“That’d mean that you’d never get on the show. This is a huge show. I know you’re apparently not a TV guy, which is weird, by the way, since you’re getting into the media business…”
“I’m a writer,” I say. “What would I watch TV for?”
“Doesn’t matter right now. The plane leaves in two hours, and I need you on it.”
I sigh and don’t say anything for a minute.
“Look,” says Dan. “You’re not doing anything this week. If you go on this show, you’ll have enough money to work on your next book for a year. If you don’t, I can’t guarantee you’ll have enough money to work on your next book for a month.”
“I thought sales were good?”
“You know it’s an agent’s job to only tell you good news?”
I sigh.
“So they’re not that good?”
“Basically, yeah. But an appearance on the Bob Show will change all that.”
“All right,” I say. “I’m getting off the phone now.”
“Are you going?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Send me the details.”
“Already sent. Check your email. Ticket’s there and everything.”
I hang up without saying anything.
Shit.
I don’t want to leave now. I need to see Hana before I leave, at the very least. I need to settle things down. I need to make things right.
I’m exhausted, but I’m good at dealing with no sleep situations. Anyway, I got a couple hours. That’s not too bad. I did a lot worse sometimes on missions, going for days without any sleep, not to mention no food or water.
I pack up my stuff quickly and head out of the hotel, leaving the key card on the front desk.
I just nod at the guy working the desk, but don’t speak to him. I don’t need to hear what he has to say, and I don’t have anything to say to him.
“Good luck,” he calls out after me.
I ignore him, hit the car, and drive over to Hana’s house.
The clock in the car reads 6:00 AM. She should still be home.
I call her on my phone, but there’s still no answer.
Shit.
But getting out of the car and walking towards her house, I see that the light is on in her room.
I don’t want to ring the doorbell or knock, since I know it would probably wake up James.
I scoop a pebble off the ground and toss it lightly at her window. It’s not hard enough to do any actual damage to the glass.
No response.
I toss another pebble at her window.
This time, I see the curtains being pulled back.
Her beautiful face is in the window.
But there’s nothing but anger in it. Anger and frustration.
Where’s that coming from?
What did I do? I woke up from a bad dream reaching for my gun. That’s not the end of the world, right?
I expect her to open the window to say something to me. Or for her to come downstairs, now that she knows I’m here.
But she doesn’t come. She pushes the curtains back and disappears from view. And she doesn’t appear downstairs at the door.
“I’m leaving for LA in an hour,” I write into my phone and send the text message.
Shit.
No response.
Shit.
I know things can work out between us. But she just need to open up and let me have a chance…
Is she this closed off because she’s a single mom, trying to protect her son? Or is she just scared of what could happen, scared of the relationship that could develop between us?
Sighing, I get back in the rental car and start driving to the airport. I’ll drop the rental car off at the office at the airport, board the plane, and be on my way to LA. After that, I have other stops on my book tour. It might be a while before I’m back here again.
Hana
The days pass by, and there’s no word from Noah. I don’t contact him either. It’s better that we take a break.
If I tell him the big secret that I’ve been hiding for so long, that feels like a commitment to me… and I’m not ready for that.
It’s more like I don’t think Noah is ready. I don’t think he’s ready to take on the responsibilities of being a father.
I know he was on the Bob Show, but I didn’t watch it. I dropped James off at one of his summer camps that started this week and then I went to work. It was just like any other day. A couple people mentioned having seen Noah on TV, but I didn’t join in the conversation. No one at work knew that we’d been ‘seeing’ each other, or whatever you want to call it.
“So how was camp today?” I ask James, at dinner.
I’ve cooked us some spaghetti. It’s a simple recipe. Just store bought noodles, red sauce, and hamburger meat that I baked in the oven.
“OK,” says James, looking down into his food without touching it.
He’s going to a nature camp, one that he was really excited about.
“You don’t like it?” I say. “Remember how excited you were about going to it?”
“I don’t know,” says James. “It was OK. We made drawings.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say, twirling my spaghetti on my fork.
“Where’s Noah?” says James.
“Noah?” I say. “Why?”
“He was nice,” says James. “I liked him. Where is he?”
“He’s… he had to travel for business,” I say.
“He’s not going to come back and have dinner?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so, James. I’m sorry.”
He looks sad all through dinner, so to cheer up him I suggest we watch one of his favorite movies. Normally I don’t like him watching a ton of TV. That way it’s a little treat once in a while. The movie cheers him up a little.
Honestly, I had no idea he’d feel this attached to Noah. It’s a little strange. But maybe there’s some kind of father-son connection going on that I’m not aware of, one that they’re not even aware of.
The days turn into a week, and Noah calls once, but I don’t pick up. I don’t listen to the voicemail.
I don’t know why exactly I’m doing this. I have the insight to realize that it’s not just because of his potential PTSD problem. I mean, I know he has issues with it and needs help. He does have to admit that.
But…
Maybe the bigger problem is that I just can’t face what it is I’ve done, this secret I’ve kept for so long.
To confront that would be the biggest challenge of my life.
I put James to bed. He doesn’t ask about Noah again. But he does seem down.
I climb the stairs to the second floor where my bedroom is slowly. All the while I’m thinking about Noah.
I can’t get him out of my head.
But I know things would not work out between us. They just can’t. I don’t see how it would work. I’ve got this secret, and he’s got his issues…
But despite all these supposedly rational reasons I give myself, why I should just forget him—he stays in my head. I find myself crawling into bed with my laptop.
I open it up and pull up YouTube, where the latest Bob Show episodes are always available. They must have some kind of partnership now.
There he is in the thumbnail, looking handsome and muscular. The stylists haven’t been able to do much with his short hair apparently, because he looks exactly the same.
I’m impressed that he hasn’t changed his clothes much. He’s not even wearing a blazer. I haven’t seen a ton of the Bob Show, since I don’t have a lot of time to watch TV, but I have the impression that most guests dress up quite a bit for it.
Bob, the host, has always been known for his somewhat aloof and eccentric appearance and mannerisms. He tends to stare at guests, and sometimes it seems like he’s not listening. And then he’ll come in with a snappy question just in time.
Bob introduces Noah, explaining that he was a Navy Seal, and that he’s got this
great new book out.
“So,” says Bob. “What’s the one thing you’ve learned in the military that you wouldn’t have learned in the Navy Seals?”
Bob now proceeds to stare somewhat blankly at the wall for a couple seconds, before forcing his attention back onto Noah.
“Well,” says Noah. “It’s a tough question to answer. But I think what I learned is… a sort of mental toughness. And that’s something the military can certainly help you with. But really what the military does is help you learn this kind of attitude yourself.”
“And so you want people to be able to apply this to their ordinary civilian lives?”
“Yeah,” says Dan. “That’s exactly right, Bob. I think the same principles can be applied… Everyone can benefit. And in my book I detail exactly how. We’re all living subpar existences.”
“Now what do you mean by that?” says Bob.
“We’re not living up to our potential,” says Noah. “No matter how successful you are, no matter how rich, there’s always an aspect of your life that you’re neglecting. It’s different for each person. And I can’t tell you what that is. But what I can do, in my book, is teach you how to analyze yourself and find that weakness.”
Bob says nothing for a moment. A vapid expression appears on his face.
After a lengthy twenty seconds, he seems to snap out of it.
It’s almost a wonder that this Bob ever got his own TV show. But at this point, his eccentricities are what make him who he is. They give him his own personal style. And sometimes people tune in just to see if he’ll do something odd, or better yet, say something odd.
“A lot of people now are coming back from the military,” says Bob. “And they’re having problems with flashbacks… painful memories. PTSD, people call it. Have you ever experienced anything like that?”
I watch with bated breath, waiting to see if Noah is going to admit that he does.
But of course he doesn’t.
“No,” says Noah, speaking with certainty. “I’ve never had it that bad. I mean, sure there are some tough times here and there. But I know guys who’ve had it really bad. No, I haven’t been through anything you could call PTSD.”
“Quite lucky,” says Bob.
Now I’m not completely sure that Noah has PTSD. Maybe he doesn’t. I don’t really know. But I know he’s got something going on. His time in the military affected him in some way that he’s not being about honest now. I can even see it in his expression on TV. I can see it in his stance. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, as he remembers something horrible, something that scared him in a way that he isn’t able to admit.
Disgusted, I close my laptop, putting it to sleep and shutting the video off.
I flop down on the bed, putting the laptop on the bed side table.
I don’t know what to think about Noah.
Am I making too much of a big deal about his problems? After all, says a little voice in my head, they were just some nightmares. I’m sure he thinks I’m making too big of a deal about it.
But he doesn’t know that everything’s riding on this. He doesn’t have any idea what’s at stake.
My phone rings.
That’s weird. It’s pretty late at night for someone to be calling.
It’s an unknown number.
Could it be Noah?
For a second, I’m almost excited to talk to him. Maybe he’s calling to discuss things. I’ll pick up this time, we’ll hash things out, and everything will be OK.
But it’s a fleeting thought.
It’ll never be all right.
I don’t know how it ever could.
But I’m going to answer anyway.
“Hello?” I say, picking up the phone.
“Is this Hana?”
It’s a female voice. Definitely not Noah’s.
“This is she,” I say. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Tammy.” The second I hear her name, I recognize her voice. It’s a little shrill, and kind of whiny. Definitely unpleasant overall.
Noah
The Bob Show went about as well as my agent could have hoped. People are much more interested in the book now than before. They’re buying up the copies like hot cakes, and my agent said he got word that the publishing house is expecting to put out another print run. And this time they’re going to print even more books than they did for the first run.
“That’s incredible news,” he says to me, on the phone today. “But you didn’t seem excited about it when I first told you, and you don’t seem excited about it today either.”
“No,” I say. “I mean, it’s great.”
“Then what’s going on with you?” says Dan.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Ah,” says Dan. “Say no more. I know what’s up. Women problems, eh?”
The way he says it bothers me. That kind of phrasing has always bothered me, as if men simply have issues with all women. Even worse, it makes it sound as if all women are interchangeable. But I know that there’s no one in the world who can replace Hana.
No one.
“I’m going to hang up now,” I say.
“Don’t be like that,” says Dan. “Come, I’ve got you another gig.”
“Another talk show?” I say, completely unenthused.
Dan laughs. “Hold your horses. That’s coming. Don’t worry. I’ve got my eye on a couple. You did really well on the Bob Show. Ratings were way up. But that was lucky. Normally it takes time to arrange these things. Don’t worry.”
“So what is it?” I say.
“Another book signing, and a talk.”
“Where?”
“Right there in LA.”
I groan.
It’s not that I don’t like LA. It’s an interesting city. But I’ve already been here too long in my book. I don’t feel comfortable here. Everything is too fancy. Too nice. Everything is… strange. I don’t know quite how to describe it.
It’s as if everyone here is kind of fake in some way. Maybe that’s because so many of them are in show business.
I met Bob after the show, and he was a completely different guy. He wasn’t anything like he was on the show. He didn’t stare off into space and ask off beat questions, the way he does on the show. That’s all just an act. But it’s not as if he was being real, in the back after the show. On the contrary, it was just another face that he put on, just another personality that he wore for a brief period, the one he uses to chat with other people in the biz after the show.
“You don’t like LA?”
“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting to get into a whole conversation with Dan about it. He’s based in New York but he apparently loves LA. Sometimes during our conversations he just won’t shut up about it.
“Well, I rearranged your schedule. After LA, you’re hitting San Francisco and Oregon. There’s going to eat this up in Oregon. Trust me. And then on to Washington.”
“Great,” I say.
I’m finally able to say goodbye and hang up the phone.
I’m alone in yet another hotel room.
I’ve already been to the gym. I don’t feel like watching TV. Maybe it was because my dad was always watching TV, but I really don’t feel like wasting my time with it. But I feel like I’m wasting my time without Hana.
I haven’t heard from her.
I drop to the floor and do a set of 50 pushups. I sit up, breathing hard, resting only for a few seconds, before dropping down again and doing another 50. But I don’t stop there. I push myself, banging out another 30 without a break.
I get up and sit down on the edge of the bed. I’m breathing hard. Pushups can be as tough of an exercise as you want to make them. And I was going hard, doing them as fast as I possibly could. I’m exhausted and my muscles are screaming out. But I need a distraction from thinking about Hana, so I drop to the floor and do another 50.
Now I’m sweating and my muscles are burning. But it feels good. Muscles don’t lie. You can either do
the pushup or you can’t. There’s nothing in between. There’s no middle ground. And I like that, because it feels as if my life has gotten strange. Everything seems to be somewhere in the middle.
I don’t know where I stand with Hana.
Well, I can hypothesize. She thinks I’m completely fucked up or something. She thinks I’ve got PTSD and wouldn’t be fit to be a dad.
But that makes me a little angry. I mean, I just had one bad dream.
I know I’ve thought about this before. My thoughts keep going around in circles.
I’ve been up since 4 in the morning, when I woke up covered in sweat again, reaching for the gun that’s never there.
In my dream, I watched Hana being carried away by a horde of dangerous looking masked men. There was nothing I could do to stop them. I ran after them, but they laughed in my face. In real life, in the military, it was never like that. But there were times when I felt powerless. When comrades and friends got injuries that would impact them for the rest of their lives, I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t undo what had happened. The best I could do was call for medical attention, apply a tourniquet, and shoot them up with pain killers.
I don’t like the idea of hanging around the hotel room all day. It’s still early in the afternoon, so I take a shower, get into some clean clothes, and head out.
My hotel is one of the tall buildings downtown. I find myself just wandering around, looking at the people here. There are some attractive women in LA, but I don’t even give them a second glance. They’re not Hana. They’re nothing like her. There’s just something different about Hana. And she’s real. The women here are all walking around like they think they’re movie stars or something, as if they’re hoping the paparazzi will pop out from around the next corner and make them famous by putting their picture in the magazines.
I wander around all day under the hot sun and the palm trees. LA isn’t for me. That’s what I realize.
I’m not sure this whole show business thing is for me, actually. Everything here is about appearances and how to get what you want out of life. It’s all about self-promotion. It’s all about making a quick buck and then selling out.
That’s not what I got into the book writing business for. I wasn’t expecting some mega blockbuster book. No, I was expecting a couple thousand readers who would slowly buy the book throughout the years. I wasn’t sure it would be enough to live on.
SEAL'd Lips: A Secret Baby Romance Page 14
