“Wow. Things are crazier in Dogwood than I thought. I’m clearly missing out on the action sitting here on my couch in this empty apartment.”
I close my eyes, picturing him there. I really, badly, want to ask if he would like a little company. I almost do, in fact, but then I remember Carl.
“Hah hah,” I retort. “I’m at my dad’s, watching DVDs and taking care of my brother. He has the flu, and you know how you guys get when you’re sick.”
“Well, I’m sure your bro is reveling in the sympathy there,” Greg says with a laugh, then falls silent for a moment. I hear him take a breath. “Uh, listen, sorry I got called away yesterday. And sorry it was… That it was that scene we were shooting. I kind of spaced on that, didn’t really think it through. I wasn’t trying to make you jealous or anything.”
Is that a note of hopefulness in his voice? “Oh, I wasn’t jealous,” I lie.
“OK. Yeah. Well, good.”
Good? I want to tell him I am actually greener than Kermit over it, but I don’t, of course. I also want to ask him about the angry phone call, but I know it’s not really any of my business—and he didn’t take too kindly to my commenting on his calls before, so I let it lie. “How’s the filming going? Really getting under the skin of, um, Ethan?” I ask instead, sounding disparaging in spite of myself.
He laughs quietly again. “Yeah, it’s going pretty good. Evenings are going to be a little quiet though, till we start some of the night shoots. I guess that’s why I… I mean, I just wanted to…” He hesitates, sounding unsure now. It’s kind of frustrating that he won’t just let himself admit what he really wants. “Shit,” he says. “Now I’ve made it sound like I was calling for, um, a booty call as I think you put it a couple weeks ago?”
Again he takes the words right out of my mind.
“I was just thinking that, actually, yes. Or something like that—you’re right,” I say, smiling a little and shaking my head though I know he can’t see me. At this point I’d take that if nothing else. Jeez, Cathy, be a little more desperate, huh?
“Well, I may or may not contemplate your booty from time to time—in a totally friendly way, of course—”
“Of course…” What’s he trying to do to me?
“But I actually … I don’t know. I guess I was bored, and my thumbs just kind of scrolled to the number of my one buddy in this town.” I smile again like a dummy, and my heart does a weird leap thing. “Although, wait a minute,” he continues. “You called me. I just sent an innocent text, but you, Ms. Johnson, are clearly on a different wavelength altogether,” he says, and I can hear his grin.
I laugh too, but it fades. “Hey, you’re the one with all the rules,” I say, my voice lowering to a whisper. “If it were up to me… Well, let’s just say innocent would definitely not be the wavelength.”
He doesn’t respond to that. We’re quiet for an agonizingly long moment, and I chew the inside of my cheek, my heart starting to race nervously. Should I not have said that? I figure it’s better to be honest though. Why can’t he just let go? It scares me that I’d be more than willing to take the leap, with a guy that is clearly dealing with some crap I don’t understand—but it also hurts that he’s still holding himself out of reach. Why torture me?
“Cathy…?”
I sit up straighter as I hear Carl call from the other room. “Sorry, I have to go. The patient needs me,” I say, pressing the phone to my cheek like I could somehow get closer to Greg through it.
“OK. Sure.” Now he’s into minimal syllables. Maybe that jibe about his friend-zone decree really was a mistake. I don’t want to mess up whatever it is we do have.
“Um… Do you want to go for a run tomorrow morning?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, if you think you can keep up?”
“With you? I’m not sure if I can, actually,” Greg replies. “But yeah, OK.”
Hmm. He still sounds a little weird, like he’s withdrawing again. “OK,” I repeat. “Well, why don’t I meet you down on the river path by the Nelson property, say eight o’clock?”
“All right.” He’s quiet for a second. “Cathy… Have a good night.” A moment later I hear the line go dead. No goodbye—of course.
Anyway, good. A run. A benign interaction that allows for cardio benefits but with no sexual congress. Though I will get to see him in shorts again. Awesome. And he will get to see me sweaty again. Not so awesome. And I hope his weird mood doesn’t last. Either way, as I go to check on Carl, I know I haven’t been so excited about the prospect of a workout in a long time.
Chapter Twenty
Forty-one minutes. I felt like a sucker after thirty, but I’ve still waited, and now he’s forty-one minutes late. So what does that make me?
Three joggers—including Sonya Thompson, of course—have passed me and looped back while I’ve sat here on the bench by the Nelson property waiting for Greg like a super-duper, industrial-plunger-level sucker. I look at my watch one more time, then finally get up off my butt, stretch, and start to jog away. I know he can’t have forgotten. I did say eight, didn’t I? I know I did. I just want to think of some reason why he wouldn’t have shown up when he said he would. The simplest—like, he overslept—are somehow making way for things altogether more unreasonable. And that’s not helped when I see Greg walking toward me as I jog down the river path, holding an apologetic hand up in front of him. He’s clutching a can of soda gingerly.
He’s not in shorts. He is in his Ray-Bans.
It kind of pisses me off how my stomach goes into knots just knowing he’s finally here.
“Cathy,” he says, his voice with a heavy coating of sawdust. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I, uh, didn’t think you’d still be out here.”
I stop in front of him. “Yep. Three quarters of an hour after we were going to meet,” I say curtly, eyeing his jeans and T-shirt. I fold my arms. “That’s some unusual running attire.”
“I’m sorry. I really am,” he says. “I tried your cell—a lot—but you weren’t picking up.”
“I don’t run with it.” I start walking the path again briskly, pretending to care about keeping my pulse rate up by touching my fingers to my neck. To be honest, the irritation I’m feeling is doing a pretty good job of that anyway—as well as the now-familiar heart-quickening whenever he’s in the vicinity. “But I’m guessing the gist of what you were going to say is that you’re not coming?” I throw over my shoulder.
He catches up to me, steps in front of me, and stops, forcing me to come to a halt too. “Look, I am sorry. I slept through my alarm,” he says. “After I spoke to you last night, some of the guys from the cast called and they wanted to go out—a team-bonding thing, you know?” He pulls off his sunglasses and winces like a vampire at the bright glow of sunshine. “I couldn’t say no. I’ve told you how much this gig means, and if I don’t make an effort to keep in with everyone… We need to build chemistry, gel as a cast and whatnot. Like I said, I did try to call you when I woke up.”
“Keep in with everyone?” I say dubiously. Or mainly with tall, willowy brunettes? He doesn’t take the bait, and I add swiftly, “Anyway, it’s cool. It happens. It was just a run, right?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d still be waiting here for me,” he says. “But I’ll collapse in a heap if I even try and run right now, so you’re better off without me.” His eyes drift to the ground and he does look a little green, but I feel like he’s doing that thing again where he’s saying two things at once. Anyway, he couldn’t be more wrong; these days it’s starting to feel like being without him would be like missing… Well, if not a limb, a good number of digits at least.
He exhales hard and his voice softens a little. “Those LA kids are all about their clear liquor. Something about the purity or whatever, I guess,” he says, and his expression lifts for a moment into a twisted, adorable wince-smile. But then he sighs again and pushes his sunglasses back onto his face. “Guess I had more to drink than I thought, and, well… Her
e we are.”
I shrug. “Well, we’ve all been there—and, um, here,” I say, fighting not to acknowledge how upset his nonchalance is starting to make me feel. “I’m glad you didn’t end up just staying in your empty apartment alone.” I don’t mean to say it through clenched jaws while picturing him and Bethany falling drunkenly into bed…
It’s bugging me now that I can’t see his eyes. Bloodshot as the whites of his baby blues are, I figure I’d at least get some idea of whether he’s dancing around the reality of the evening and what it entailed. God, what if Bethany’s still naked in his bed and he’s just waiting until he can get back to her?
OK, paranoia, I get it! Welcome back to the neighborhood.
Greg crumples the sides of his soda can a little, and the noise makes me jump. “Cathy, look, I really am sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t mean to waste your time. I told you, my work is… It’s the most important thing in my life at the moment.”
Wow. There’s not much ambiguity in what he’s saying now—the message is pretty clear. I swallow water from my bottle and for some reason I shrug again, because my shoulders seem to think that’s the perfect cover-up for crushing disappointment. “I know,” I reply. “Honestly, I didn’t mind waiting so long. I was just enjoying the river and the sunshine so…” Seriously? Lame lame lame. “It’s fine. We can grab a run another time.”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” He fiddles with his can. “When I have some free time, for sure.”
I get the feeling that’s not going to be any time soon. I sigh a little, but try to mask it. “Cool. Well, get out of here; go nurse your hangover,” I say—but the way I do makes him take off his glasses again. Obviously I haven’t masked well enough, because he looks down at me sympathetically, like he’s trying to figure out a way to make this all less awkward. He rubs his stomach absently, and I’m envious of his own hand.
“I am feeling a little nauseous,” he murmurs with a small smile, then seems to remember something and takes a breath. “Uh… But actually, I might see you later. Some of the cast were talking about coming to the restaurant for dinner tonight.”
I must seem surprised, because he turns one palm up like he needs to explain.
“I guess I’d mentioned it a couple times seeing as the producers made me go work there, and they had your catering at the table-read. And… Bethany gets a little bossy after three double vodkas.” He says her name hesitantly, and it crackles between us. I bet she does. “She made her assistant call then and there last night,” he finishes.
“Great. Well, I sure hope it lives up to the hype,” I say tersely. “I’ll get Joe to stock up on the clear liquor.” Jeez, could this day get any worse? I can’t think anything more awkward than a night waiting on and Greg and his cast-mates—including Bethany “Chemistry” Keeler. Why don’t I just go ahead and set up a candlelit two-top for them, make the embarrassment complete? “Listen, I really do need to fit in a workout, and I have a few things to do before my shift later. I’ll look out for that reservation though. Guess I’ll see you then.”
Greg opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it. He sighs and puts his sunglasses back on, but before he can say anything else I push my earbuds into my ears and jog off with a stiff wave. He’s not the only one who can leave without a goodbye.
*
“Cathy?” A whisper, and an urgent-sounding one too. “Are you still in here?”
I step out of the cubicle in the staff ladies’ room and look at Jenna sheepishly. I’ve been in here for nearly ten minutes, hiding like a coward.
“Listen, your dad’s been asking about you. He’s going to start wondering why you’re not on the floor glad-handing your friend and his Bittersweet buddies. I’ve seated them but they’re going to want to order soon,” she says, eyeing me sympathetically. The gods of fate have refused to throw me a bone —Keeler, party of seven are right in the middle of my section. I ran away to hide in here, hoping by some miracle they’d insist on a west-facing window table or some nonsense that would mean I’d get away with ignoring them. “It’s crazy busy out there,” Jenna says, putting her hands on her hips. “You need to get back to your tables, honey. We’re slammed.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Jen. Let’s go.” I slow down for a moment to check my reflection. “I look OK, right?” I ask, smoothing down my dress. I see anxiety in my eyes, and suddenly I hate everything about this moment—the fact that I care what Bethany, or Greg, or any of those people think. I shake my head. “You know what, forget it. Listen, sorry for leaving you swinging in the wind,” I say to Jenna, taking a deep breath.
She grins. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you look fucking hot. The sleeveless is always a good choice.” She holds open the ladies’ room door for me and I glance over at the big table. “Oh, and heads up—the brunette’s already been kind of snippy about the fact we don’t have the water with bubbles.” She purses her lips and gives me a wink before heading off to her section.
Like I needed any more reason to borderline-hate Bethany Keeler. “Great,” I mutter, retying my apron around my waist and making sure my expression looks as professional and pleasant as possible.
“There she is!” I hear Joe’s voice boom. “Cathy here is my daughter.” He’s standing by the Bittersweet table and has clearly been regaling them with restaurant anecdotes. They’re all smiling up at him in anticipation, like they’re watching some old-time comedian put on a show. He’s in full Jovial Joe flow. “You see, I saved up all my good looks to put into my kids, that’s why I ended up looking like this,” he says with a loud chuckle, clutching his belly. “Cath, let’s get our customers started with some appetizers, huh?”
I fix a smile on my face as I grab my order pad out of my apron pocket and come over to the table. I know my dad’s just being his usual friendly self, but in the back of his mind he’s also probably hoping to get more Hollywood dollars rolling into the restaurant, and I don’t blame him.
“You know our hero here, of course,” Joe says, beaming at Greg, and I cringe.
“Uh huh. Hey, guys,” I say, sweeping my eyes around everyone at the table except him, though I can still feel him drawing me like a magnet. Joe squeezes my shoulder but he’s distracted as a busboy drops a plate and bustles away quickly. “What can I get for you?” I mumble.
Bethany looks me up and down like she thinks I can’t see her freaking eyeballs. She gives me an insincere smile. “Greg has been telling me so much about this place. Why don’t we just order one of everything and see what’s good? I’ll pick around any gluten-y stuff.” She giggles, and the small blonde girl sidled up next to her laughs mirthlessly in a way that makes me think she’s getting paid to do so. Apart from Bethany and Greg, there are one or two other faces I recognize from the online article I read, but no Johnny Lincoln, Max will be pleased to hear. I grit my teeth—something about the way Bethany said “see what’s good” seems like she thinks it’ll be tough to find something edible, which is obviously bullshit, and a waste of food to boot. And something about the way she said “Greg has been telling me” seems like it was pillow talk in between sessions of passionate love-making…
I may be reading too much into her sentence. Maybe.
“Well, all right,” I say through a rigor-mortis smile. “One of every appetizer. Sure, no problem. You want to do the same with the entrees or…?”
“I like the sound of the steak burger,” chimes in a slim, handsome African-American guy with a dazzling smile.
“Me too,” says one of the others.
Bethany, meanwhile, scrutinizes the menu like an eighty-seven-year-old with glaucoma in a blizzard. “Hmm. I don’t know…” She leans over to Greg, seated on the other side of her, while her assistant taps away on her cell, texting with a bored look on her face. “What d’you think I should have, babe?” She leans over to show him her menu for reference, the underside of her breast resting entirely unnecessarily on his forearm as she does.
Babe? Could just
be a Hollywood thing. I swallow a hard lump of jealousy in spite of myself. “How about the special?” I ask. “Pasta alla Norma. I’ve adjusted the recipe according to Greg’s advice. I know he’s a big fan of that dish.” He glances up at me and this time I don’t look away—but his expression is unreadable.
Bethany leans away from him slightly and fixes her gaze on me now too. “Oh, that’s right,” she says, exhaling a breathy laugh. “You’re the waitress who helped my leading man out a little.” She rests one hand on his arm and puts down the menu on the table pointedly. “You know what? I’m just going to have a green salad, no dressing whatsoever. I’ll probably be full after trying the appetizers anyhow. You guys can manage that, right?”
I nod silently, nearly ripping the page of my notepad as I write down her order, and then quickly take the others too. Greg goes last, and he asks for the shrimp dish I know he and Bobby spent an afternoon fine-tuning while he was here.
“You got it,” I mutter.
“Thanks, Cathy,” he says. Just that. Nothing else.
I go to explain their order to the kitchen, only barely restraining myself from telling Bob to add some saliva-based dressing to Bethany’s salad, then go check on my other tables. I glance over after a while, and see my dad back at the big table, telling the Bittersweet guys that a round of drinks is on the house. Like they couldn’t afford to pay.
As he heads off again, I catch Bethany saying something over the hum of the crowd. I hover nearby, pretending to check something on my order pad.
“Totally quaint guy,” she says through a reedy laugh. “And having his daughter work here is cute and all. Gives it that … homey feeling.” She giggles again, and my fists clench. “But, man, the food, are you serious? It’s going to be grease on grease, Greg. We’re just humoring the locals, am I right?” She laughs again. “But honestly, Greg, you need to smarten up your diet. Thank goodness Roy’s been flying in my food plans from LiveClean. Jeez.”
I wait. Greg’s going to say something, defend JJ’s. Or me. Any second.
Bittersweet Page 14
