by Leisa Rayven
He turns to me. “You love my writing, huh? That sounded almost sincere.”
“It was. You may be a jackass, but you’re a talented jackass. Now please, stop doubting yourself, because it feels strange and uncomfortable giving you this much positive reinforcement.”
“But that’s your job now, right?” he says, unwinding a little. “You have to pump me up, like a coach before a big game.”
“Yes,” I say, with a half-hearted fist pump. “So, you go hit that home run thingy through the goal posts, and make a hole-in-one for the home team … bucko.”
He blinks a few times. “You never did understand a single thing about sports, did you?”
“Nope. Not at all.” Our waitress places the check on the table, and I grab it. “Now, let’s get out of here. We need to unlock your creativity, so we can score a touchdown with some words.”
“Awful.” He stands and waits as I leave some cash on the table. “Like, hilariously wrong and bad.”
“Title of your second sex tape,” I say as we exit the restaurant.
We head down toward the water and end up in Bridge Park. Without discussing it, we both choose a bench near the river.
“So,” Jake says, turning his face up to catch the sunshine. “What’s your grand plan for unlocking me?”
I put my bag beside us. “I guess the first thing we should do is talk about your lady love.”
He glances at me warily. “You sure you’re up to it? Listening to my issues was never your strong point.”
“That’s filthy slander, but I’ll let it slide. Start at the beginning of your romantic journey, please. Leave nothing out.”
He stares at me for a few more seconds before releasing a noisy breath and looking out at the water. “I met Ingrid in Bali. We were both working at The Zen Farm, because they paid cash to foreigners. After that, we traveled together to Thailand, and then––”
“Wait a second, go back.” He glances at me, confused. “You can’t just say you met her. I need details. When did you first see her? What did you think in those moments? Was there an initial attraction? When did you act on it? You need to make us fall in love with her as much as you did.”
He leans his elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes. “Talking about this stuff isn’t fun, especially not with you.”
“Well, this is our new normal, so you’d better get used to it. If it helps you feel more comfortable, close your eyes. Pretend I’m not here.”
He gives me another doubtful look before crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.
“Take your mind back. Try to relive those past moments and describe them as honestly as you can.”
The muscles in his jaw tighten as he takes a few breaths, and then he begins.
“After high school, I needed to get out of New York. Everything aggravated me, so I took all the money I’d saved in four years working at the bodega and bought the first international ticket I could afford. I tooled around Asia for a while, taking odd jobs that paid me cash under the table, until I got enough money to move onto the next destination. When I got to Bali, I found this place called the Zen Farm. They loved employing foreigners, and when we weren’t working in the garden, the owners ran mindfulness and meditation classes.”
I think I’ve successfully suppressed an urge to mock the idea of Jake existing in such a Zen place, but I must make some kind of noise, because he snaps his eyelids open. “What?”
“Nothing. I just find it hard to … uh … so, you meditated?” I try to imagine him there, cross-legged and serene, but it’s not possible. “Is there some kind of brooding, angry meditation I’m not familiar with?”
“They used guided mediation to take us out of our anger.”
“I know. So, you would have been like Mr. Everest to the instructors, right? Did they give up trying to conquer your anger? Did you break them?”
He sits back and gives me a contemptuous look. “Do you want to hear the story or make fun of me?”
I hold up my hands. “As someone once said, I’m hurt you think I can’t do both.” His replying glare is vicious. “Okay, fine. I won’t mock. Please continue.”
With a noisy exhale, he looks over my shoulder. “I was coming back from lunch when I first saw Ingrid. She was standing on the steps of the bunkhouse, looking over at the flower garden. And …” He looks down. “I was gone. I don’t know what it was about her, but …” He stares at the flowering bush in front of us. The bees must have gotten the memo that winter was on the way, because they seem frantic as they buzz from flower to flower.
“So, it was love at first sight?”
“If you want to call it something totally corny, then, I guess.”
I get a flash of bitter envy that Jake, one of the most unromantic people I’ve ever met, has had that sort of experience and I haven’t. Life really isn’t fair.
“What did it feel like?” I ask.
He goes quiet for a second, lost in thought. “Have you ever listened to a song, and even though you know you haven’t heard it before, it still sounds familiar?”
I nod.
“That’s how it felt looking at her. I’ve always felt angry, for as long as I can remember. But that day, when I saw her …” He shakes his head in awe. “Something shifted; made all the red, angry parts inside me different. The black parts. The gray parts. It made them all …”
“Yellow?” He looks at me in surprise. I duck my head, ashamed I’m about to give away how often I read his stuff. “One of my favorite poems of yours talks about you being made of storm clouds while she’s sunshine. You called her yellow. You liked being yellow with her.”
His looks down at his hands. “Yeah. She was yellow. She glowed. At least, it seemed like she did, even if I was the only one who could see it.” He sits back a little and watches the bees. “The second I introduced myself … that was it. I knew she was my soul mate.”
“How?” I ask. Surely there was a lightning bolt or dizzying wave of revelation. Some sort of giant, revelatory event.
He shrugs. “It’s like asking how you know something’s intrinsically right or wrong. There’s a part of us that just knows.”
“And did she feel the same way?”
“I thought she did.”
He goes quiet as a young couple walks past us, holding hands. “Are you going to taunt me now about how pathetic I am?”
If only he knew how pathetic I was when it came to men. I hesitate to expose the full tragedy of my sexual dysfunction for fear he’ll literally bust a gut laughing, and then I’ll have to rush him to the hospital for emergency surgery.
“I’d never think someone was pathetic for falling in love. I actually have slightly more respect for you now. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have thought you capable of a real, loving relationship.”
“Yeah, of course you didn’t. You were too busy believing I was the anti-Christ.”
“That’s not true. At the most I considered you to be Satan’s assistant. You never had the ambition to be head Devil.”
The sun is now beating straight down on us, so I grab my coat and bag, and stand.
“Moving to the shade?” Jake asks, taking the hint.
“You know it.” He understands that, like any true redhead, I can only bear direct sunlight for a short amount of time before I explode into flames.
“One thing that strikes me as odd,” I say as we walk down the esplanade toward a row of benches shaded by trees, “is why you just let her go. You didn’t fight for her at all?”
“You shouldn’t have to fight for love, Asha. That’s the whole point of it. If two people love each other, there shouldn’t be anything that can keep them apart. But that only works if both of them feel the same way, at the same time. And no matter how much of a romantic you are, you have to admit the odds of that happening are woeful.”
I put my gear on our new bench and sit. “You only think that because you’ve been hurt.”
Jake sits beside me, tension creeping
into his posture. “No, I know that because the one subject I was good at in high school was math.” He turns to me. “A lot of people say they don’t gamble, but of course they do. We all gamble every day. It might not be on blackjack, or the slots, but you bet on whether or not that work deal will pay off, or whether all that expensive gym membership will actually motivate you to be healthier. And if you fall in love, then you’re taking the ultimate gamble. You’re betting with your heart, and that shit’s deadly. Might as well play Russian roulette with live rounds, because let me tell you, most of the time, that heart is lost. Smashed to pieces.”
“That’s pretty pessimistic.”
“Maybe, but it’s the truth. People who fall in love time and again are the ultimate compulsive gamblers. They keep looking for that rush. The Big Win that makes them feel like they’re not meaningless meatbags sitting atop a giant rock that’s hurtling through space. And even though they might only get that special feeling for a little while before everything falls apart, they keep going back, because they believe the myth that one day, they’ll meet someone who’ll make that feeling last forever. They’re blind to the fact that they’re more likely to win the lottery than to find true love.”
My throat tightens as I listen to him. Is that what I do? Lose myself in the giddiness of new relationships and then bail when the high wears off? Is my sexual issue just an early warning system that I’m with the wrong person and I should move on?
“So,” I say, trying to clarify my thoughts as well as his. “You think people should give up on love and play the lottery instead?”
He leans back and lays his arm along the back of the bench. “Might as well. Lotteries are a tax on hope, and so is love. Before you even gamble on a ‘special someone’, you have to dig through the landfill of the dating world and try to find a diamond amid all the garbage; and let me tell you, not all of that stink comes off. Some of it is toxic. Long after you’ve crawled out of the cesspit of a bad relationship, the smell of all the shit you’ve been through still lingers.”
He stares out at the water, his voice becoming softer. “It sits in your brain, and chest, and reminds you over and over again that you’re a loser. And sometimes, the stench is so overpowering, that even when we win at love, we’re so damaged by our screaming, festering failures, that we’re deaf to the sound of a sweet-smelling soul telling us we’ve finally hit the jackpot.”
He goes quiet, and from his expression, I’m guessing he’s thinking about Ingrid again. Clearly, she’s the key to unlocking his words.
Just when I think he’s done, he leans his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. “So, yeah … for me, that’s the difference between gambling with money and gambling with your heart. Sitting at a blackjack table, even when the cards don’t go your way, you keep putting in chips, because you think the next hand will be different. You’re always waiting for the win.”
He shakes his head. “With love, most us are mindlessly betting everything we have, over and over, with the certain, unshakeable faith that we’re destined to lose.”
When he finishes, his cheeks are bright with color. Before I can say anything, he looks at the ground, as if he’s embarrassed to have shown so much of himself.
I’m glad he’s looking away. Not only am I reeling from his unexpected but completely-brilliant outburst, I’m also turned on and confused, along with about fourteen other emotions that are swirling inside me. I peel off my coat to let out some of my sudden body heat.
When he glances over at me. I do my best to hide my body’s unwanted reaction.
Jake narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What? Nothing. Why?”
“Because I just laid out the most anti-romance argument in the history of words, and you’re not disputing any of it.”
I cross my legs. “Why would I dispute it?”
“Because you’re the president, secretary, and fundraising officer for the Hopeless Romantics’ Society.”
“So not true.”
“Asha, please. Your favorite song is My Heart Will Go On.”
I want to deny it, but the truth is, when Celine goes into that key change, I can’t help but swoon. Every … damn … time.
I clear my throat and dig around in my bag until I find a notebook and pen. “Maybe I’m not disputing it because even though it’s a pile of cynical horseshit, it’s exactly the sort of passionate opinion your book needs.”
He leans back. “Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s real, and imperfect, and full of flawed-but-fervent logic.” I pass him the notebook and pen. “Quick, write it down.”
Still seeming confused, he takes the items out of my hands. Then he opens the notebook, rests it on his thigh, and stares at the blank page.
“Jacob, write!”
“Jesus, give me a second, woman. I can’t remember all of it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get down the bits you can.”
He starts to write, and I sit there and watch, making sure he’s not faking it again. To my immense relief, he writes actual decent content instead of filler and excuses.
“You’re staring again,” Jake says with a frustrated sideways glance. “What did I tell you about watching me write?”
With a sigh, I push off the bench and walk over to the railing near the river.
Okay, we’re out of the gate. Now, we just have to keep the momentum going.
I take a few deep breaths, trying to use the crisp river air to purge some of the tension I’ve been holding in ever since Jake revealed he was the professor. It works, but only a little.
Staring at the calm river, I can almost imagine a time when tolerating working with him becomes easier.
Almost.
SIXTEEN
____________________
So Boss
I’M WAITING AT A CROSS-walk when my phone lights up with Joanna’s smiling face.
“Hey.”
“Hey! All done for the day?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way to meet Eden at work. She’s heading straight to the Romance Central event early, and I promised I’d help with hair and makeup. Where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic. Ignore the yelling in the background. All the idiot drivers are out today, and Gerald isn’t happy.” Gerald is Joanna’s chauffeur. He’s very blond and quite British, and it’s hilarious when he unleashes his impatience with New York traffic.
“Selfish!” I hear him yell in the background. “That’s an appallingly uncouth and selfish move, Mr. Mazda! Appalling!”
I laugh. I think he needs some lessons in American road rage, or at least a few good swear words.
“So,” Joanna says. “I’m dying to find out how your first day went. Did you both come out unscathed? Or was there bloodshed?”
I suppress a groan. “Not quite bloodshed, but working with him was exactly as excruciating as I predicted. After a whole lot of bickering, we got a grand total of six-hundred words down for the day. If we keep this up, my stomach will be a magical wonderland of ulcers, and we’ll miss every one of our production deadlines.”
“Surely things will get better with time. You’ll eventually wear away each other’s sharp edges.”
“We managed to not do that for years when we were teenagers.”
“Yes, but you weren’t forced to work together every day back then.”
“But right now, we can’t interact for five minutes without snapping at each other like a couple of cranky Pekingese. I mean, I want to be the bigger person and not bite back, but … God, Jo … he makes it impossible.” It’s easier to get angry with someone than admit they hurt you.
“Uh huh. And how’s that crush going? Bet that’s also making things tough.”
“What?” I jab the cross-walk button a few more times, way harder than before. “I already told you, I never liked Jake in that way ––”
“So you keep saying. And even if I believed you, that was before he turned out to be the hot, passionate professo
r who firmly rezoned your panties into a flood area. Annoying or not, your surly teenage neighbor has grown into a damn sexy man.”
“Jo …” I want to tell her she’s being ridiculous and way off base, but I can’t deny that my unwanted attraction to Jake is an issue. I considered unloading to Eden last night, but I had to defend my relationship with Jake so many times when we were kids, if I now admit I’m attracted to him after all our animosity, I wouldn’t blame her if she stitched IDIOT into all my clothes.
“Look, you don’t have to admit anything to me,” Joanna says, letting me off the hook. “But I think you guys need to find a way to bury the hatchet.”
“Yeah, that’s going to be easier said than done.”
“I know that you’re both pig-headed, but there are ways to purge all that bad blood.”
“Maybe for regular feuds, like the Hatfields and McCoys, the Montagues and Capulets, vegans and bacon lovers … but me and Jake? Yeah, I have my doubts.”
“Trust me. I once got Taylor Swift and Kanye to have a couple’s colonic together. It can be done. Maybe this event tonight will give you an opportunity to purge some ghosts.”
“It’s a work event, Jo.”
“Yes, but it’s based around Romance Central, and they’re all about bringing people together and making them feel good. Maybe you and Jake will benefit by association.”
“Hmmm.” Sounds unlikely, especially considering my night is going to have more than one stress factor, but I can always try to keep an open mind. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”
“Okay, well, if I can help at all, let me know. I’ll be there around nine.”
“You’re coming? I didn’t know Whiplash was sending other staff.”
“Oh, they’re not. I promised Sarah Jessica I’d be her plus-one.”
