped him on the back. “Well, we’ll find your passion, man. If
only so I can have my fun best friend back.”

The next day, Carson sent his assistant over with a list of possible
jobs.

“Mr. Kingsley said you needed this,” Dale said, handing a piece of paper
to Eric.

Eric, still in his boxer shorts, glanced at the long list and yawned.
Carson was not only true to his word
,
he
was also thorough
. “He still has you calling him Mr. Kingsley?
Seriously? How long have you been working for him now? Six months?” Eric asked.

Confusion was written all over the younger man’s face. “A few weeks.”

“Ah, sorry. I thought you were the other guy,” Eric said, scratching
lazily at his chest. “Let’s hope you last longer than him, then.”

Dale gave him a tight smile and left. Eric felt sorry for the new kid,
because even though Carson was a good friend, he was not a good boss.

Eric sat at his ebony wood dining table and looked through the long list
of jobs available in Los Angeles. Just as he was about to lose hope, he saw
something that piqued his interest: craftsman. Wood shop had been the one class
he’d excelled at in high school, and it came back to him that he’d once
harbored a desire to make furniture, going so far as to draw up designs for a
multi-level desk. In the end, those plans were forsaken as the life of parties
came knocking.

As he looked around, he came to realize that his furniture reflected that
long-forgotten dream. Everything in his apartment was handmade, no veneers and
expensive as hell, but built to last a lifetime.

As soon as his friend answered the call, Eric said, “Carson, you dumbass,
you may have just saved my life.”

“You found something?” Carson shouted above the commotion behind him.

“Yeah. What’s going on there?”

“I’m between scenes. They’re setting up a hurricane shot with the green
screen.” He held the phone away and exchanged a few words with someone else.
“Sorry about that. Hey, did you get the list?”

“That I did. Thanks, man.”

“You owe me. Now what did you find?”

“Craftsman,” Eric said without hesitation. “As in making furniture.”

“No shit? Listen, I have to get going. But I’m going to have Dale contact
the guy who made my bed. Maybe get you an internship or something.”

Eric only had time to thank his best friend before Carson had to go.

A week later, Eric was in high spirits as he made his way towards his
favorite bar on Melrose Avenue. His good mood was not affected even when
several men with ridiculously large cameras approached him as he walked towards
the entrance, calling out his name as if they’d known him all his life. He
recognized a few of the regular photographers, but felt no sense of familiarity
with them. To Eric, they were just nameless faces behind the lens of a camera,
guys who made their living by invading other people's personal space. Tonight
their parasitic tendencies did nothing to dampen his mood; he was here to
celebrate.

“To Carson,” he said a little while later around their group of friends.
He lifted a pint of Guinness high above his head. “For helping me find
something that I’m good at!”

Carson, once more with his arm around another blond woman, toasted
himself. “
Slainte
!”

A brunette sidled up to Eric and flicked her hair over her shoulder.
“What did he help you find?” she asked, blinking her overlong eyelashes
quickly.

“My career.”

“And what would that be?”

“Woodworking.”

The girl, obviously unimpressed, looked around the room. As he regarded
her, he couldn’t help but wonder how Ren would react to his news, guessing it
would probably be the opposite of this girl's.

“What’s your name?” he asked the brunette, who turned her smile back on
the moment they returned to her favorite subject: herself.

“Karina,” she said against his ear.

“I’m Eric,” he said and was met with an amused grin.

“I know,” she said. “You’re Carson Kingsley’s friend. And between the two
of you, the hotter guy.”

“Well, uh, thanks.”

“Instead of woodwhatever, why don’t you just get a reality show?”

Eric raised one eyebrow. He had actually tried to shop a reality show
once before, simply on the basis of being Carson’s drinking buddy, and though a
major studio had greenlighted the project, he’d unexpectedly had to have the operation.
Several months later, appearing in front of cameras, televising his private
business for the entire world to see, no longer seemed like an appealing way to
earn a living. Besides, it wasn’t the lasting career that he was after.

“No thanks,” he said. “I don’t need cameras up in my business twenty four
seven.”

“What if you went on some celebrity dancing competition or something?”
He had to hand it to her
,
she was
Hollywood persistent
. With her looks and her tenacity, she probably could
make it onto
Big Brother
or
The Bachelor
.

Still, the poor girl obviously had the wrong impression of him. Granted,
he’d projected that image for a long time now, so he didn’t blame her for
thinking that he was still some sort of famewhore. “Nothing on television. I
want something with longevity, something away from the public eye.”

Karina flashed him a strange look, somewhere between pity and disgust. “I
have to go to the bathroom,” she said and sauntered off. Eric knew without a
doubt that he would not be seeing her again for the rest of the night, which
frankly came as a bit of a relief.

Across the table, Carson caught his eye and winked. “She’s just not into
you?” he shouted above the loud music.

Eric shook his head, stuck a gun finger in his mouth and pulled the thumb
trigger. He moved closer to his friend. “Thank you for contacting that
furniture maker for me,” he said. “He and I worked out a schedule where he will
teach me all he can, as fast as he can, if I throw a crapload of money at him.
We meet tomorrow.”

One of Carson’s dark eyebrows rose. “So you’re really going to do this
furniture making thing?” When Eric nodded, Carson lifted his glass aloft. “Well
then, cheers to you, buddy! I’m sure you’ll be awesome at working with wood,
yours or otherwise!”

The two friends laughed, along with those in their group who had been
listening. But even though people surrounded him, his best friend included,
Eric couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of loneliness. Whatever the hell it
was that he had been searching for, he sure as hell still hadn't found it.

He took another shot of liquor, trying to give up the search.

chapter
eight

“Hey, Ren,” Jolene said as she opened the red door of the two-story brick
home that had once belonged to their parents. Now Jolene, her husband, and
their child called it their home.

“Aunt Ren!” The voice preceded the three-year old child it belonged to as
she came careening around the corner in a white and pink Barbie tricycle. “Look
at my new ride!”

Ren scooped her niece out of the trike and into a large embrace, spinning
her around the room. “Nina! I’ve missed you!”

The precocious child gave her a look of disbelief. “I saw you the other
last day, Aunt Ren.”

“It was a week, Nina,” her mother corrected gently. “Seven days.”

“But I still missed you!”

Ren put her down and ruffled her short, brown curls.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Nina asked excitedly, tugging on Ren’s
hand.

“Of course, that’s why we invited her,” Jolene said, returning to the
kitchen to the vegetables she was cutting. Ren and Nina followed suit, their
clasped hands swinging as they walked.

“Where’s Paul?” Ren asked.

“He’s in Singfour,” Nina said.