by Gigi Blume
Beth placed Lady down on the floor and gave her a quick scratch before straightening again, fixing her eyes on me beneath her dark, natural lashes. I was transfixed for a long pause, but after a few moments, I gained my faculties and bent to summon my dog.
“Lady. Come.”
Lady gazed at me with those large, doleful eyes, looked up at Beth, and made up her mind to stay where she was, resting her snout on Beth’s feet. Beth didn’t seem to mind this, instead, opting to cock her head to the side and plant her hands on her hips.
“You named your Cocker Spaniel ‘Lady?’” She smirked. “How original.”
I suppose I could have come up with some other clever name for a dog, but ever since I was a child, I wanted a Cocker Spaniel named Lady. Call me sentimental, but Lady and the Tramp was the movie my mother always put on for me when I was sick. It offered a certain comfort and always reminded me of Vicks Vapor Rub and Mom’s perfume. When I was finally at a place in my life to care for a dog, my only desire was to have an English Cocker just like in the movie. Yes, how original. So what if a little pixie I hardly knew threw me some judgmental shade? I wasn’t put on this earth to vie for her approval. I ignored her snarky remark and called for my dog once again. She didn’t budge.
What had gotten into her? Was she cross with me for setting her in Stella’s office?
Beth threw me a smug grin, arching her brow and digging her brown eyes into my soul.
“Having trouble there, Mr. Darcy? It appears your dog is an excellent judge of character.”
There was truth in that. Lady never could stand Jorge. Apparently, she thought Beth was her new fur-baby mommy. What was it about her? Was it her frank unstudied air? Her propensity to speak her mind even if her opinions were unpopular? I had long considered her irreverent take-no-prisoners attitude was her most confounding appeal. Of course I couldn’t let on that I actually admired her spunk.
“And what would you know about that?” I accused. “Considering the company you keep?”
Her jaw dropped with incredulity, and I heard a clipped breath from the back of her throat.
“The company I keep?” She made that sound in the back of her throat again. “You got a problem with my friends?”
Okaaaay. She was getting a little gangsta there. I could roll with that.
“They aren’t exactly model citizens,” I spat. “Unless potheads and cradle robbers are what you’re going for.”
“Potheads and cradle robbers? What’s wrong with you? I suppose no one in your circle of friends drinks or smokes, Mr. Hollywood.” She waved her hand up and down, gesturing the length of my body. “Clearly, you’ve got it all together.”
“I never said I have it all together. But as you try to convince people of your impeccable judgement, in doing so, prove your assumptions come up rather short. Much like your stature.”
“That’s it,” she cried, sweeping Lady in her arms with one swift motion. “I’m keeping the dog.”
Her back was turned to me in an instant, briskly putting distance between us.
“Wait a minute.”
I followed her backstage and upstairs to where the dressing rooms were located, calling after her as she retreated from me. “You can’t just take someone’s dog!”
“She’s too good for you,” she exclaimed, briskly disappearing into the shadows of the empty hallway, her words echoing off the concrete walls. “Go get a chihuahua or some other animal with a size complex.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She stopped and turned.
“You tell me. Compensate much?”
“What are you talking about? Lady is a medium-sized dog. I don’t even drive a truck. I’m not compensating.”
“Then why is your ego so big?”
What the…
“If I have a big ego, which I don’t,” I replied with rancor, “it’s only because I’ve earned it. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my career, unlike some people who continue to do menial jobs instead of taking their craft seriously.”
“Oh, yes. You’ve worked real hard riding on Daddy’s coattails.”
That was a low blow. It was particularly low because it was the same thought I had toward Stella’s niece. Riding on her aunt’s coattails. Is that what people saw in me? Generally, I didn’t care what people thought. I didn’t navigate my way around Tinseltown by being a softie. This business was a hell-hole of users and phonies. I decided long ago to keep my feelings close to my chest and trust no one just to survive. I learned to grow a thick hide when it came to other people’s opinions. If I read every review and gossip column about me, I’d never leave the house.
Then why did it bother me so much what Beth thought about me? It was infuriating. Riding on Dad’s coattails indeed! What did she know? Of course, if I’d just calmed myself down and tempered my haunches, I would have checked my anger before saying the most jerky thing I could come up with.
“And who are you?” I spat. “You’re a nobody waitress in a crappy, hole-in-the-wall grease trap. You’re good at pretending, I’ll give you that. But overacting and a holier-than-thou attitude won’t get you far in this business. That’s why you’ll never make it as an actor.”
Dirtbag level: eleven out of ten. Yeah, I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. When you throw a fist through a wall, your knuckles hurt like all get-out, but it’s oh so satisfying. I was so bent out of shape by this woman, punching through her walls felt good—for about five seconds.
Almost immediately, her face dropped into a set gloom, and the edges of her eyes were rimmed with the beginnings of tears. She worked hard to suppress them, but I could detect a ruddiness in her cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was broken. I did that. Me. This guy. And the bloody cuts on my knuckles stung from the blow.
Super.
She didn’t speak for an indeterminable length of time. It could have been a few seconds. It could have been an hour. It felt like an eternity in Hades. I let the words hang there without an apology or an explanation. It was a character flaw. I never could back down from a fight. Even when I knew I was wrong.
At length, she straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and softly whispered, “I understand now why you named your dog Lady. It’s because you don’t know how to be a gentleman to deserve one.”
She closed the length between us in tentative steps and stopped in front of me, kissing the top of Lady’s little head.
“There’s a strict no pet policy in my rental agreement, so…”
She extended her arms toward me and placed Lady in my embrace. And with a nod, brushed past me and returned downstairs.
Real smooth, Will. It takes a real tough guy to make a girl cry. Especially a girl as spirited as Elizabeth Bennet. I could sense Lady giving me the side eye. Even my dog was silently judging me. Happy Holidays.
15
He Ran Into My Knife Ten Times
Beth
I had three words to describe Will Darcy. Stink. Stank. Stunk. Okay, maybe I was just listening to too many Christmas songs, but I really did think he was a triple-decker toadstool sandwich.
After the confrontation from hell, I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror before emerging to the scrutiny of my fellow cast members. Hold your head up high. Don’t let them see you down. Who said I couldn’t act? I almost fooled myself. Not that anybody was paying attention.
By the time I went in for my fitting, my eyes were dry as a California riverbed. Ari had created a bundle of gorgeous Victorian dresses, accented in pastel trim and satin ribbons. It was so incredibly perfect, I looked as if I’d stepped right out of a painting. The only adjustments she needed to make were a few inches off the hem.
Short in stature. Yeah, so what? I preferred to use the term petite. But one thing Will didn’t realize—I was small but mighty. I wouldn’t let his asinine remarks get me down.
“Are you all right?” Ari looked at me over her glasses with an introspective glare. �
��You’re somewhere else, and it doesn’t look like a fun place to be.”
The word eclectic wasn’t dynamic enough to describe Ari. She reminded me of equal parts Professor Trelawney, Audrey Hepburn, and a fairy godmother secretly into 90s grunge bands. Corduroy was her material of choice in bootleg pants, and she often sported red Doc Martins. Today, she’d tossed her blue hair in a messy bun and slapped a scarf around her forehead. And she hardly ever wore makeup. She didn’t need it. She was a natural beauty, but I could tell she’d be a knockout if she ever got dressed up.
I laughed, attempting to put on the mask I wore hiding from scrutiny, but mostly hiding from myself. I was also retrospectively coming up with several witty comebacks I should have jabbed at Will. Why did I always come up with the good stuff when it’s too late?
“I’m just worried about a friend,” I said dismissively. It was a half-truth. I was preoccupied about Jane, but the whole Bing debacle encroached on my mental faculties. I wondered if roommate problems were cause enough to plead temporary insanity. How much time would I have to serve if I got all Cell Block Tango on Will?
“You probably have no drama in your life,” I said.
It was more of a question, but she struck me as a no-nonsense type of gal. Like she’d been there, done that, and now she was a working professional with a picket fence and a beautiful garden.
She shrugged. “I’ve had my share of drama.”
“Are you married?”
Her features shifted, eyes darkening like a car’s headlights switching from high beams to low.
“No.”
That was it. Just one word. No.
There was no way I would head down that tell me about your mother rabbit hole. So I left it at that, thinking if Ari ever wanted to have a girl talk bonding over costume fitting, I’d do my best to be a good listener. For now, I’d have to listen to my own annoying thoughts.
Everything that came out of Will’s mouth put me in the mood for sparring with sharp objects, but one thing in particular stuck with me—even more so than his unfounded overacting comment. He said I was a nobody. A nobody doomed to wait tables in questionable establishments all my life with no one to share it with. In truth, I wouldn’t mind the spinster life. It’s kind of like the thug life but with more baguettes. I even resigned myself to the idea I might not have a career in acting. I knew it was a pipe dream. Many people didn’t make it. I couldn’t say I blamed Will. If my dad were Hollywood royalty, I’d ride his coattails too. If everything he said to me were true, it wouldn’t bother me. But a nobody? I didn’t do that.
I arrived at Lucas Lodge a little early since my dinner consisted of quick and dirty drive-thru Mexican food. Pro tip: use the extra drink holder in your car for the nacho cheese cup. French fries fit nicely in there as well. I’d mastered the art of driving while eating burritos, thus affording me lots of extra time before my shift started to do stuff to actively avoid adulting. Things like pouring the best years of my life into my smartphone. Honestly, my world had turned into such a crazy town, even my waitress job was a welcome distraction.
Charlotte was at the bar as usual, but when she saw me enter, her features stiffened. I laughed because she seemed shocked I’d arrived early rather than my usual ten minutes late, but then, I caught sight of the true source of her deer in the headlights expression. Colin leaned into the bar, drinking his Shirley Temple with extra cherries and a cocktail umbrella. What on earth did this guy want now?
I was still considering the scenario whereby I tiptoed backwards to the parking lot, undetected by Colin when he turned his head in my direction. Oh, lucky day. I was stuck. My options were to smile and jog past the bar, avoid eye contact and hope he disappeared, or suddenly come down with pink eye and go home sick. Interacting with Colin wasn’t on the schedule. We all knew what happened last time, and I wasn’t in the mood to get fired again. But I didn’t have to do any of those things. Colin stood, sipped the last of his drink, and reached for his man purse. But what happened next almost did give me pink eye—if one could get eye diseases from seeing things that shouldn’t be seen. Like your best friend kissing the guy who only recently declared his unwavering love to you. They weren’t making out, so that was a relief. In fact, the kiss was so brief, I thought I might have imagined it. But Colin had the most stupid grin as he parted from her. I think he whispered something to the effect of, “I’ll see you on the morrow, my lamb.” He made for the exit with a bounce in his step, pausing briefly to bid me a good evening, and rode off into the sunset—or at least to Sunset Blvd.
My day had officially reached level one million on the crazy meter. Charlotte and Colin? No, no, no, no, no. Where were the hidden cameras? If this was some sort of messed up reality show, I wanted to be voted off yesterday.
“Pizza!”
I closed the distance, sliding behind the bar so there would be no barrier between us. She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes.
“We only have pizza on Fridays,” she said innocently.
“Our code word, remember? When one of us is making a horrible dating mistake, the other is supposed to say pizza. Colin? Really? You can’t be serious.”
I was mentally face palming. What’s the point in a code word if you have to explain it every time?
She blushed. “Actually, he’s kind of nice.”
“Kind of nice? Kittens are kind of nice. Hot tea on a rainy day is kind of nice. Colin is ridiculous.”
She shrugged and smiled within herself while mindlessly wiping the bar with a towel.
“Fries before guys, Charlotte. Remember when we were going to get that on a tattoo?”
She laughed. “I’m glad we chickened out.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “But it’s still our girl pact.”
She paused her busy nothings to look at me squarely in the eye.
“You know what, Beth? I’m not like you. I don’t need to go out with the hottest guys in the world. I’m practical. Like Jessica Rabbit. I want somebody who makes me laugh.”
I snorted. The kind of snort that would spew milk from my nose if I were drinking milk.
“He’s laughable. That’s for sure.”
Charlotte’s daydreamy grin turned into a fiery scowl.
“I suppose nobody else has a valid opinion on that because you’ve stamped your authority on it?”
“It doesn’t bother you how he jumps from one woman to the other in the bat of an eye?” (A heavily mascara-caked eye.) “He was just in here last week making a scene.”
“If I recall, you were the one making the scene. Or was it Colin spilling yams all over the customers?”
“Okay. I own that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“No. Don’t give me that. You just can’t stand the fact every man you turn down isn’t wallowing in sorrow. You can’t wrap your head around the idea of someone else liking him just because you don’t, that he could find a date even though he wasn’t successful with you, or that he’s not crying into a bottle of gin just because Elizabeth Bennet turned him down.”
I had no idea where this was coming from. She painted me to like some sort of maneater.
She threw her towel down and stormed off somewhere in the back of the restaurant. What was going on? I didn’t even recognize her. I didn’t recognize any of my friends anymore. Jane was, thank goodness, past the grief stage but was now in a scary denial phase. She wore a perpetual plastic smile and was always too busy with Pinterest-worthy tasks like an overachiever Barbie. Whenever I would ask how she was doing, her eyes would glaze over, and she’d say something like, “I’m great. Couldn’t be better.” Then she’d go off and organize her Kanban board and throw out most of her possessions.
Newsflash: I was a minimalist’s second-worst roommate. First prize was reserved for Lydia. I would find things under the couch and in the bathroom, I wish I could unsee. I’d never met anyone quite as messy as Lydia. She perfected a particular kind of messy. She was the Jackson Pollock of messy. That in itself
didn’t surprise me in her behavior. As long as I’d known her, she’d washed her car a total of two times. One of those times because the rain water ran in muddy streaks across her windshield, rendering it unsafe to drive. She actually got a ticket for it. The other time was because she was submitting her car so she could drive for Uber. That didn't work out so well.
But lately, Lydia had been uncharacteristically distant from me. Her nightly partying was nothing new, and I really didn’t want to be invited to go out with her and the girls to pick up random idiots in bars. But she would usually chat my ear off about what they drank and who got asked to dance and who got so plastered they had to be carried home. Sound familiar? Now when I asked how her night was, she’d give me the old one-word blow off. “Fine.” Then I’d be ignored in favor of baby goats in sweaters on YouTube.
My life had suddenly turned into a demented Lifetime movie. I was at that point in the story where the protagonist was in a series of montages set to inspirational music and discovered something profound about herself by the end of the song. The best I could do to recreate that was take a drive after work with the radio blasting. My old Volvo didn’t even have a CD player. I had to plug my phone into a cassette tape auxiliary adapter to listen to my playlist. It made a strange squeaking sound—like a dying chipmunk. The buzzing in the speakers and commercial interruptions weren’t exactly helping the makeshift movie soundtrack of my life either. The montage sequence wasn’t any better, unless you consider a string of liquor stores, taco shops, and homeless encampments incredibly enlightening.
