To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  After wiping up, I let Harriette out and went down to my studio to get lost in my latest contract. I waited for my slow-ass dog to lollygag over before shutting the door to the soundproof space. If not, she’d scratch on the other side of the door and I wouldn’t hear shit.

  Slapping my headphones on my ears, I cued up the latest footage on my screen, rolled my mouse over several music selections, and double-clicked on the new song by some pop icon. The director wanted the song somewhere in the film, anywhere I saw fit, but definitely somewhere. It was probably his niece or some shit like that.

  My computer was slow to load so I kicked my bare feet up on my steel desk and checked my e-mail on my phone, not expecting much for a Friday evening. Most people were out doing the happy-hour thing; I was sitting at my desk in a post-masturbatory funk like a complete loser.

  Or maybe not? Because sitting right there in my in-box was an e-mail from Charli, using words like kismet and sorry, and just like that, I was on top of the world.

  I wasted the weekend away at home, mostly in bed working on a collection of short stories I’d written a long time ago. I didn’t exercise or go out for the salad bar. The hours ticked away with mug after mug of hot tea and the tap-tap-tap of the keys on my laptop.

  By the time Monday came, I’d resolved myself to the fact that Layton took my apology for what it was worth and moved on.

  From what? I didn’t know.

  I ran, showered, and took the subway to work. There was a newfound pep in my step from working on my stories, and I was early enough to grab a latte from the corner coffee shop. The streets of New York looked like a movie on fast forward—people rushing in and out, cabs honking, heels and loafers pounding the pavement.

  Pushing through the revolving door of our building at Twenty-Seventh and Fifth, I noticed a pretty big crowd by the elevators.

  “Hey, Sully, what’s going on?” I stopped by the security desk, setting my latte on the counter while looking for my ID badge.

  “Celebrity in the building.”

  “Oh?” I snapped my ID card on the front of my jacket.

  “Yep, blond, skinny . . . aren’t they all? She’s got a movie out right now.” He snapped his fingers, the corners of his eyes crinkling while he was deep in thought. “Seven sins of something or other. That’s it!”

  “Of course,” I mumbled and all the pep evaporated from my step.

  I sipped my latte on the elevator and made my way to my office, avoiding the cubicles of the entertainment department. They were all aflutter, and I wasn’t in the mood to break my current mood.

  I shut my door and after settling in at my desk, I pulled Lucy out of my bag. While I was scanning my e-mails, my phone rang.

  Larissa. Of course.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone, knowing full well who it was.

  “Charli, how are you?”

  “All good down here. Getting ready to request some photography for September already.”

  “I’m going to pop down, one sec.”

  That’s the thing with Larissa, she flitted around here, inserting her touch on everything. Her fun-filled, live-every-moment-to-its-fullest philosophy breathed life into BubblePOP, and she loved what she did.

  I didn’t always.

  “Hey.” Larissa peeked in and smiled broadly, looking like she just stole the last K-cup from the kitchen. “Katie is here today!” She actually fist-pumped the air. “You went to the Seven Sins premiere, and we need someone to sit down and ask her some questions and write it up. Can you? Sounds like you’re working ahead anyway.”

  “Um, sure. I don’t really do Hollywood interviews, though.”

  “It will be good for you. Show your breadth. Showcase all your pizzazz. You can handle it. Let’s say, thirty minutes in the conference room?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  What was I going to say to my boss? I don’t have any pizzazz . . . because I’m not sure I like this job?

  I didn’t think so.

  Or I don’t feel like it because I had a connection with this guy, and I don’t know how to handle that in relationship to my career and my past. I’m such a loser.

  Nope. I was going to down my coffee, interview Katie with a confident smile, and go home and curl up alone in my bed.

  I cocked an earphone to the side and answered my phone when the caller ID read UNKNOWN. In la-la land, that wasn’t very unusual.

  “Griffin here.”

  “Hey, is this Layton Griffin?”

  “Yep.” I leaned back in my chair, knocking my headphones around my neck.

  I was actually dressed for work today—it was Monday, after all—and propped my Chucks up on the metal table to the side of my desk.

  “Great! My name’s Ricky and I’m the music editor at BubblePOP . . .”

  At the mention of BubblePOP, my mind traveled about a hundred miles an hour, quickly rendering images of the one person I knew who worked there.

  “I’m sorry, you were saying? My phone broke up,” I lied.

  “Ricky from BubblePOP here. I know this is a bit out of left field, but the star of Seven Sins of Serial Dating was here this morning—”

  “Katie?”

  “Yeah—”

  “Not sure what I can do for you, buddy,” I interrupted again. Was this a prank? Did they know about my insane obsession with Charli?

  “Well, it’s a long story, but bottom line is this. The head lady here had Charleston interview Katie because she was at the premiere and all that lucky bullshit . . . pardon my French, but I really wanted to go.”

  When Ricky sighed loudly into the phone, I wondered if he was gay. What kind of guy wants to go to a romantic comedy?

  “Anyway, Katie actually said this was her most favorite sound track of any film she’s ever done, and well, I jumped at the opportunity to talk to her more about it. Yeah, I snuck down into the interview, but don’t say anything. So, Katie turned to me and gave me those baby blues, all focused on me, and mentioned the Ed Sheeran song being her favorite. She said the music guy, who was so funny and nice . . .”

  Nice? Yep, that’s me. Nice. Not hot, or cool, or amazing. Nice.

  “She gave me some awesome quotes, and now I get to run my own story on the music page, and yay!”

  The sound of his clapping came through the phone.

  “Sounds cool. What can I do for you?”

  I couldn’t believe Katie knew the name of my company and was able to tell this douche nozzle where to find me.

  “So, Charleston interrupts the whole Katie-giving-me-ga-ga-eyes thing and pipes up that she knows you, and she thought it would be awesome for us to chat. Maybe I could ask you some questions?”

  Charli gave him my number?

  “Really?” I sat up in my chair, suddenly interested in what he was saying.

  “Yeah, for real.”

  “Sure, dude. When do you want to do it? I assume you want to collect your thoughts.”

  “Um, yeah . . . that’d be great. Maybe FaceTime or something?”

  “Whatever you want, buddy,” I assured him.

  “Cool. Charli said you’d be nice.”

  Of course she did.

  Nice.

  Ricky and I set something up for later in the week, and I hung up as despondent as I was when the conversation began. There was a moment in the middle when I thought I’d beat it again, and then I learned I was nice.

  What did nice boys do? They took their dog for a walk, and this one walked and walked and got lost for hours.

  I spent the better part of the week catching up for the hours I lost on Monday.

  I shrugged off my cardigan as soon as I hit my office; it was an unusually warm May day and the building had yet to turn on the AC. Seated at my desk, I rolled my neck and blew out a long sigh. I’d been up late writing. Actually, I was quite the writing maniac lately, my creativity coming in long bursts, usually at one o’clock in the morning. This week alone, I’d finished the line edits on all six of my short stori
es.

  A knock sounded on my slightly ajar door.

  “Hey, Charleston.”

  “Hey, Ricky, what’s up?” I leaned back in my chair and eyed my openly gay coworker who recently became my BFF because, as he said, he thought I had the “hook-ups.”

  “I’m meeting in a bit with Layton over FaceTime and wanted to see if you had any last-minute pointers.”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “He’s seriously a really nice guy. Probably too nice.”

  Ricky eyed me curiously, raising a brow as he leaned on the door frame. “You know, toast is nice.”

  “What?” I laughed for the first time in a week. My mood was good and Ricky was kind of hysterical, and I was blissfully happy for a fleeting moment.

  “Seriously, Charli, you’re such a Brianna. You get all googly when you talk about Layton, and then you go and say, ‘he’s so nice’ in some weird drawn-out breath like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  I had to roll my eyes when he flipped his hands up with exaggerated air quotes as he imitated me to perfection.

  “Ricky, I don’t even know what a Brianna is!”

  “A babe. It’s a babe, babe. If I were into female babes, I’d be all over you . . . babe.”

  “Ricky, not one more babe. We’re at work.” I waved a hand, shooing him away. “Go do your interview and shut my door.”

  He blew several air kisses my way and left me to my own devices.

  God, he’s the female equivalent of Janie.

  I scrolled through my in-box. I had e-mails from Mom, Garrett (my mom gave him my e-mail address), the photographer wanting to set something up, but nothing from Layton since last week.

  I slammed Lucy closed and stood up on my stilettos, threw on my cardigan, and made my way down the hall on the pretense of using the ladies’ room.

  Again, who was I kidding? I popped over to the media room, making my way past the celebrity-stalking writers, and like a bee to honey, I went straight to the music people.

  Ricky’s office door was closed so I paced in front of it, practically wearing a path in the carpet. One pass, two, three, four passes, five, six, and on the seventh pass, I knocked.

  “Who is it?” came from behind the door.

  I creaked it open an inch. “Hey, Ricky, it’s me. How was your interview?”

  As if I was that dense. He knew that I knew the interview was just getting started. For heaven’s sake, it was only seven o’clock in the morning on the West Coast.

  “Ooh, lookee who’s here.” Ricky swiveled in his chair, winking at me before swinging back around. “Charleston, please do come in.”

  Directing his next words to his computer screen, he said, “Looks like we have a visitor. Layton and I were just chatting ’bout how he picked the music for Seven Sins, and believe it or not, he said the last choice came to him when he was seated next to you on a plane.”

  I slipped inside the office and peeked at Ricky’s oversized monitor. Onscreen was Layton, wearing a Taylor Swift tee (really?) as he leaned against a graphite-colored desk. Behind him was a huge mess of sound equipment, stacks of discs, and wiring.

  Layton frowned. “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant to say. I don’t want my words to get mixed up.”

  “Yep, you said . . .” Ricky sifted through his notes and flipped to the second page, where he began to read. “I finalized the song selection for Seven Sins on a flight from Chicago to New York . . . not to be included, that’s where I met Charleston. The last song was killing me. It was for a hot, sultry, aggressive LA club scene in which Katie goes berserk on her man-to-be and another ex of his. I went with a newer on-the-scene rapper, Sumptuous, and took a risk with his first single, ‘Bitches Cut Up.’”

  Ouch. I dropped my gaze toward the floor, counting fibers in the burlap rug. And I said he’s too nice?

  Layton cleared his throat. “But let it stand for the record that I didn’t mean Charli specifically.”

  “Oh, good,” Ricky said as he made a note. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  Ricky then returned his full attention to the monitor but I continued to stare at the carpet, bitterly regretting coming down here and wishing I was back in my office returning my mom’s e-mail.

  “Hey, Charli,” echoed in the office.

  “Char,” Ricky whispered, snapping me out of my self-induced fog.

  Dragging my gaze reluctantly back to the monitor, I said, “Hey, Layton. I didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”

  Actually, I did.

  Layton narrowed his eyes slightly and said, “Good to see you.”

  When he leaned closer to the screen as if to see me better, I wanted to plunge into the depths of his eyes. I indulged myself by stepping a little closer but forced my hand to remain still and not reach out to trace his face.

  Was that a slight tan? It suited him.

  “Yeah, same. Honestly, I thought Ricky might be finished and wanted to debrief.”

  “Did you switch to entertainment?” His eyes bored into mine, mesmerizing me.

  “Um, no. I was just being a nice coworker.”

  Ricky piped up, breaking the moment. “We’re going to see the movie this weekend. I know Char saw it, but I didn’t yet. I wanted to chat with you first, felt it would give meaning to it.”

  “Cool,” Layton said with a tight smile. “Charli said she liked it, but you know, you can’t believe everything a girl says.”

  A burning flush of shame scorched my cheeks. Embarrassment simmered in my veins, and I dropped my gaze again as I said, “Well, I did like it.”

  I started walking backward, my feet barely able to move, let alone in reverse, as I stammered, “I . . . um, I guess I’ll let you two get back to it.” I prayed I didn’t trip in my heels.

  I was such an idiot. Honestly, I might be this twenty-eight-year-old hotshot at work, but in real life I was an absolute stooge. My eyes filled and I quickly turned toward the door before either of them saw the first tear drop onto my pale pink sweater.

  Boy, I was a sight. Little Bo Peep crying because of the Big, Bad Wolf.

  “Hey! Charli,” Layton called out. “I’m sorry.”

  I ducked my chin and waved a hand behind me, dismissing him and his hurtful words as nothing.

  “Stop, seriously,” he insisted.

  “Char!” Ricky hissed at me.

  I turned back toward the monitor to see Layton was leaned so far forward he was practically sitting on his desk, his face filled with tension.

  What was I doing, stringing along some dude in California? For what?

  “I’m going to finish with Ricky,” he said, “and by the way, thanks for passing my info along, and then I’m going to e-mail you. I actually have another meeting back out there with a smaller label who’s trying to woo me to use their music. Maybe we’ll finish our dinner?”

  I opened my mouth and froze for a second. Since nothing was quite making it out, I snapped my mouth shut and gave Layton a curt nod before I turned and got the hell out of there.

  I spent twenty more minutes chatting with Ricky but my head wasn’t into it. In fact, I couldn’t remember a fucking word I said to him; I could have told him we were using nursery rhymes in the next film for all I knew.

  Christ. I slammed my hand down on the desk, startling Harriette, who lifted her head off the dog bed and stared at me like the asshole I was. I was so mad that Charli had described me as nice, I’d subconsciously set out to prove her wrong. Or some shit like that.

  I was fucking sick of being the nice guy when the arrogant pricks got all the great girls. I didn’t want to settle for the quirky girls anymore, the ones who read paranormal fiction and loved Luke Skywalker. I wanted someone different from me, not the female version of myself. My head and heart—and my dick—craved something more, something different.

  Charli, to be exact.

  I could have sworn I saw a tear drop from her beautiful blue-green eyes, a tiny droplet so uncharacteristic of her hard shell. The sight of it fil
led my heart with so much regret, it nearly split it in half.

  “Fuck!” I brought my hand to the desk a second time and toppled a stack of discs, mesmerized a second by their spinning pattern on the hardwood floor.

  Frustrated, I stood up and threw open my studio door. “Come on, Harri.”

  I shoved my feet into an old pair of running shoes and snatched Harriette’s leash from the hook. We took another long walk through town and back again, stopping outside the coffee shop for water. Most people walked their dogs to exhaust them—I walked to exhaust myself.

  And I couldn’t believe it, but after one week of walking, it was taking longer and longer to exhaust my fat ass. I needed to e-mail Charli like I said I would, but I couldn’t bring myself to hide behind my computer with kind words when I’d gone all asshole over FaceTime.

  By the time I had my head on straight, I’d done two huge loops with Harriette and was drenched in sweat.

  When we got back home, I dragged myself into the shower, dried off, threw on sweats, and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Only half of what I poured interested me, and I ended up spilling the rest down the disposal and snatching my laptop.

  FROM: LaytonG@darksidemusictracks.com

  TO: Charleston_Richards@BubblePOP.com

  SUBJECT: Harriette is disappointed in me

  Charli –

  Even my dog is hiding in shame from me. My actions today were not me. Asshole is too nice.

  *Cue head bang into desk.*

  And to think Ricky said you called me nice.

  I would never call you a bitch. Yeah, I chose that song after our flight, but it wasn’t directed at you. I don’t know what I was thinking. Life’s a bitch, or some shit they print on a T-shirt.

  Forgive me?

  I really will be in NYC next week, staying in Columbus Circle. I have to go to dinner with the label on Tuesday, but was hoping you could join me for dinner on Wednesday. A makeup dinner? Even sushi? Anywhere you want.

  Okay, I’m rambling . . .

  —Lay

  I attached a picture of Harriette hiding her snout behind her paws and hit SEND.