The Corner of Bitter and Sweet (28 page)

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 r
ead 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?”

No, I didn’t know what he was saying. I had never been in this position because I had been too busy spending my time holding mirrors up to my passed-out mother’s mouth to check for signs of life. “But what about that whole
Rules
thing?” I blurted out.

“Huh?”

“The thing about how you’re supposed to sit back and let the guy call the shots, and play a little hard to get, and not return their texts right away, and all that stuff?” I cringed as I listened to myself. When you said it out loud, it sounded even more stupid than it did when you read it.

“Aw, man,” he groaned. “Really, Annabelle? You’re one of those
Rules
girls?” He sounded disappointed. Like I had just announced that when I was old enough to vote it would be Republican.

“I have no idea what kind of girl I am!” I cried. “It’s not like this happens a lot for me!” Like, say, ever.

He shook his head. “That’s just game playing,” he said. “Pretending to be someone you’re not. Like those girls who have two bites of lettuce when you go out to dinner and then, once you’ve been together for a while, you walk out into the kitchen at two o’clock in the morning and find them scarfing down pickles and olives and maraschino cherries.” He shuddered. “That was intense. But back to you. Listen, look it from his point of view. Here you are, this hip and cool chick from L.A.—”

“I don’t think
hip
and
cool
are two words that immediately come to mind when people think of me—”

He held his hand up to shut me up. “—who’s just blown into this little town in upstate New York because her mother is filming a big Hollywood movie—”

“It’s not
that
big a movie,” I corrected. “I mean, if you weren’t in it, it would be more of an indie, and—”

“—and probably has a ton of guys falling at her feet back home.”

I rolled my eyes. “As if.”

“Guys with a lot more going on than he has.”

“He’s got a lot going on,” I said defensively. “He just won some award at Bard in the Art Department.”

“That’s great,” Billy said, “but I’m telling you, if he’s a creative type, he’s definitely insecure. Maybe not so much about his work, but about everything under the sun. Goes with the territory.” We stopped in front of a Mister Softee ice cream truck. “Chocolate or vanilla?” he asked.

“Chocolate,” I replied, too exhausted to fight him on letting me at least pay for my own ice cream.

He handed me my cone. “Add to that that he’s a
guy
—which means he’s already a little bit scared and somewhat clueless when it comes to reading people—and you’ve got yourself a situation where he’d rather chew off his arm before he makes a move when he’s not yet entirely sure you’re interested in him and risks being rejected by you.”

I looked at him. “Really? Is that true?”

As he took a bite of his cone, some chocolate ice cream plopped onto his shirt. “Totally.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you can start with asking him to go do something instead of wait for him to bring it up,” he replied.

“But what if he has a girlfriend? He might have a girlfriend.”

He shook his head. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“How do you know?”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because that’s . . . a really personal thing to ask someone.”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

I thought about it. “Yes. And I sound ridiculous.”