The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  “I’m actually feeling pretty good, all things considered,” Jeremy said, offering a warm smile, which she instantly returned.

  They locked eyes for a half second, and then, just as quickly, looked away. Was it Jeremy’s imagination or was Annabelle wearing a bit more makeup than usual? And didn’t her wavy tresses look more carefully assembled today? And her clothes, though still colorful and eclectic, seemed more measured: witness her snug silk blouse with its perhaps extra-opened button. Whatever was going on, if it even was at all, Jeremy liked it.

  Annabelle, maybe picking up on Jeremy’s gaze, deflected with her OT rap: “Doing things takes a lot longer now, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. But, really, what’s the big rush, right?”

  “Well, I don’t have all the time in the world,” Jeremy said with a sly grin. He went on to tell her about Three Days of the Condor and Offensive Measures and his newly recharged writing battery, and an approving glint flashed across Annabelle’s face.

  “Wow, so you’re actually doing it! You must be feeling ‘pretty good.’ I’m super happy for you, Jeremy.” And with that, she took his free hand and gave it a little squeeze, holding on just long enough for it to be both awkward and stirring. She quietly pulled it away but held onto his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t make a habit of grabbing my clients’ hands, uh, non-therapeutically.” But Annabelle didn’t look sorry or, for that matter, self-conscious the way she did just minutes before.

  Jeremy leaned against the sink and assessed her. He never noticed just how dark her eyes could look, how they could go from brown to near-charcoal with the merest tilt of her head, and then back again without warning. They were deep, inviting pools. He wanted to kiss her.

  So he did.

  In his mind.

  Annabelle moved a step toward Jeremy. Wait, was she going to kiss him? Should he just lean in and—

  “I forgot,” she said, straightening up, just as Jeremy was about to bravely tilt toward her. What was the kiss equivalent of stopping on a dime? “You wanted me to show you how to adjust that strap around your neck.” Annabelle pointed at the bothersome harness. “Hurts, huh?”

  Jeremy nodded gingerly. She moved in and, using both hands, swiftly adjusted the strap buckle denting the back of his neck. As they were pretty much nose to nose, Jeremy could smell the faint powdery tang of her perfume: unassuming, yet alluring, like the wearer herself.

  She made a few quick tweaks to the wide strap that circled the entire brace at waist level and voilà! Annabelle eyed her handiwork.

  “Better?” she asked, still inches from him—or as close as the stupid abduction pillow would allow.

  Jeremy nodded yes, praying she couldn’t hear his heart pounding, though you’d have to be deaf not to.

  “It won’t last, the thing moves around so much,” Annabelle said, studying his stubbly face. “But at least you’ll get some relief.”

  And, before another word could be spoken, their lips connected in one perfectly synched motion, and they shared a rather terrific kiss. Strangely—or maybe not—Jeremy’s heart stopped pounding and started swelling.

  They pulled apart and looked at each other with amusement. Jeremy’s first thought was to apologize, but Annabelle beat him to it.

  “Oh, my God, I am so sorry!” she said, leaping back so hard she banged into a dining table chair. “That was so …”

  “Nice?”

  “I was going to say ridiculously unprofessional.” She scraped the chair back into place.

  “Actually, I’d say the way you kiss is quite professional.” Jeremy felt like someone else was talking, not him. He smiled at his little joke, but Annabelle didn’t.

  “You’re my client. It’s against the law.” She started straightening all the chairs at the table.

  “What law?”

  “My law.”

  “You need a law?”

  She stopped, considered that. “I think I do now.”

  Annabelle straightened the last chair and turned to face him. Her eyes pooled.

  “Oh no,” Jeremy said. “What’s wrong?” Now he’d done it.

  She tried to suppress her tears but they wouldn’t comply. “I haven’t kissed anyone since Gil died,” she said. “I mean, boy-girl kiss, not, like, my Aunt-Ellen-on-the-cheek kiss.”

  Boy-girl kiss. Jeremy felt a twinge in his tear ducts. Annabelle started to snuffle.

  “Do you need a tissue?” he asked as she sat on one of the chairs she’d just arranged. Jeremy pulled one out of a box perched on the counter. Annabelle took it gratefully, visibly embarrassed by her reaction. She dabbed at her face. Jeremy pulled out a chair and sat next to her, his bulky brace between them.

  Annabelle looked up at him with her chocolate eyes. “I think your therapist needs a therapist,” she joked through some residual sniffles, eking out a wry smile.

  Jeremy took her hand; she didn’t pull away. “Just so you know, I’m honored,” he said, because he truly was.

  “About what?”

  “That I was your first real kiss since, well, then.” He gently let her hand go. It looked like her tears were about to make an encore, but no. Annabelle folded the tissue in quarters and closed her delicate palm around it.

  “I still really miss him,” she said quietly. “Still expect to hear him yelling at one of his teams on the TV because they botched a point. Still expect to find his socks and shoes left stranded in the strangest places.” She paused and studied the terracotta-red floor. “Still expect his side of the bed to be all rumpled and warm when I wake up. But it’s not.”

  Annabelle looked up at Jeremy who was processing her sorrow, a depth of emotion she’d kept nobly tucked away during their long talk the other day.

  “I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said.

  She rose, her usual poise and pluck slowly returning like a balloon refilled with air. “That’s sweet, but you didn’t. I don’t know what came over me. I usually embarrass myself like that in the privacy of my own kitchen. Just me and a bunch of old photo albums and a box of wine.”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Box of wine?”

  “Okay, a bottle. I was just trying to paint the most pathetic picture I could. How did I do?”

  He lumbered up from the chair to face Annabelle and took in that powdery scent, the bottomless depth of her eyes, how her lower lip was fuller than the upper. “I think you have every right to feel however you still feel,” Jeremy answered. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to lose someone you loved like that.”

  “You just lost someone you loved. Didn’t you?”

  For a moment there, he’d forgotten. What did that mean? It meant that while, at first, Cassie’s departure felt like a kind of fatality, she was still very much alive—just not in the way she used to be for Jeremy. Maybe he didn’t love his wife the way Annabelle loved Gil; maybe once, but not eternally. And that, he thought in a Frostian moment, has made all the difference.

  “I know what you’re saying, but I don’t think you can compare the two,” Jeremy concluded. “Unless you’re just trying to be kind.” He felt like he was treading tender territory with her, and it was all feeling a bit too much, too soon. Or was it? By what measure?

  “Oh, I’d never say something just to be kind,” Annabelle joked, though they both knew that was untrue. They stood there a few pensive seconds. “I should go,” she said and looked around for her purse. She grabbed it off the counter, avoiding Jeremy’s tracking eyes.

  “About that kiss,” he started. “I just—”

  “Jeremy,” Annabelle interrupted, “sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.” She gave a little eye roll. “Wait, that’s from an old movie, isn’t it?”

  “Not just any old movie: Casablanca.” He stretched out the iconic title’s four syllables in deference. He struck a corny Bogart pose. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” And Jeremy kept
looking at her until they both looked away.

  “I have a confession to make,” Annabelle said. “I’ve never actually seen Casablanca. I mean, I’ve seen clips and parts, and I know it’s a classic but … for all the movies I have seen, that one escaped me somehow.” Before Jeremy could react, she asked, “Do you hate me? Am I persona non grata? Do I belong in movie jail?”

  He ticked off the answers: “No. In some circles. I’ll see if I can get you a suspended sentence.”

  “Whew, that’s a relief.” She smiled, then whistled into her purse for her car key. That second kiss was not in the cards.

  Jeremy had a final play tucked up his one normal sleeve: “Anytime you want to watch Casablanca let me know. I have it on Blu-Ray. Like any good movie nerd.” Once again, Jeremy was trying to attract a woman with the promise of a movie she hadn’t seen. He needed a new act.

  Annabelle assessed him a moment, started to say something, then reconsidered. She struck a strangely stiff tone: “Is there anything else you need me for, OT-wise? Because personally, I think we’ve covered the bases—you’ve been a very good student.” She clutched her car key tightly as if protecting a good luck charm—or her only means of escape.

  “Thanks. I had a good teacher,” Jeremy said. Maybe a kiss was just a kiss. “Can I call you if I need help?”

  “Maybe it’s best to call Dr. Hockstein’s office, I’m sure they can refer you to someone. They have a lot of OTs on their list. None with my exact combination of savoir-faire, fashion sense, and mood swings, but you’ll be fine. Oh, and you do know you’ll have to see a physical therapist once you can send Big Bertha packing, right? And don’t blow that off, it’s crucial, hear me?”

  She was talking so fast Jeremy lost his way … just as he started thinking maybe he’d found it.

  “Wait, what?” he asked, catching up. “Another OT? Annabelle, what happened here?” He was pretty sure of the answer, but wanted to hear her say it. From the lost look on her face as she turned around and left, he realized she wasn’t going to.

  CHAPTER

  18

  By the end of that week, Jeremy had rewritten the first act of Offensive Measures and was jazzed about the new pages. Maybe it was because there were any new pages at all. Never mind the fact that he was hacking away with his left hand and a strained assist (as per Annabelle’s instructions) from his near-immobile right hand, the painful use of which nearly took his breath away. And if it wasn’t exactly taking him twice as long to type and format the script, it sure felt that way. No matter, he was getting it done and, in the scheme of things, that was a big fucking deal.

  And no, for those who might have expected or hoped otherwise, Jeremy did not hear from Annabelle after her hasty departure, nor did he reach out to her. Much as he wanted to call or text, he realized he put himself out there with her much farther than he should have—for either of their sakes—and needed to let things breathe for a while or simply die on their own accord. That’s not to say he was happy with that “adult decision” or that he didn’t think about her much of the time. Okay, all the time. But working on the script was proving a productive distraction, and he was glad for it. (That he changed one of his character’s names to Annabelle didn’t mean anything, did it?)

  One would think that after watching thousands of movies, much less dissecting them in endless reviews and articles, someone—like, say, Jeremy—could easily translate that experience into his or her own screenplay through something akin to creative osmosis. But one would be wrong. It’s the difference between riding in a car as a passenger and getting behind the wheel yourself. You’d think you’d know how to do it, until you have to. Then: whole new ballgame.

  Jeremy knew a boatload less about, well, everything when he wrote and sold Parting Gifts. He banged it out on a wing and a prayer, cribbing from so many other favorite romcoms. It was a genre still in vogue back then for movie stars and studios before these films started migrating to cable TV and streamers, where they reclaimed their popularity.

  He also borrowed bits of his relationship with Cassie in creating that screenplay’s main characters: a broke, twentyish couple—the guy’s an exhausted proofreader, the woman is a beleaguered office assistant—who wins a fortune in the lottery. They quit their jobs, travel the globe, and get sucked into all these crazy adventures that almost end their marriage, only to realize they were happier when all they had was each other. A classic case of “Be careful what you wish for.” Everyone loved the screwball script—until they didn’t.

  By the time Jeremy was done rewriting it (four times, the first two were paid), the story bore little to no resemblance to what the studio originally bought. All that stayed the same were the husband’s and wife’s names and even those changed when Jeremy was fired and replaced by a high-priced writer who did such a hacky job that the project was immediately shelved.

  They say to write what you know, a lesson Jeremy only half took when he wrote Parting Gifts. He didn’t know a ton about world travel or winning millions of dollars, but he did know what it was like to be young and in love and learning how to adjust to living your best life together. When Cassie read the script she asked, “Is this couple us if we were completely different people?” which may have sounded like a contradiction but pretty much summed up his entire approach.

  With the newly christened Offensive Measures and its earlier versions, Jeremy knew even less about his subject matter: congressional intrigue, double-dealing scientists, nuclear power. But he took it as a challenge, did lots of homework, and concocted a heady jigsaw puzzle of a story that snowballed into a deadly vortex for an idealistic but obsessive young U.S. senator (paging Jake Gyllenhaal!). If Jeremy could make the rest of the script as good as his just-revised first act, he might actually have something. What he would do with it then was another issue, but first things first: finish the damn thing once and for all.

  Plunging back into his old screenplay also gave Jeremy a reason not to think about Cassie or, more specifically, finding a divorce lawyer and figuring out how to keep the house he had no interest in leaving. He was on a writing roll now and didn’t want to upset his tenuous creative apple cart, so he figured he could easily put Cassie off another few weeks before being forced to act. Maybe by then he’d have a clearer life plan.

  What he couldn’t forestall or control was his ex-wife’s promised return to Laurel Canyon to gather her things—and presumably some of theirs—and erase her footprint from the humble home they once cherished together. So that Saturday, bright and early and—perhaps as a kind of fuck you—unannounced, Cassie let herself in and showed up in the kitchen doorway just as Jeremy was sitting down for breakfast and the Times. She scared the hell out of him, appearing like the ghost of weekend mornings past.

  For some reason, his first thought upon realizing it was Cassie was how schlumpy he looked, with his bed head of hair, twelve-day growth (he’d given up on his face altogether; electric shaving with one hand doesn’t cut it, literally), and whatever baggy old shirt he’d draped over himself and the pillow brace. It’s not like Jeremy would have—even could have—spruced himself up in an attempt to make her see what she was “missing,” like some abandoned wife might do in the movies. But his self-esteem had taken such a hit these last weeks, and Cassie looked so amazingly pulled together that a more even playing field wouldn’t have hurt. Yet why did he even care? Human nature? Competitive spirit? Auld lang syne?

  Jeremy immediately went on the defensive. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he snapped, the boxy sling making for a clumsy rise from the table.

  Cassie didn’t engage, just gazed at her worse-for-the-wear ex-husband. “Wow, I forgot how enormous that brace is. How in the world are you managing with it?”

  “I have no choice, that’s how I’m managing with it.”

  “You’re acting a little hostile, you know that?” Cassie scanned the tired-looking kitchen, maybe considering what to take
with her. Jeremy caught her staring at the coffeemaker.

  “I said it before and I’ll say it again: You already took one coffee pot, you’re not taking another. And if that sounds hostile, it is.”

  She studied him, took a deep breath, shifted gears. “Look, let’s start over, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming this morning, I’m sorry you’re stuck in that pillow thing, and I don’t need another coffeemaker. Though, I wouldn’t mind a cup, if there’s extra.”

  Jeremy was disarmed in the sneaky way only Cassie could disarm him, and he hated himself for it. Still, he decided to try to relax (Can you try to relax?) for the short time Cassie would likely be there packing her shit. “Help yourself,” he told her with a nod at the half-full coffee carafe.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” chimed in a familiar voice. Matty, carrying a couple of empty cartons, bounded into the kitchen, looking especially fit and tan (beach? bronzer?) in an artfully shrunk Crunch Fitness T-shirt, slim Joe’s jeans and red New Balance running shoes. Saturdays were made for this kid. Seeing his father’s surprised look, Matty quickly explained, a bit warily: “I’m here to help Mom, hope that’s okay.” He put the cartons on the counter and watched his dad’s expression.

  Of course it was okay. Matty was as close to Cassie as he was to Jeremy; they’d always each had their own special relationship with their son, and Jeremy wouldn’t want it any other way. Even those times when he and Cassie didn’t see eye-to-eye about their marriage or each other, they mostly always agreed about raising Matty: how to guide, support, and love him the best way they could, who they wanted him to be and who they still wanted him to be.

  With that in mind, Jeremy took the high road. “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” he asked Matty. “I always want you to be there for your mother, you know that. This isn’t a competition.” Jeremy said that last bit for Cassie’s sake and even though it didn’t seem to outwardly register with her, he knew she heard it loud and clear.