Unscripted (28 page)

The minute my shoes hit concrete it starts. The uncontrollable laughter. I’m doubling over, grabbing Nancy’s arm for support. She joins in, escalating quickly to the donkey gulps she usually tries to suppress.

“Are you having a nervous breakdown?” Nancy asks between breaths.

“Yes, I think I am. I can’t believe I did that.”

“Me neither. You still have salt chunks on your cheeks.” Still laughing, Nancy hasn’t regained control of her body, so she pokes at my face with her sleeve.

“Did you see their faces?”

“Yes. Too much. Oh here.” Nancy hands me a card.

“What is this?”

“It’s…Tarina’s…card. She wants you to call her for a private session.” Nancy breaks out into the donkey laugh again.

“Do I kill you now or later?”

“I can’t wait to tell Stephanie.”

“Don’t you dare. What a nightmare. I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

“Come on, when is the last time you laughed like this?”

“This is a lucky fluke. God, this is so gross. I have to wash my feet!”

“I know. They feel sticky now. We’ll get the yogurt to go.”

“So, do you think that was total bullshit?” I ask.

“I honestly don’t know. I did feel…something. And, look what happened to you.”

“Was that a good thing?”

“I think it was. But seriously, are you okay?”

I inhale the sea air and look up at the sky. It’s a clear night, and I can actually see the stars. I feel oddly peaceful, calm even.

“Believe it or not, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

When I get home, I immediately jump in the shower and scour the sludge residue from my feet. Afterward, I check my email and right there, in bolded black, is an email from Will Harper. The subject line reads “Sorry.” My hands are actually shaking as I double click on his name.

So I may be jobless, and I’ll never be an Isabelle, but none of that matters. Will Harper wrote me back.

This morning, I was wide-awake and out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m. The reason? Today is Will Harper day.

It took me two days to respond to Will’s email: Two, nail biting, eyebrow-pulling, excruciating days later. I didn’t want to seem too eager, so I held off. And it turned out to be a good decision, because by then I actually had something to write about.

It turns out, the company that produced
Matchmaker
is making yet another dating show and they asked me to come on as a segment producer. When I informed them that I am now a
producer
(which in hindsight was insane because let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers), they seemed more than willing to give me that title. So, although it’s not going to change my career predicament, it’s still a paycheck, and the job starts in a week.

I sent a carefully constructed, semi-jokey email back to Will, and to my surprise, he replied minutes after I pushed the send button. He said how pleased he was that I found something and then asked me to meet him for coffee, and that coffee is today at 1:30.

Now, I’m not stupid. I know I can’t read into this.
It is just coffee.
People in my business have coffee or lunch or drinks all the time. It’s a way of staying connected with your colleagues. So that’s how I have to look at it…a little networking, with a dash of caffeine.

With the man you want to drug and keep in your closet forever and ever.

So this morning, when I hopped out of bed full of nervous energy, I decided to be proactive and finish unpacking and decorating at least one room. At 7:00 a.m. I called Nancy (since I knew she’d be finished with her boot camp class) and begged her to open the rest of the living room boxes. Afterward, I gently nudged her out, and ruthlessly emptied the contents onto my hardwood floor.

It’s now an hour later and I’m surrounded by heaps of wadded-up newspapers, picture frames, books, candles and various knickknacks that I realize are destined to live homeless on my floor for at least one more day. I have no idea where to put this stuff, and I’ve lost the brief flash of motivation that landed me in this circle of clutter.

The least I can do is throw away the newspapers, so I grab a garbage bag and load up, vowing to set this bag aside for recycling, just like the flat stack of boxes that are leaning against my rumbly old olive-green refrigerator.

I glance at the red rooster clock hanging above the stove. It reads 8:30. Jesus, is that it? All that lovely productive energy has morphed into plain nervousness and I still have an agonizing five more hours before I see Will.

I’ve already talked to Stephanie and Nancy to death about my plans today so I can’t really call either of them to obsess about it. But if I’m completely honest with myself, the one person I want to talk to the most is Zoë. Not just about Will, but about everything. It’s been a blur with the moving, and then, well, with the not moving, so I’ve successfully avoided really thinking about her, until lately. I miss her.

I look down at my hands and notice the tips of my fingers are ink-stained from the newspapers. Maybe I’ll just take a shower now, or as I like to call it,
a trickle,
in my tiny, low-pressure coffin. It’s cramped and dark, and, although the landlord boasted that it has one of those rainfall showerheads that provide even cascades of water, it’s so clogged with little green deposits that the water zigzags out in sharp shards. I usually spend the first few minutes of my shower plugging little holes with my fingers, hoping in vain to smooth out the stream.

After what seems an hour, I finally emerge and wrap a towel around my head. I walk to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee brewing and then add “call landlord” and “get new
showerhead” to my list of to-dos on the fridge. Opening all of my cupboards two or three times I search longingly for something to eat. My choice is between cereal, some stale crackers and Nutella. Damn it, why can’t I ever drag my lazy ass to the market? It’s probably because Zoë and I used to go to the store together. It was part of our Saturday morning ritual. Breakfast out, then the grocery store. A chore I only found palatable because of Zoë. She has a way of making even the most mundane things fun.

I want to call her, but I don’t want to be the first to back down. I feel like she essentially threw our friendship away over an apartment. Of course, she could say the same about me, I suppose.

Stephanie thinks that Zoë has always been a self-centered, selfish person. And maybe that’s partially true, but she can also be generous and kind and supportive and funny. And I miss her. Everyone has flaws, those traits that annoy the hell out of you. But if the good outweighs the bad you deal with it. So that’s it. Zoë may be on the shallow side, but I love her anyway.

Fuck it. I’m calling.

I glance over at the phone in the living room and notice that the light on the machine is flashing. I walk over and push the button.

“Abby, hi, it’s Zoë. Goddammit, I miss you. Look, I don’t understand how this went so wonky but I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, and I just really wanted to say hi and tell you I how much I miss you. Call me, if you want. I hope you want to. This is so weird. Okay. Call me. Did I mention I miss you?”

Without giving it a second thought, I pick up the phone and dial Zoë’s cell.

“Hello?”

“Zo?”

“Abby, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“I didn’t recognize the number, even though I just dialed it like a half an hour ago.” Her voice sounds shaky and nervous.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I swear to God, I’ve been thinking about you all morning and just decided to call you. I swear.”

“Shut up!” She giggles, breaking the tension.

“I swear on my mother’s life. We have ESP. Zo, I’m so sorry. I should…”

“No.” She stops me midsentence. “I’m the one that should be sorry. I never should have put Doug first. You come first. I could have waited to leave.”

“No, no, you were right. You can’t put your life on hold for me. You gave me ample time to find a place. You offered me your furniture. Oh shit, did you pick it up?”

“I did. But why didn’t you take it?”

I search my head for a polite response, but opt for honesty. “I guess I was pissed and I didn’t want your charity.”

“We-e-ell,” Zoë drawls, “if we’re being honest, it wasn’t total charity. I didn’t really want to deal with moving it to storage.”

“Ha. I knew it. I should have taken it, I’d have a nice comfy couch now.”

“You can still have it! We’ll have someone bring it over.”

“No, no, I have one coming, but thanks.”

We both laugh, and then it turns silent.

“So Nancy lives in that building too? You must be having so much fun.”

“It’s really good to have her here, but I’ve missed you.”

“You have to know,” Zoë says earnestly, “I never meant to hurt you or our friendship.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve talked. And all over a stupid apartment.”

“You know it wasn’t just about the apartment. Things haven’t been right for a while.”

“I know, but I have to tell you, I was hurt because I thought you were always taking Jeff’s side. And then when I started dating Douglas, I felt like you were totally judging me.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But I wasn’t
totally
judging you.”

“No?”

“It was more like seventy-five percent judgment.”

“Eh, it felt more like eighty-two.” Zoë laughs. “I love you, let’s never fight again.”

“I love you too. Never again.”

“So, are you working now I hope?”

“Yeah, I’m starting next week, thank God.”

“Good, because if not, I was going to pack up all your shit and move you in with Douglas and me.”

“I may just take you up on that one day. So how are things? You know, with you guys?”

There’s a long pause and a slow sigh. “They’re really good. He makes me happy.”

“Then I’m happy for you. I really really mean that. I want you to be happy. That’s the most important thing.”

“I feel the same way. Are you happy?”

I look around the apartment and smile to myself. “Yeah, I’m getting there. I’m definitely getting there.”

I glance at my watch and realize Zoë and I have been catching up for two hours. I seriously need to start getting ready. Though I don’t want to end our conversation, I know I’m going to need extra time to work with my hair and makeup.

I told Zoë about my plans with Will today (along with ashamedly admitting my pathetic crush on him). Thankfully, I avoided any mocking from her but am pretty sure that if we were on steadier ground there would be a few “I knew its” thrown about.

“What are you going to wear?”

“Waaa, I don’t know.”

“Just be casual, but pretty at the same time. Simple, yet a little sexy. And wear your hair down. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. And please, no cargos.”

“Yes, Mom,” I drone. “I know. You taught me well.”

I’m early. Incredibly dorkily early. Thirty minutes early to be exact. Will suggested that we meet at Susina Bakery, a cute cafe on Beverly that has delicious croissants, pastries, cookies, quiches, paninis and one of my favorite desserts of all time, the Chocolate Peanut-Butter Mousse cake. It’s only a ten-minute drive from my house, but I left forty minutes early, just to make sure I wouldn’t be late. And Susina is small; if you get there at the wrong time, you’ll have to fight to get a table.

There’s a Starbucks next door, but it’s not a good alternative. It only has three tables, and the lollygagging writers usually claim them. Plus, when I suggested we meet at the Starbucks by the
Second Time Around
offices, Will said he wanted to go somewhere new. So I figured I better get here early and stake my claim. Can’t waste precious moments standing around holding to-go cups and hovering over tables.

So here I am. I have my pick of tables, found parking across the street and now have thirty minutes to kill.

I’m actually glad we didn’t meet by work since I’m wearing the exact same outfit I wore for the failure that was Operation Paycheck Pickup. Lisa would probably pop over for her venti iced skinny vanilla latte, barge in on my special Will time and then spend twenty minutes criticizing my apparent lack of wardrobe.

I pace in front of the glass display case, momentarily hypnotized by the smell of sugar and the pretty pretty goodies. Maybe I should eat a piece of cake? It will give me something to do. Ooh, then I won’t have to scarf in front of Will. I bet Lisa wouldn’t order a giant piece of yummy chocolate cake on a date with Will.

Whoa there. This is not a date, you delusional freak. It’s coffee, with Will, a work friend you keep up with and meet every few months, like Grant.

I nix the cake idea, because with my luck, I’d drop a big glob of it on my shirt and have to explain to Will why I have smeared cake on my chest.

So I’ll get a table. Right corner, demi-booth, no interlopers around. Mine. I feel a little lame sitting here with no beverage, but I can’t have any evidence of my early arrival.

I pull out my compact mirror and check for makeup smears. All clear. I guess I could call Zoë or one of the girls for a diversion, but if they give me a pep talk about Will, I’ll get all flushed and anxious. I need to maintain a calm, cool façade for this.

Fifteen minutes later, Will shows up. There must have been no traffic on the way from work. Man, now he’s going to know I’m here early too.

Oh, look at him. He doesn’t look as rumpled as usual, but still Will-licious. He’s wearing khaki pants, a black, fitted sweater with a white T-shirt underneath.

I wave from the table and stand up as he approaches. Hug? No hug? Handshake?

Will reaches over and gives me a quick hug. God, he smells amazing. No cloying cologne, clean-shaven, smooth cheeks…

“Hi,” I say as I sit back down. “Gosh, I hit no traffic on the way here.”

Do shut up please.

“It’s good to see you.” Will looks into my eyes.

Butterflies start beating the hell out of each other inside my stomach.
What am I, fifteen?
I need to hold it together.

“You too. You want to order? I know you’re in a bit of a rush.” I motion to the display case and stand up.

“Not really, I have about an hour before I have to head back. We have a cut going to the network tonight.” Will doesn’t budge; he stays seated and waits for me to sit back down.

“Oh good. So how’s that all going?” I edge into the corner of the demi-booth and fold my hands on the table.

“Brutal. They bumped up the airdate. We’ve been editing around the clock. And there’s a new regime at the network, so the exec really wants to put his stamp on the show. You wouldn’t believe the notes he’s giving. Nightmare. Be glad you picked production.”

Hmm, that’s not even close to Lisa’s version of paradise in post.

“Sorry, you must be exhausted.”

Here, come rest your head on my lap.

“I am.” Will runs his fingers through his hair.

I want to bring up Lisa, but I know I can’t. “So, how’s Lisa handling it?”
Crap!
What is the matter with me?

Will tilts his head and grins. “Are you concerned about Lisa? Interesting.”

“I was just curious, since it’s so stressful for everyone…”

“I didn’t really think you enjoyed Lisa’s, uh, management style.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, does anyone enjoy Lisa’s management style?”

“No comment.” I laugh.

Will doesn’t enjoy Lisa’s management style? In your face, you skeletal Barbie from hell. Wait! Was I wrong this whole time? Are they
not
dating? If they were, he never would have made a comment like that. That’s not Will’s style.

“So, do you know what you want?”

“What?” I ask dumbly.

“To eat,” Will says slowly, still smiling.

“I always get the brie sandwich,” I say as I start to stand up.

Will gently pushes my shoulder down. “I’ll get it. What do you want to drink?”

“Oh. Thanks. Um, just an iced coffee.”