Plot Twist

by Bethany Turner

  Hamish MacDougal.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was actually there. The curls and the sideburns were both shorter but unmistakable. The chiseled physique from the “Holy muscles, Batman” era had been molded into a gentler, softer version of itself, but again . . . unmistakable. He kept his head down as he drank coffee and messed around on his iPhone, but every few seconds he would glance up. Every time the door opened.

  I forced my brain to slow down long enough to create an inventory. What did I want? In ten years, had he forgotten me? Would he have shown up after his meeting with Gus and Fiona if they hadn’t hurried things along with Gus’s need for caffeine and Fiona’s need for romantic extravagance? Though Culver City celebrity sightings were pretty commonplace and the locals were mostly leaving him alone, it seemed, countless sets of eyes all around the room had zeroed in on him. Surely he didn’t regularly sit on couches in the middle of coffeehouses all by himself in the middle of the day. Did he keep looking up when the door opened without even remembering why? Did it all feel like déjà vu, and he couldn’t quite figure it out? He didn’t have the benefit of magazine covers and movies to keep me fresh in his mind. Would he even recognize me when he saw me? Had he looked up when I walked in? While I was getting my bearings, had he looked straight at me and not recognized the forty-year-old version of a much younger blast from his past?

  What if he’d always wished he had gotten my phone number? What if he had dated countless supermodels and actresses but always missed the girl who had told him he might have a career writing greeting cards? What if, against all odds, he wanted me? I’d be flattered, but would I be interested?

  “We’ll always have Sri Lanka.”

  I stopped breathing when I heard the words from just behind me. Behind me? And yet there was Hamish MacDougal, still in front of me, relaxed on the couch. I turned around slowly.

  “Oh. Hello,” I said with confusion when I saw the balding, slightly heavyset man before me. Something in his eyes was familiar, but nothing made sense. “Um . . . I’m sorry . . . What did you say?”

  He took a deep breath, I think in relief, as a kind smile crept across his face. The smile was as evident in his eyes as it was on his mouth, and my brain began wrestling with itself, trying to figure out where I had seen him before. But it all came crashing down on me in the most spectacular, mind-blowing, humiliating way possible a moment later when he opened his mouth and spoke again, in a dialect that was unmistakably Irish, even to my uncultured ear.

  “I said we’ll always have Sri Lanka. It’s good to see you, old friend. I wasn’t sure you’d come. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you, but you haven’t changed a bit. I’d know you anywhere.”

  The room began spinning as I sought understanding. How was that possible? How had I so masterfully deceived myself for so long? I glanced behind me to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated Hamish. Nope. He was there. What in the world was happening?

  The man behind me kept talking, his voice so familiar. “Um . . . Well, I guess I’ve changed a bit, haven’t I? I’m so glad you showed up.” I turned back to him, my mouth and eyes wide open. “Oh yeah, that’s Hamish MacDougal over there on our couch. Don’t worry. We can ask him to move.”

  It was a good thing he wasn’t responsible for deciphering my dialect right then. I’m pretty sure my stammers came out as some sort of cross between English and sea otter.

  My friend began to look concerned. “So, um . . . I guess maybe we should exchange names after all this time, huh? I can’t even tell you . . . I felt like a perfect fool for not asking your name ten years ago. But maybe this is the way it needed to be. I’m Guthrie Walsh.”

  “Livi! You came!” I heard Fiona’s voice as she came running over. She wrapped her arms around me. “Did you see him?” she whispered in my ear. “He’s over there on the couch.”

  She stopped short, and I allowed myself only a brief peek at her face as she examined the man I was speaking with. I didn’t know how I would explain it to her. After all, I hadn’t yet figured out how to explain it to myself.

  “Um, Fi—”

  “Oh, did you meet Gus?”

  I didn’t know if I could handle any further layers of confusion.

  “You two know each other?” the man and I asked at the exact same time.

  And then it started to click—at least a little bit—and I began looking around for a Rita Hayworth poster to cover the Shawshank Redemption–sized tunnel I was preparing to dig in order to escape the situation. “You’re Gus?” I asked. “Fiona’s boss? That Gus?”

  I started to feel a little better, now that the two of them were looking as confused as I was.

  “Yes. And how do you know Fiona?”

  Fi jumped in first, thankfully. “Gus, this is my best friend, Olivia Ross.”

  Gus slapped his mostly bald head. “No!” He looked at Fi. “The screenwriter?”

  Fi winked at me. “The screenwriter.”

  It was Gus’s turn to stammer, and even his stammering sounded Irish. “I—I—well, what do you know! We were just throwing around ideas in the car on the way over here, and Fiona was telling me the plot of your Jack Mackinnon movie, and I think it sounds fantastic. I had just told her to see if the rights were still available. And that’s yours?”

  Confusion and joy bubbled up from my toes. “Well, no, actually. It’s yours. It’s . . .” Tears rolled out of my eyes. “It’s the one . . . It’s the one I was writing . . .”

  “Oh, sweet girl!” He pulled me into his arms for a tender embrace. “Let’s go sit,” he said as he pulled away. “Fiona, do you mind carrying on with Hamish for a few minutes? I’d love to get caught up with Olivia.”

  Fi hesitated. “Sure,” she finally replied with a very confused glance at me before she joined Hamish on the couch.

  “I meant what I said, Olivia,” Gus said to me as we sat. “I was interested in your script even before I had any idea Fiona’s friend was you. Can you send it to me?”

  I wiped my eyes and snapped back to reality as I heard the kindness in his voice. The same kindness that had made such an impact on me a decade earlier. I don’t know how I had confused things so spectacularly, but there was no doubt I was sitting with the same stranger with whom I had had the most meaningful first conversation of my life. And in ten years, he had not forgotten me. He had honored the commitment that I had fully intended to blow off.

  “Of course I can send it to you.” I smiled, finally ready to be present. “Want me to e-mail it? I didn’t bring a paper copy, but—”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t bring my actual Academy Award either. And no, before you ask, I don’t have the armful I said I would have, but I’m hoping the one will count toward my fulfillment of our bargain.”

  He winked, and I collapsed into a fit of giggles. “This is crazy!”

  “I know. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

  “You have no idea! Look . . .” I chewed on my lip and looked over to the couch. Yep, Hamish MacDougal was still there. Hamish, whom I had never met before. Hamish, who had alternated between being the muse and the nemesis in my mind for a decade. Hamish, who was totally into Fiona and whatever she was saying, from the look of it. “The truth is I thought you were Hamish MacDougal. I mean, not when I met you. I didn’t know who Hamish was when I met you. But a couple years later I saw him on something, and—”

  “Hamish is Scottish. I’m Irish.”

  “I know! And I told everyone you were Irish. I called you Sexy Irish Guy for the first two years—” Oh, kill me now. If only I had followed Deborah Kerr’s example and gotten hit by a taxi on the way in. “I never intended to tell you that.”

  Gus laughed as he pulled out his phone. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I was pretty sexy back then.” He winked again and my nervousness melted away. I knew this guy. I liked this guy. “Ah, here we go,” he said as he scrolled. “My old agent from the acting days found this in some files and sent it to me a few weeks ago. My head
shot.” He turned the phone toward me as he said, “From about ten years ago.”

  I covered my mouth and felt vindication wash over me. “Are you sure that’s not Hamish’s headshot?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Shortly after this headshot was taken, I got my last acting role.”

  “Which was?”

  “Well, I had a small role in a little film you may have heard of called The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement, thank you very much.”

  “And that’s where you met Shonda Rhimes!”

  He chuckled. “That’s right. And it was right around then I decided I was tired of auditions and all that. I wanted to work behind the camera. So I went to film school and began transforming into the fine physical specimen you see before you today.” He smiled genuinely. “The benefits of producing.”

  “And now here we are, with Hamish MacDougal, whom I spent the last eight years thinking you were. And you’re my best friend’s boss. I mean, this really is crazy.” I shook my head, still in disbelief. “But hang on . . . Did you plan on coming here today? Fi had been texting me that you guys were meeting with Hamish, and she’d been trying to convince me to be here today—to meet him, not you. But were you not planning on coming?”

  He laced his fingers over the top of his head and leaned back in his chair. “I wasn’t sure, to be honest. But then Hamish called and asked if we could pick him up in Culver City instead of Malibu, and I thought, ‘Why not?’ I told them we should grab some coffee, and Fiona suggested this place before I had a chance to. And here we are.”

  I noticed the wedding ring on his finger and asked, “Do you have kids?”

  “Three.” He smiled and once again pulled out his phone to show me pictures. “You?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “No kids. Never married. Never . . . anything.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘never anything.’ I’m not sure if you’ve read about it in the trades yet, but I think you’re about to sell a screenplay in a major deal with the production company that brought you last year’s Best Picture winner. But I should warn you.” He leaned in closer and I followed suit. “I’m not sure who you see as Jack Mackinnon, but based on the conversation in the car, I think Hamish MacDougal is pretty interested in the role.” He lowered his eyebrows and his voice. “Between you and me, I’m not sure he’s right for it.”

  * * *

  “But I don’t understand!” I was saying thirty minutes later as the four of us sat laughing at a corner table, the unrecognizable commoners facing out so Hamish’s jarringly beautiful famous mug could face the corner. “Why did you bid on me?”

  “Are you kidding me, lass?” Hamish asked in his thick Scottish accent. Yep. I could tell the difference. He turned to Gus and Fi. “She was wearing this killer dress. Knocked my socks off.”

  Fiona nudged me and said, “I know! I told her she was the most gorgeous woman in the room that night.”

  “Hang on,” Hamish said. “You were there too?”

  “She was in charge of the whole thing!” I boasted. “Top to bottom, her event.”

  “And remember?” Fiona turned to me. “We ran all over the place looking for him.”

  “For me?”

  I nodded to Hamish and confirmed. “Like I said, I was sure you remembered me.”

  He reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and lifted it to his lips to kiss it. “I’ll remember you now, Olivia Ross.” He turned to face Fiona as he stood from his chair. “And you. You remember that you’re having dinner with me on Friday, don’t you?”

  She smiled as she and Gus both stood as well. “Who are you again?” Fi winked at Hamish, and the expression on his face was one I had seen on the faces of many men through the years. Men who were completely defenseless against Fiona’s charms.

  “Are you sure we can’t give you a ride back to your hotel?” Gus asked him.

  “Nah, I’ll take a cab. Thanks, chum. Talk to you next week.” They shook hands.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Fi said to Hamish.

  “See you later?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.” She scrunched down and hugged me tightly. “Crazy day, huh?”

  I squeezed her back. “Crazy decade.”

  “But it’s turned out pretty okay, all in all.”

  “And now all that’s left is for you to marry Hamish MacDougal and have lots of beautiful Scottish babies that we can dress in little baby kilts,” I whispered into her ear.

  She pulled away and grinned at me. “Sheesh, Livi . . . I just met the guy.”

  “That didn’t stop you from saying that to me when I’d never met the guy.”

  “Good point,” she responded with a laugh. “By the way,” she continued softly, her eyebrow quirked as she slipped her purse strap up on her shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re finally ready to take some chances, but covering up Stella McCartney with a men’s shirt isn’t so much voguish as it is criminal. But don’t worry. We’ll work on it.” Then she followed Hamish outside.

  “Well, my friend,” Gus said with a sigh as it was his turn to go. “We’ll be talking soon.”

  I stood up and hugged him, and I suddenly felt sad. So much good was happening, and my relationship with Gus was just beginning, but I felt sad.

  “You know, Fiona and I had this friend. And he once said something about saying everything you need to say to someone. I think sometimes you get the chance to do that, and sometimes you don’t. But what I need to say to you, Guthrie Walsh, is that I’m who I am today at least in part because I met you ten years ago. For better or worse, you jumpstarted so many aspects of my life, and that was without even knowing your name. Thanks for that.”

  “Do you know what I treasure even more than our time in Sri Lanka?” His eyes twinkled as he grabbed my hands in his and clasped them to his chest. “This moment. Right now. We’ll always have this, and I’m so very grateful.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and then followed after Hamish and Fiona.

  I took a deep breath and swiped at my eyes. I started to grab my things to go, but then I had to collapse back into the nearest chair, where Hamish had been sitting. All of the emotions associated with ten years of February 4 pooled inside of me and threatened to break free. I breathed in and out. In and out. And then I lowered my head onto my folded arms on the table.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  The deep breathing and blocking out of my surroundings had created a calm that had just begun to permeate, but in an instant the peace was shattered. In its place, jackhammers began drilling and angels began singing and seismic shifts occurred—simultaneously. It all came together to form the familiar but nearly forgotten opus entitled “True Love and Slow-Burn Regret in E-Flat Minor.”

  I raised my head slowly from my arms and attempted to breathe in and fill my lungs, but it was as if I’d forgotten how. Sharp, shaky intakes would have to satisfy for the time being.

  There was no confusion as to who the voice belonged to, and so much more than déjà vu swept over me at the sound of it. I braced myself one more time in anticipation of the agony and the euphoria, then turned as I stood. And then I was face-to-face with him for the first time since Boston. I was in that coffeehouse with him for the first time in nine years.

  And I knew in an instant that I was as in love with him as I had ever been.

  “Well, isn’t this ironic?” I croaked out at the sight of him.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took a tentative step toward me. “You know, I’ve spent a lot of time analyzing that song, and I have some issues. I’ve been thinking of preparing a class-action lawsuit against Alanis. She’s responsible for an entire generation of people not actually understanding what irony is.”

  Despite the current out-of-body moment I was experiencing, I smiled and thought back on what Fiona had said. Liam had always been funny. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. You see, ironic is defined as ‘happening in the opposite way to what is expected, and typ
ically causing wry amusement because of this.’”

  I grabbed onto the chair to stabilize myself as he took another step.

  “So some of what Alanis classified as ironic, okay.” He shrugged and then pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “Finding the black fly in your glass of chardonnay? Sure. I guess. You don’t expect that, and I suppose it could cause wry amusement, as long as it wasn’t a rare year of wine or something. But some of the other things . . . I just don’t know.”

  Another step. Another moment that I wasn’t sure my knees would hold out.

  “The old guy who won the lottery and then died? Who was amused in that situation? Was the guy who got pardoned from death row two minutes after he was executed wryly amused? I think Alanis needs to answer for that.”

  I nodded and swallowed down the lump in my throat as my eyes floated over his figure from head to toe and back again, not allowing myself to linger anywhere for long—although I did get tied up on his left hand for a while. I hadn’t expected it to be bare.

  “What are you doing here, Liam?”

  The corner of his mouth slid up, and my eyes got tied up there for a while too. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” He chewed on his lips. “The truth is . . . Well, I guess I needed to see how this whole thing played out. I was pretty invested, too, you know.”

  “You saw Hamish?”

  “I did. I’m glad he showed up.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know. Should I be?” He appeared uncomfortable for the first time as his feet shuffled. “He looked pretty cozy with Fiona.”

  I glanced at his hand again. “Are you married?”

  Nice, Liv. Subtle.

  “I’m not.”

  Breathe. “Were you?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I, um . . .” Another step. “She was great. She just wasn’t . . .”

  Say that she wasn’t me. Say that she wasn’t me. Say that she wasn’t me.