Dedication
To Gerard Butler, who was with me when this book’s journey began. (Metaphorically with me. Not literally with me. Though that would have been cool too.)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
February 4, 2003
February 4, 2004
February 4, 2005
February 4, 2006
February 4, 2007
February 4, 2008
February 4, 2009
February 4, 2010
February 4, 2011
February 4, 2012
February 4, 2013
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Plot Twist
Also by Bethany Turner
Copyright
February 4, 2003
“Mind if I sit here?”
I looked up, already disgusted. I’d been hit on four times in the three hours I’d been taking up space at Mugs & Shots, my neighborhood coffee place. As a thirty-year-old in a typical java joint in downtown Culver City, just seven miles from UCLA, I didn’t usually have to concern myself with such things. The caffeine-fueled flirting and socializing usually skewed a bit younger, freeing me up to write and think and enjoy my latte in peace. I wasn’t sure if the typical female demographic had all been detained by sorority pledging or if the management of the coffeehouse had decided to add Old-Timer Tuesdays to the endless list of theme days written on the chalkboard, but I just wasn’t interested. And while the man who spoke to me presently was more attractive than the first three had been, I’d had enough.
“You can sit wherever you like, but I’m busy, so if you don’t mind . . .”
He set his espresso on the table in front of the couch where we both now sat. He hadn’t even waited for me to finish my sentence before he made himself at home.
“Not a problem,” he said in some European dialect. Maybe Irish? I’d never been good with accents. Or geography in general. I’d always lived in locations where such things didn’t matter much. The first twenty-two years of my life, in Boston, I’d only had to keep track of the water. Near the Harbor. Across the Charles. After eight years in Southern California I knew I could get pretty much anywhere as long as I never lost track of the Pacific and the 405. “I won’t bother you. Man, I’ve never seen this place so busy.”
I looked up from my notebook full of hopeless plot ideas and conversation starters, headed nowhere, and felt like a fool. The seat next to me on the couch, where the possibly Irish stranger now sat drinking his coffee, had in fact been the only empty seat in the building. I could have no doubt that my earlier indiscreet declarations to various men that destiny in fact played no role whatsoever in our mutual love of java were all that had kept other earnest would-be sitters at bay.
“Sorry if I was rude. I didn’t realize there was nowhere else to sit. I guess I’ve been kind of lost in my own little world.”
He smiled. “And you thought I was hitting on you?”
“No! I mean, maybe. But not because . . . I mean, a few other guys . . .” I sighed, grateful that now I was in my thirties I at least seemed to know when to cut my losses and shut up. I was pretty sure I hadn’t possessed that skill even weeks before when I was still twenty-nine. Maybe when I turned forty I would be gifted with the wisdom to never open my mouth in the first place. “Never mind. I am now thoroughly embarrassed, and I believe that’s my cue to leave.” I closed my notebook and threw it and my pen into my purse, which had been secured between my hip and the end of the couch.
“Hey, hey. No need to be embarrassed. And no need to leave. You appear to be working on something important. I, meanwhile, hope to ingest enough caffeine to make my blood hop. This is a place that can accommodate us both. Stay. I won’t bother you.”
He smiled at me and guzzled down more of his steaming drink before turning his attention to the Backstage magazine rolled up under his arm. An actor. Of course. I’d been in Los Angeles long enough to know that everyone was an actor or a writer despite the fact that our paychecks came from In-N-Out Burger or Trader Joe’s. Or, in my case, Heartlite Greeting Card Company. Those of us sitting around with pens and notebooks, boasting normal, nonperfect teeth like most mere mortals possess and shamefully neglected dark hair roots tied up in a messy bun—not of the intentionally messy variety, mind you—and dressed in layers of casual, unflattering clothing that made us look like we’d just gone for a run, though we most assuredly had not? Writers. We were easily set apart from our attractive onscreen counterparts who were tied down by the necessity of putting effort into their appearance.
Take my couch mate, for instance. He had this messy flop of curls alongside perfect sideburns that accentuated his chiseled jawline. Even in that moment the word chiseled came to mind, as did the realization that I had never before thought of the word chiseled. But he was the very definition and perhaps the reason it had been created. He wore a black leather jacket over his white T-shirt, but not the seventy-five-degree day nor the steaming espresso nor the fire code–violating swarm of patrons caused him to break a sweat. Every style choice was perfect. Every tooth was perfect. Every messy curl? Perfect.
All actors looked like they had rolled out of bed that way while we writers gave off the impression that despite our best efforts nothing more could be done to save us.
“It looks like your drink is running low,” a new voice stated from above me.
My eyes rose in disbelief and frustration, but having learned a lesson from my recent hastiness, I took a deep breath. Maybe he worked there and needed the tips. Maybe he was just proud of his newly acquired observation skills and wanted to take them out for a spin.
“I’ve got what you might call a gift.”
Huh?
“Congratulations,” I muttered as I pulled my notebook and pen back out of my handbag. Even if I couldn’t get any work done, I needed to at least make a note to remind myself to implore management to offer whatever discounts and incentives necessary to bring back the co-eds.
“No, I’m serious,” the gifted one said. He helped himself to a seat next to me on the arm of the couch. “I can name your drink, down to the number of shots and the way you like your dairy.”
Ignore him and he’ll go away. Ignore him and he’ll go away.
“Or . . . maybe not. You’re not a dairy girl at all, are you? You’re . . .” He drummed his fingers on his chin. “You’re all soy.”
Well, the guy deserved points for originality. I could honestly say no man had ever before hit on me by referring to me as a legume derivative. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just here to get some work done.”
“I’ve got it,” he continued. “Soy cappuccino, three shots, extra foam, extra hot.”
“Ooh, so close. Hazelnut crème breve, extra whipped cream. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Once again I threw everything back into my purse. But just as I stood to leave, he propped one cowboy boot–clad foot on the corner of the coffee table in front of us and blocked my exit.
“‘Extra whipped cream’!” He laughed as if I had just told him that handlebar moustaches weren’t all the rage among other thirtysomethings in SoCal. “I like your spirit.”
“Hey, look, pal.” My possibly Irish couch mate leaned forward and addressed the gifted cowboy. “I believe my friend made it clear—”
“Your ‘friend’?” I repeated as I turned my head to face him. Even as I said it, I realized the words weren’t the problem, and by zeroing in on them I’d lost the impact of whatever empowered, independent-woman vibe I had hoped to give off. He didn’t call you “dollface,” Olivia, I lectured myself. Just end this and get out. “I appreciate your help, but
I’ve got everything under control.”
“Are you two together?” the Great Drink Detective asked my “friend”—not me. I sneered, affronted.
“Yes” and “no” rang out in unison, resulting in an amused smirk on the face of my interrogator.
“No, we most certainly are not,” I declared, looking in shock from one stranger to the other.
“I’m just trying to help,” the actor whispered as he sat on the edge of his middle seat cushion.
“I don’t need your help,” I whispered back through clenched teeth.
“We go way back,” he said at full volume, ignoring me. “And the fact is you’re interrupting an important conversation.”
“No, you’re not,” I assured the other guy, whose Wranglers had now brushed up against my knee one too many times.
The man on my left—much handsomer, much less slimy, but currently no less infuriating—kept on. “Yes, he is. The fact is we’re in love—”
“We are not!”
My eyes flew wide in complete disbelief and confusion. His grew equally round, twinkling with mischievous delight. He wagged his eyebrows up and down and nudged me with his elbow, but there was no way I was going to play along with this ludicrous game.
“What’s it going to take for me to convince you we belong together, my love?” he implored of me. He turned his attention to the cowboy. “You see, we shared this magical weekend when we were both overseas on assignment. After college. During our time in the Peace Corps. It was while we were in—”
“I don’t need your help.”
All I’d wanted was to utilize stupid amounts of sugar and caffeine and a soundtrack of alt-folk singer-songwriters while I finally made progress on a screenplay the Coen brothers would want to direct. Was that so much to ask?
He sighed and raised his Backstage in surrender. “My apologies. No offense intended, I assure you.”
“None taken.”
I turned my back to my Peace Corps buddy as he went back to reading. My Wrangler-wearing suitor was waiting. “I appreciate you taking the time to demonstrate your supernatural talent for me—I do—but I’m not looking for conversation right now, or anything else. No offense, but I’m just going to take off.”
“So, you aren’t together?” he asked, his voice slick and oily and as befitting a cowboy as the pink-flamingoed button-up shirt he was wearing.
“We aren’t,” I replied with a sigh, confident he hadn’t heard anything else I’d said.
I would have stood up and awkwardly stepped over Irish Guy to get away, but Hipster Cowboy was sitting so close there was no way to avoid some incidental contact, and the thought made me icky. I could have asked Irish Guy to get up and let me out—I instinctively knew he would acquiesce—but we had a silent couch partner reclined on the other end with his feet up on his corner of the table. Well, he was silent apart from the occasional snores and slurping back in of drool.
“Good.” Hipster Cowboy’s expression morphed into the one Sylvester always has when he wraps a napkin around his neck after he finally catches Tweety Bird. “So how about that second cappuccino?”
“Or hazelnut crème breve, extra whipped cream. Same difference.” Irish Guy murmured it under his breath, but I heard every syllable. More important, I heard the disgust behind every syllable. In an instant I realized my obstinate independence had, for the second time since making his acquaintance, caused me to withhold the benefit of doubt that the other conscious third of the couch deserved.
“Sri Lanka!” I exclaimed, causing many a random passerby to glance at me—and that smarmy confidence to temporarily drop off of Hipster Cowboy’s face. “I’ve been madly in love with him since our time in Sri Lanka.”
What? Sri Lanka? Why had I said Sri Lanka? Where was Sri Lanka, anyway? Not good at geography. Also not good at making it up on the fly.
Hipster Cowboy looked at me as if I were insane—and not just in the Southern-California-girl-in-her-thirties-who-believes-in-whipped-cream-and-whole-milk sort of way.
“‘Madly in love’ . . . What are you talking about?”
I cleared my throat and dove in, finally convinced this guy would never succumb to traditional rejection. “Yes. It’s true. I’ve been too scared to confess my feelings, but he’s right.”
“Who’s right? Did I miss something?”
Oh goodness. Where to begin . . .
I felt the cushions shift as Irish Guy eased up to the edge again. “Finally!” He grabbed my hand in his. “Tell me, my love. When did you first know we were destined to be together?”
I flashed my eyes toward him and was met by his playful gaze. “Um . . . like I said . . . I’ve known since Sri Lanka.”
“Yes, but when in Sri Lanka? I want to know the exact moment. The exact intake of breath when your heart began beating in time with mine.”
A laugh began rumbling its way up from my chest, but I refused to unleash it. He thought he was pretty funny, and I was inclined to agree. But by taking the long, dramatic way out of my uncomfortable situation, he’d forfeited his right to receive that confirmation.
“I think it was at that tribal ceremony—”
Dear people of Sri Lanka,
Please don’t take it personally if I’m completely butchering the authenticity of your culture. I promise it’s not personal. I’d be just as clueless about Boise.
Love,
Olivia
“With the fish! I’d forgotten all about that!” He chuckled and squeezed my hand, and I swallowed the laughter once again.
“‘Fish’?” Hipster Cowboy lowered his boot to the ground. Finally. He was still too close, and there was bound to be some incidental contact, but at least I could make a quick run for it and not have to step over him.
If only my hand weren’t still being held.
“We should go . . . my love.” I was so far out of my comfort zone. And though I was amused, I wanted nothing more than for it all to be over. I wanted to go home. I wanted to take a shower and clean the smarm off of me. I wanted to start searching for a new coffeehouse that wasn’t the Generation X equivalent of Studio 54.
“Yes, darling, but our friend wants to know about the fish. Oh, blimey, this is a good story.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, darling, but . . . I mean, I want to . . .” Oh, good grief. Think, think, think. It was no wonder I couldn’t finish a screenplay. Even basic sentences seemed to be just out of reach.
His smile was bewitching. Stunning. And not just because he was an undeniably beautiful actor sort of man. But there, in that moment, as the corner of his lips lifted and trembled slightly in his amusement at what was being said and what wasn’t, I think I got lost in that smile just a split second too long. Before I knew it, he was off and running.
“So, we’re in Sri Lanka and this tribal elder starts telling us this legend about a mystical fish that is only seen once every four hundred years. But when it is . . . Well, you tell him, sweetness.” He winked as he looked at me with a sly grin. “You tell it so much better than I do.”
“Oh, I’d love to,” I replied, smiling back at him in spite of myself. “But I really am so very desperate to be alone with you, after all this time.”
A laugh burst out of him, ruining the façade. With the hand that wasn’t holding mine, he grabbed his cup and swallowed the rest of his espresso in one gulp, then stood and pulled me up with him. He faced Hipster Cowboy. “I’m sure you understand—”
“Oh, yeah.” The guy stood and moved out of our way so we could pass. “Enjoy yourselves. Love is a beautiful thing.”
Irish Guy stopped in his tracks. “It really is,” he agreed. “And it’s right around the corner for you.”
“Thanks, man,” Hipster Cowboy replied as he settled into my abandoned cushion on the couch, looking as moved and introspective as I’d ever seen any man look.
* * *
“No, I mean it,” I said through my laughter fifteen minutes later as we continued standing and chatting by
his car—some little convertible thing that seemed perfect for him. It wasn’t showy at all. Not super fancy or expensive and far from new, but very cool. Like, legitimately cool. Not midlife-crisis cool. “I’m sure your big break is just around the corner.”
“See, you keep saying that, but you also keep giggling when you say it. Forgive me for not being convinced that your faith in me is absolute.” He smiled as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I do actually get work occasionally.”
“Good for you.”
The heartiness of his laughter overshadowed mine. “‘Good for you’ means ‘Bless your poor hopeless heart,’ right? Kind of a ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’”
“No, not at all,” I insisted, though of course that was exactly what I meant. “I mean ‘Good for you, following your dreams!’” I punched him on the arm in a way I knew conveyed all of the emotional depth of “Go get ’em, Sparky!”
This guy was cute. And he was charming. And funny. In life, he was unquestionably a leading man. Becoming a leading man in Hollywood was a completely different thing, though. But maybe he would make it. Maybe I’d be sitting in front of my television one day, writing condolences for bereaved pet owners, and he would pop up on my screen as a comatose body in a soap opera. Or in a Rogaine commercial. The guy had nice hair. Lots of men would buy Rogaine if they thought it would give them hair like his.
I sighed. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be patronizing. It’s just that I know how hard it is to make it in this business. In this town. But if you’re getting any work at all, that is fantastic. I mean it.”
“You sound like you know that of which you speak. You’re an actress?”
I guffawed at the thought. “No. In fact you were just witness to my entire acting reel.”
“Well, you were a modern-day Ingrid Bergman.”
“I was impressive, it’s true.”
We were quiet for just a moment, and it was far more comfortable than stillness and silence with a stranger should ever be. I found myself hoping I could actually become friends with this guy. He was gorgeous, I realized more and more with each passing moment, but that wasn’t it. I liked him. I didn’t necessarily even want to date him. He was too handsome. Too rugged. Too charming. Too perfect, perhaps? He wasn’t my type at all. I had long ago accepted the fact that I was a supporting character, and supporting characters don’t fall in love with leading men. But it’s perfectly acceptable for them to be friends. In fact, that’s the whole reason supporting characters are there.
Plot Twist Page 1
