Where We Belong (40 page)

“Did my parents put you up to this?” I say. “The deadline passed, you know.”

“And you know they paid your deposit?” he says.

I didn’t
know
for sure, but sort of assumed they had when they stopped mentioning it shortly after the deadline.

“Look, Kirby. This is my honest, bottom-of-my-heart opinion. I think you should go to college. It doesn’t mean you can’t pursue music, even as a profession. But college is an experience—and at least something you should try. Get a solid education and you can still have your plan B.”

“Why can’t college be my plan B?” I say. “And music my plan A?”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Look at R.E.M. and Radiohead.”

I roll my eyes again.

“You could get into the School of Music at Missouri, Kirb.” He turns and plucks a printout from his desk, my name written at the top. He hands it to me and I scan it:
Instrumentalists should prepare one or two pieces. Material demonstrating tone quality and technical proficiency is appropriate. Percussionists should be prepared to play at least two of the following: a solo/etude on keyboard percussion (marimba/xylo/vibes), snare drum, timpani, styles on drum set (swing, rock, funk, Latin, etc.).

I stop reading and look up at him.

“You could do this, Kirb.”

“You’ve never even heard me play,” I say.

“I
know
you’re good,” he says. “I just know it.”

I don’t answer.

“Think of what you could learn with real professors.”

“Think of all the other crap I’d have to learn.”

“Knowledge isn’t crap.”

I cross my arms, pretending to be more annoyed than I actually am.

“Just give it some thought?”

I tell him that I already have.

“Just a
little
more thought?” he says. “Please? For me?”

I sigh my weariest sigh and say, “Fine. A tiny bit more.”

It seems the least I can do for the only person who has consistently believed in me, from the very beginning.

*   *   *

That evening after dinner, Conrad texts me.
Hey drummer girl. What’s goin on?

Grinning, I type back:
Not much. Just studying for exams. You?

He writes back immediately:
Listening to a little Sly and the Family Stone … There’s a Riot Going On is a sweet album if you don’t know it. Think you’d love it.

I know a few songs of theirs, like “I Want to Take You Higher,” but am not really familiar with that album, so I instantly download it from iTunes and after listening to a few songs, text him back with my report:
Amazing. Love “Poet” and “Family Affair.” Thanks for the tip.

A second later, the phone rings. It’s him. I grab it, excited.

“Hey,” he says. “Good stuff, huh?”

“It’s great,” I say.

“Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Most definitely.”

“So … how is the studying coming?”

I tell him I’m just trying to pass precalc so I can graduate. He says he was in the same boat, with the same class.

“And?”

“I passed,” he says. “Barely. I didn’t go to college, but at least I wasn’t a high school dropout.”

I inhale, then ask him the million-dollar question. “Do you wish you had gone?”

“Nope,” he says. “That’s probably the wrong answer. But it’s the truth.… Although I got lucky.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what to do with my life. Or at least my next few years,” I say.

“Are you asking for advice?”

“Not really. I got plenty of that already.”

“Yeah. I figured … I’m sure Marian gave you an earful.”

“Yep. She thinks I should go. But she didn’t get all preachy,” I say, wondering if he’s just trying to find an excuse to bring her up like she’s always doing with him.

Sure enough, he says, “So did you enjoy the rest of your time together?”

“I left the next morning. But yeah, it was good. We had a nice time … She’s coming to my graduation so I’m gonna see her soon.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s great. Good for you. Good for both of you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know you have to run Zelda’s and … it might be weird to be with her…” I hold my breath then say, “But you’re invited, too…”

“Thank you, Kirby. That’s really nice of you…”

“It would probably be too weird, though, right?” I press, giving him an out.

“Yeah. It probably would be pretty awkward … but lemme know when it is … Steph can always hold down the fort. Maybe I could pop in and out…”

“Sure,” I say as casually as I can, trying to control my excitement, telling myself that it probably won’t work out, but at least he’s thinking about it. “That’d be really cool. But whatever. It’s no big deal either way.”

“Right,” he says. “I gotcha.”

“Well, I better go study,” I say.

“Okay,” Conrad says. “Just remember—the second derivative measures acceleration. Think: fast cars.”

I laugh. “Yep. The second derivative measures how the rate of change of a quantity is itself changing. So yeah, acceleration. How do you remember that, anyway?”

“I remember a whole
lot
of useless shit,” he says.

“So it
is
useless?” I say.

“One hundred percent.”

“I knew it,” I say, grinning.

32

marian

When
I
get to work on Monday, Alexandre finds me in my office and hands me a fresh script that Jeanelle wrote and he polished. “Enjoy the
Gilmore Girls
meets
Cheers,
” he says.

I sigh and say, “Seriously? Will I hate it?”

“You won’t love it. I addressed all the network notes. And then sprinkled in a few ‘golly gee, Beavers’ to make our point.”

“At least we’re still on the air, right? And I haven’t even married the boss yet…”

I try to hide a smile behind the papers, but he must see it because he says, “Oh, shit, Caldwell. Are you engaged?”

“Yeah. I think so,” I say, still digesting the news. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s not official. Although we both know Standish doesn’t really change his mind.”

Alexandre shakes his head, amused. “You’ll be the next Julie Chen and Leslie Moonves. Maybe he’ll give us back our nine o’clock slot.”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing but feeling uneasy. “It’s the least he can do for us, right?”

*   *   *

That night, I meet Jess for dinner in the Village and give her the update on the weekend as well as the news about Peter.

“So no sparks with Conrad?” she asks, seemingly ignoring the fact that I’m about to get engaged.

I glance down at my menu and shake my head. “Nope.”

“You wanna look me in the eye and say that again?” she says.

I stare her down and say, “If by sparks you mean that he hates my guts and I think he’s more beautiful than ever, then yes, there were sparks. Otherwise, no.”

“Just how beautiful are we talking?” she says.

“Drop-dead. Gorgeous,” I say.

“Compare him to someone we know.”

“I can’t.”

“Famous?”

I quickly reply, “Cross between James Franco and Bradley Cooper. And that doesn’t do him justice.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“Maybe. A little …
Anyway,
” I say. “Can we talk about Peter? Please?”

“Right. Yes. Congratulations,” she says, as if I just told her I won a year’s worth of free paper towels. “That’s great news.”

“Yeah. He wants to go ring shopping this week.”

“Exciting.”

I narrow my eyes and say, “Jess! Why don’t you like him?”

“I do like him. I just don’t think you love him.”

“I do, too!” I say. “What’s not to love?”

“‘What’s not to love’ is hardly a reason
to
love,” she says. “And the
catch
of your life is not the same thing as the
love
of your life. Be careful of that subtle but rather crucial distinction.”

I shake my head, wishing that Claudia could have made it out, and thinking that Jess is the last person who should be doling out relationship advice.

“I’m well aware of the difference,” I say. “And Peter is both.”

“If you say so,” she says. “But I’ve never seen you light up when you talk about him the way you just did with Conrad.”

“Conrad was a childhood fantasy. Nothing more.”

She wags her finger at me. “He could be more, though. And you already have a kid with him.”

I tell her she’s way off base, then close my menu with authority.

“You know what you want?” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

*   *   *

“What do you think?” Peter asks as we sit in a small office in the diamond district, meeting with his longtime jeweler, Ari Zwacker. I’ve decided not to let it bother me that Ari designed Robin’s ring—and most of the jewelry she owns—and instead try to focus on the lineup of gorgeous stones displayed on his desk. Underneath each is a description of the color, carat, and clarity, and I notice that there is nothing less than a VS1, three-carat, G-color rock. I don’t know much about diamonds, but I am pretty sure that any one of these stones costs more than what I made my first five years in television.

“They’re all gorgeous,” I say, part of me wishing I’d just let Peter surprise me. I once offhandedly mentioned that I wanted to pick out my own ring, something I have to look at every day, but there is something decidedly unromantic and a little bit depressing about having a symbol of love reduced to such scientific classifications—especially classifications focusing on imperfections.

“Which one is your favorite?” Peter says, gazing at me expectantly.

I pretend to deliberate in case there is a big price differential, but there is a clear winner in the group—a four-carat, F-color, VVS1 emerald-cut stunner. I finally point to it. “That one is gorgeous … But they all are,” I say. “Which one do you like?”

Ari nods and says to Peter, “As you predicted.” He then carefully picks it up with a pair of tweezers and drops it into the setting of a ring, then slides the whole ensemble onto my finger. I stare at it in disbelief. It is, quite simply, the most beautiful diamond I have ever seen, including the ones in magazines on the hands of celebrities.

“Do you love it?” Peter says.

I look at him, still speechless, as he grins then gives Ari a wink. “I’ll call you.”

Ari nods as we say our good-byes, then head back onto Forty-seventh Street, past a throng of Hasidic Jews and several window-shopping couples.

“Are you happy?” Peter asks, as we turn onto Fifth Avenue.

“Ecstatic,” I say, flashing him a big smile to prove it.

He leans in and gives me the kind of kiss that you don’t often see on crowded sidewalks. A kiss that goes with a four-carat, near-flawless diamond. A kiss I would have done absolutely
anything
in the world for on the night I first brought up the subject of marriage. The night I met Kirby and my whole life began to change.

*   *   *

The following evening, Peter and I attend a lavish Doctor Zhivago–themed, black-tie birthday party for an old friend of his (and Robin’s) at the Peninsula. We have already made our first round of hellos, and sampled the many varieties of vodka, smoked salmon, and beluga caviar being served, but neither of us is really in the mood for a scene, and the feeling is only amplified when Robin and her sculptor boyfriend corner us.

“So when are you two getting married?” Robin blurts out after we’ve covered our usual topics.

Peter slips his arm around my waist and shocks her by saying, “Soon.”

As if on cue, a waiter hands us two glasses of champagne from a silver tray. Robin raises hers, demanding we do the same. “Well, cheers to that! I’m really happy for you. You’re the perfect couple. It makes me sort of sick you’re so perfect.”

“Thanks, I guess,” I mumble, raising my glass and taking a sip.

“Here’s to a big, blended, crrr-azzzy family,” Robin says, then turns to fill her boyfriend in on just how unusual our situation is, including the story of Kirby’s return. Then, before anyone can get a word in, she asks if she can come to the wedding. “Please, please, Petey?”

Peter smiles, but shakes his head and says absolutely not.

“Marian will let me,” she says. “Right, Marian?”

“Oh, sure. Of course,” I say, then deflect with a joke about inviting her to the honeymoon, as well. A few seconds later, she stumbles off with her boyfriend, and Peter and I migrate to the outside terrace. We lean on a high railing, looking out over the lights of Fifth Avenue. It is a clear, beautiful night, the kind that should make you euphoric, thrilled to be a New Yorker, happy to be
alive,
but as we sip our champagne and admire the view, my mind starts to race as it has since I returned home from Chicago. At one point he asks me a question, but I haven’t heard a word.

“Hmm?” I say.

“What’s on your mind, Champ?” he says. “You seem a million miles away.”

I apologize and say I was thinking about my show—a script rewrite I was working on earlier.

He gives me a quizzical look, then says, “Is there something else you’re trying to rewrite?”

I glance at him nervously and say, “Well, I guess I was also thinking about the ring…”

“What about it?” he asks.

“Um … I don’t think you should buy that one … yet,” I say as I catch a young model type giving Peter a not so subtle once-over. I feel a territorial pang, then try to refocus on our conversation.

“Why not?” Peter says, draining the rest of his champagne and putting the glass on a table behind him.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It might be
too
big.”

“It’s not too big.”

“Well, I’m not sure about the cut … I’m just not sure it’s … the
one.
”

He crosses his arms, then says, “You’re not sure
it’s
the one—or you’re not sure
I’m
the one?”

I swallow, trying to get my breath and courage to continue, wondering if I’m doing the right thing or if this will be another choice I regret for years to come.

“Peter,” I say. “I don’t think we should get married.”